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+{"text":" \n## _Contents_\n\nAbout the Book\n\nAbout the Author\n\nAlso by Sebastian Faulks\n\nTitle Page\n\nAuthor's Note\n\nModern Times\n\nJohn Betjeman\n\nThe Bront\u00ebs\n\nGustave Flaubert\n\nJonathan Swift\n\nA. A. Milne\n\nMark Twain\n\nPhilip Larkin\n\nH. G. Wells\n\nJerome K. Jerome\n\nHenry Fielding\n\nWilliam Blake\n\nDaniel Defoe\n\nA Shot Rang Out\n\nMarcel Proust\n\nEdgar Allan Poe\n\nEnid Blyton\n\nGeorge Eliot\n\nVirginia Woolf\n\nJohn Grisham\n\nSports and Pastimes\n\nRabbie Burns\n\nThomas Hardy\n\nTed Hughes\n\nW. B. Yeats\n\nSeamus Heaney\n\nGerard Manley Hopkins\n\nRaymond Chandler\n\nJohn Keats\n\nIan Fleming\n\nEnter Stage Right\n\nTerence Rattigan\n\nTom Stoppard\n\nSophocles\n\nTennesse Williams\n\nPlaying to the Crowd\n\nKarl Ove Knausgaard\n\nJavier Marias\n\nDan Brown\n\nP. G. Wodehouse\n\nT. S. Eliot\n\nJohn Osborne\n\nDorothy Parker\n\nBetween the Sheets\n\nJackie Collins\n\nStephen King\n\nAlan Hollinghurst\n\nE. M. Forster\n\nJohn Le Carr\u00e9\n\nD. H. Lawrence\n\nBedtime Stories\n\nAllen Ginsberg\n\nWilliam Shakespeare\n\nHans Christian Andersen\n\nStephenie Meyer\n\nSylvia Plath\n\nPhilip Roth\n\nJ. K. Rowling\n\nCopyright\n\n## About the Book\n\nRobinson Crusoe discovers thousands of 'half-naked savages' having it large on Ibiza.\n\nJames Bond is on a mission, as a 24-hour call-out plumber.\n\n'The young stable lad is a moody fellow,' say reviewers of _Wuthering Heights_ in _The Good Hotel Guide_.\n\nHans Christian Andersen gets into the subprime mortgage racket.\n\nStephen King attempts a love story that doesn't involve buckets of blood.\n\nRobbie Burns cheers on Andy Murray at Wimbledon.\n\nAnd Harry Potter is left high and dry when Ginny kicks him out and keeps the house.\n\nRe-mixed and re-imagined, this is literature \u2013 but not as you know it.\n\n## About the Author\n\nNothing is known of the author's life, but it is widely believed that 'Sebastian Faulks' is the nom de plume of the publicity-shy Neapolitan novelist known as Elena Ferrante.\n\n### ALSO BY SEBASTIAN FAULKS\n\n##### FICTION\n\n_A Trick of the Light_\n\n_The Girl at the Lion d'Or_\n\n_A Fool's Alphabet_\n\n_Birdsong_\n\n_Charlotte Gray_\n\n_On Green Dolphin Street_\n\n_Human Traces_\n\n_Engleby_\n\n_Devil May Care_\n\n_A Week in December_\n\n_A Possible Life_\n\n_Jeeves and the Wedding Bells_\n\n_Where My Heart Used to Beat_\n\n##### NON-FICTION\n\n_The Fatal Englishman: Three Short Lives_\n\n_Pistache_\n\n_Faulks on Fiction_\n\n##### EDITED\n\n_A Broken World_\n\n_The Vintage Book of War Stories_\n\n## _Author's Note_\n\nMost of the pieces here were broadcast on the BBC Radio 4 literary quiz programme, _The Write Stuff_ , between 2006 and 2015.\n\nThe programme itself ran from 1998 to 2015. It started life, along with several other hastily commissioned quizzes, as a filler for the 1.30 slot when a new controller decreed that the _World at One_ should lose 15 minutes, thus leaving a half-hour gap before _The Archers_. The brainchild of question master James Walton, _The Write Stuff_ was the only such quiz to survive, going on for 17 years until another decree cut off its legs in 2015.\n\nI would like to thank all those people who have expressed their dismay at this decision; but in truth it was a pretty good run.\n\nSome of the parodies and squibs here, e.g. Knaussgard, Marias, Hollinghurst, were not on Radio 4, but were written for this book. However, like a rock band on tour, I have been wary of playing too much from the new album and have thrown in half a dozen tracks reprised from Pistache 1, which came out ten years ago. I hope they don't seem too rusty now.\n\nI would like to thank all the listeners who said how much they enjoyed the show; those guests (the majority) who entered into the spirit; the programme producers Sam Michel and Alexandra Smith; and the core team: Beth Chalmers, who did the readings; my inspired opposite number, John Walsh; and James Walton, whose intricate questions and patient chairing made it such fun to take part in.\n\nSF July 2016\n\n## MODERN TIMES\n## JOHN BETJEMAN\n\n#### _reflects on St Paul's precinct being Occupied_\n\nIn the shadow of the pillars, hard by Paternoster Square \u2013\n\nIt was hardly Wren's intention to have vagrants camping there.\n\nWhisp'ring dome and candled choir stall, chancel fabric starts to crack;\n\nWhere the deacon dons his surplice there's a tent from A. C. Black.\n\nDriven out, the poor old deacon; Dean has followed him in pique\n\nAll because a bearded camper garbed investments like a freak\n\nAsks the question, 'Who'll inherit?' Clearly it is _not_ the meek.\n\nBut . . . bend your ear to Beardie's message, guaranteed to make you cross.\n\nBanks are free to keep their winnings, you and I must bear their loss.\n\nShut the schools and fire the nurses, let the library close its door:\n\nBankers want three million bonus or they'll take their trade off shore.\n\nDouble dip in distant haven, is this how the law was bent:\n\nBarclays on ten billion profit paying tax at one per cent?\n\nGhosts of Hawksmoor, Wren and Morris, Arts and Crafts, St Pancras high,\n\nCome together in the forecourt, let the heavens hear you cry.\n\nSay to Goldman, Morgan Stanley, Merrill, Lloyds and RBS:\n\nTake your bonus, tax avoidance, greed and filth and fiscal mess;\n\nTake your blackmail, coke and Porsches, let the Bishop help you pack;\n\nHail a cab for City Airport; _go_ to Frankfurt, _don't_ come back.\n\n## THE BRONT\u00cbS\n\n#### _find their various houses in_ The __ Good Hotel Guide\n\nLowood Manor (formerly Lowood School House)\n\n'We loved it here. Mr Brocklehurst, the owner, believes that less is more and is as good as his word! Small helpings at dinner and a bracing wooden plank at bed time did me the world of good. I made friends with a sweet little maid called Jane. Sad to discover on a return visit that Mr B had to leave following outbreak of typhus and a few deaths. Health and safety gone mad!'\n\n_Miss Helen Burns_\n\nThornfield Manor\n\n'Mr Rochester, the manager, promised me the Candlelit Dinner Option, but then seemed to have eyes only for the young governess. Very disappointing when it distinctly said NO PETS.'\n\n_Miss Blanche Ingram_\n\n'I came here from my home in Belgium for a weekend of prayer and self-flagellation. What a _m\u00e9nage_! The landlord has a mistress, two fianc\u00e9es and a French child of uncertain parentage. Grace, the chambermaid, smells of sherry. Demure Miss Eyre, the governess, was more to my taste, thought the fire precautions are a scandal. The best room \u2013 in the attic \u2013 was said to be closed for refurbishment, though I distinctly heard someone moaning in it.'\n\n_Paul Emmanuel, Brussels_\n\nWuthering Heights\n\nA long-term _Guide_ favourite, though recently some guests have complained of creaky windows and disembodied voices. Others still find the 'honesty bar' a considerable draw.\n\n'Landlord Hindley (no relation to Moors Myra) certainly enjoys a glass! The young stable lad is a moody fellow and the housekeeper Mrs Dean a bit of a chatterbox. Avoid the room with the graffiti and the broken window pane. Since my narrative-framing duties necessitated only a short stay, I hesitate to go into detail, but I would say this: WH is not for the faint-hearted!'\n\n_Mr Lockwood_\n\n'Our slumbers were interrupted by a man with a shovel, covered from head to foot in earth. He said he had been digging up the daughter of the house, Catherine by name, for 'one last go-round'. What can you say? My husband and I find the comforts of our own dear Cranford far superior and we shall not be returning.'\n\n_Mrs E. Gaskell_\n\n'Wow, wow, wow! I've come ho-o-o-o-o-me!'\n\n_Miss K. B., Bexleyheath, London_\n\nHaworth Parsonage B & B\n\n'A charming taste of times gone by,' writes _Anon_. 'High tea at six, hymns round the harmonium at seven and lights out at eight. We loved the 'eat-all-you-can porridge buffet' at breakfast and the three silent waitresses who watched us from the corner of the scullery. Rooms a little on the chilly side.'\n\nMale guests not welcome.\n\nWildfell Hall\n\nA new entry in the _Guide_ this year. 'Wildfell is tragically overlooked by most weekenders. Landlord Arthur Huntingdon is a bit of a 'loose cannon', to be sure, but his bar is ever open. Why not give it a go?'\n\n_Anne B_\n\n## GUSTAVE FLAUBERT\n\n#### _asks Bouvard and P\u00e9cuchet to update their_ Dictionary of Received Ideas\n\nThe Angel of the North, The Millennium Bridge and Battersea Power Station. Call them 'iconic'. Look round for applause.\n\nYou should also apply the i-word to LP covers, TV theme tunes, popular catchphrases, famous comedy sketches \u2013 anything you like except Russian religious imagery.\n\nThe Internet. Say: 'It has given a voice to everyone.' Ignore the fact that 90 per cent of those enfranchised appear to be bag ladies or Nazis.\n\nYour first memory. Recount what it is. Pause, and then say: 'Of course, I don't know if I _really_ remember it or whether I've just been told.' Look round for admiration. If more admiration needed, say, 'Up to a point, Lord Copper.' Don't forget to look round again afterwards.\n\nBath or shower. Prefer shower. Say you don't like baths because you don't like to 'wallow in your own filth'. Ignore the fact that you are not a pig-farm labourer but work on a computer in a modern office.\n\nPall Mall and St James's clubs. Say they are 'full of old fogeys' who eat 'nursery food'. Suggest that the members go off after lunch to be spanked by their 'old nannies'.\n\nMadonna. She does not get a new hairstyle and change of outfit between records, she 'reinvents herself'.\n\nSome of these incarnations are 'iconic'. Be sure of which ones.\n\nOedipus. Say with a rueful chuckle that he was 'too fond of his mother.' Ignore the fact that he didn't know Jocasta was his mother and was so appalled when he did find out that he blinded himself.\n\nCricket. Call any game you happen to see 'real _England, Their England_ stuff'; mention cucumber sandwiches and tea. Ignore the game's violent edge and the fact that it is chiefly played on matting in the Indian subcontinent.\n\nAmericans. Say: 'They have no sense of irony'. Ignore Woody Allen, Bart Simpson, Philip Roth, Walter Matthau, Jack Lemon, Dorothy Parker, Bob Hope, eecummings, John Updike, James Thurber, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, the casts of _Friends_ , _Cheers_ and _Frasier_ , Saul Bellow, Sarah Silverman, Ogden Nash, Larry David, Joan Rivers and the entire collected _New Yorker_ cartoons.\n\nNewspapers. The _Times_ is 'the noticeboard of the establishment'. The _Guardian_ is read by 'sandal-wearing, knit-your- own-hummus-eaters'. The 'dear old _Torygraph'_ has lost its way. The _Mail_ is 'beyond redemption'. You yourself read none of them, preferring to get your news 'from the Internet'. It is not necessary to be more specific.\n\nModern novels. You don't read them, because you prefer something with a 'proper story'.\n\nClassic novels. You don't read them either. You prefer biographies, because they deal with 'real life'.\n\nPolitics. Boris Johnson 'adds to the gaiety of nations'. Assert that 'dear old Wedgie Benn' turned into a 'national treasure'. 'Maggie' was a 'union-basher'. Most MPs spend the day 'fiddling their expenses'. You yourself don't vote because 'they're all as bad as each other'. While propounding this view, feel free to blame 'the media'.\n\n## JONATHAN SWIFT\n\n#### _has a Modest Proposal for the London bicyclist_\n\nIt is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town to see the garish yellow jerkins of those upon the two-wheeled pedal-driven conveyance as they mount the walkways with no concern for the safety of the ambulant population, be they infant or advanced in years; or on the highway ford upstream against the legal flow of four-wheeled carriages which might at any moment flatten them; nor yet pause at coloured beacons posted only for their safe passage, but rather pass through with nose held high for all the world as though inviolate, not subject to the laws by which we lesser mortals must comport ourselves; and venture forth at night disdaining even rudimentary lanthorns while shaking choleric fists against the lawful citizenry.\n\nAs to my own part, I feel that this yellow-jerkined company, convinced of its superiority, should put it to the test. I propose that we withdraw our beleaguered and inadequate militias forthwith from Mesopotamia and the poppy fields of the Pathan tribesmen, bring them and their feeble blunderbusses home; and in their place that we dispatch six yellow-jerkined companies upon their two-wheeled conveyances to ride full tilt against the enemy cohorts.\n\nFor being immune from ordinary danger, such inviolable and superior troops could surely bring home the victory that has eluded our more conventional cavalry these many years. And for provisioning such a force would need but little: a puncturing repair device for each man would render unnecessary the behemoth of the King's ordnance; while for lethal weaponry, what could be more effective in the war against the lesser races than the adamantine power of the two-wheeled cavalry's self-admiring sneer?\n\n## A. A. MILNE\n\n#### _gets gritty_\n\nLittle boy kneels at the foot of the bed,\n\nOne nasal piercing in one little head.\n\nHush, hush, whisper who dare,\n\nChristopher Robin hasn't a prayer.\n\nPeep through my fingers, what do I see?\n\nHot naked ladies on Murdoch TV.\n\nWearing a dressing gown, reading a mag,\n\nThere's Mummy's partner having a fag.\n\nGod bless Daddy, wherever he is,\n\nIt's five years now since he gave me a kiss.\n\nOh Lord, don't forget to make me look cool,\n\nStealing Toyotas and bunking off school.\n\nBright golden curls on a bright little bonce,\n\nGrandma's a pusher and uncle's a nonce.\n\nGive me a PlayStation, Game Cube at least,\n\nBig Macs and Pringles for my midnight feast.\n\nLord, let the Social send a man round,\n\nGet me out of this tower block, down to the ground.\n\nHush, hush, whisper who dare,\n\nChristopher Robin has gone into care.\n\n## MARK TWAIN\n\n#### _tires of the Mississippi and sends Huck Finn up the Thames_\n\nMy Pap beat me so often I got taken away and this care home chief Mrs Douglas tried to git me do GCSE and stuff. Pap said if he saw me near any schoolhouse he'd tan my back end with the hick'ry so good be the colour of a cotton wood tree. I was playin hooky eight days a week and I don't put no stock in learnin'. This Douglas **** she told me I was goin' to a bad place so I smoked some more weed in mah pipe and it warn't long before I lit out one night and found mahself down on the river \u2013 near Teddington with mah friend Jim who was one big bad ******. We formed an ambuscade just near Hampton Court and stole a motor skiff, a reeeeal river boat, and headed her upstream. Jus' then we saw a sign for Kempton Races.\n\n'Hey, de Camptown Races,' said Jim, 'we gwyne sing all night, gwyne sing all day.'\n\nI told him to lay down and pick some cotton. Next thing I know we was passing through some place called Eton.\n\n'Hey man, why de kids all dress' up like penguin?' said Jim. 'Why dey am got no chin?'\n\n'Maybe and it's a charm to keep away the Devil,' I said, and I sho' nuff clumb up the mast of the skiff like Ah seen a ghost. Them boys was scarin' me good, Ah doan min' tellin' you. With them tailcoat and stiff collars they was like zombies from the dead.\n\nNext day we tied up on a tow head in a place called Cookham.\n\n'Maybe we get some roasted hog here in Cook Ham, boss,' said Jim. 'And some grits.'\n\nHe was always thinkin' about his belly tho we had a fifty-pound sack of cornmeal in the bilges and a four-gallon jug of whisky. We din' find no hogs nor no bacon neither in Cookham, only thing they had was some paintings by some man called Spencer, said the Lord came back in Cookham. I don't put no stock by religion and I knew that was moonshine.\n\nNext day we steamed in somewhere they was rowin' little punts eight at a time. It was called Henley. There was ole boys in stripe jackets pink and gold and they was shoutin' at us. 'Kindly clear the course, the regatta is under way.'\n\n'What dey talkin' 'bout re-gatta?' said Jim. 'Ah's gonna kick their sorry ass with mah motor skiff. Dere's gon be only one winner here, boss.'\n\nWe was just comin' near the finish line with all them flags like jack o' lanterns or lightnin' bugs by the riverside taverns and this man comes on board and put Jim in cuffs round his wrists.\n\n'Don't worry, my friend,' I said, 'I don't think in Hen-lee they ever seed a ******.'\n\n## PHILIP LARKIN\n\n#### _prepares lines in celebration of the Queen Mother's 115th Birthday_\n\nThey mucked you up, your Mum- and Dad-in-law;\n\nAnd then the lisping brother and his Yankee bitch:\n\nFor them the plane trees and the parties by the Seine;\n\nFor you the chores, the kiddies and the Blitz,\n\nSnagging your slightly-outmoded shoes on the rubble\n\nOf Mrs Snotweed's privy in what's left of Bethnal Green.\n\nIn the back seat of the hearse-like Daimler going home,\n\nYou scan the _Evening News_ to see the outcome\n\nOf your five-bob treble in the last at Haydock Park.\n\nAnother Railway Arms slides past, its table d'h\u00f4te a pie,\n\nStewed pears, pale ale and something final in the dark.\n\nIn castle corridors the draught disturbs dead forebears,\n\nBalmoral princes in their lifeless gilt.\n\nYou cut the ribbon at the local 'media studies' centre;\n\nA dozen sycophants grow flushed on Tesco's Riesling;\n\nYour mincing courtiers make jokes about the kilt.\n\nBut Christmas time: your daughter mumming on\n\nthe idiot box,\n\n'My husband and I . . .' \u2013 a phrase long lost to _you_ . . .\n\nLoneliness revives: the slice of lemon,\n\nThree good goes of gin \u2013 and somewhere, beyond\n\nthe battlement,\n\nA white moon glows; and you almost immortal, mortal too.\n\n## H. G. WELLS\n\n#### _made many predictions, few of which came true_fn1\n\nIn 1979 a female politician stood for the office of prime minister of the United Kingdom, but was soundly defeated at the polls. In the following years women withdrew from the work place altogether and by 1992 had decided to devote themselves entirely to pleasuring small men from Bromley.\n\nIn 1982 a dispute over the ownership of some islands in the South Pacific was peacefully resolved in a Buenos Aires steakhouse with neither side pressing its claim on the grounds that the islands would shortly be rendered uninhabitable by the rapid advance of global freezing.\n\nIn 2008 an initiative from the much-loved 'investment' banks saw them volunteer to stop all their tax avoidance schemes, to put a firm and low ceiling on their own pay and bonuses, not to seek taxpayer refunds for their own failed bets and to agree a charter of their ethical obligations. This they signed in the blood of a unicorn, now once again the most populous equine on the planet.\n\nIn 1998 Martin McGuinness, former leader of the terrorist Provisional IRA, was appointed minister in charge of children's education in Northern Ireland.\n\nIn 2017 The Islamic Society for the Tolerance of Other Points of View decided by a large majority that other religions had a lot to be said for them. A spokesman for the Wahhabi Congress in Riyadh said he and his colleagues had 'laid it on a bit thick' lately and were now happy to welcome other religions, their female adherents in particular, to join them in paradise.\n\nIn 2012 a law was passed by the World Government that legalised polygamy. However, its criteria were so strict that it transpired that the only man legally entitled to sixteen wives was found to be a 145-year-old moustachioed ex-draper's assistant born in a Bromley china shop.\n\n## JEROME K. JEROME\n\n#### _still can't get to the point, even on an_ 18 _-_ 30 _holiday_\n\nWhen Mrs Drudge brought in the chops and porter and gooseberry tart for supper, she came across a lively debate while we were packing. Harris declared that he should be shaving off his moustaches.\n\n'It's a crying shame,' he said, 'but I fear to give the \"wrong signal\".'\n\n'Well,' George returned, 'I for one intend to wear the colours of my livery company in the ribbon of my boater.'\n\nHarris said that his great uncle Wilberforce in his younger day had gone on a bicycling tour of the Crimea with a couple of other fellows and one night the three were compelled to share a single bunk in the attic of the local harbour master . . .\n\nHowever, the presence of Mrs Drudge enforced a rare discretion upon Harris and spared us the remainder of this reminiscence.\n\nThen we flew to Dubrovnik, transferred to our villa, unpacked and went to a club. A man clad only in a loincloth acted as the gatekeeper.\n\nGeorge said the fellow reminded him of something that once happened to his aunt in the Italian Alps. It was this lady's practice when travelling to take a supply of cambric handkerchiefs for distribution among the poor. On one occasion, suffering from hay fever, she was accosted in the street by . . .\n\nSadly the volume of the music that now assailed us prevented us from hearing the conclusion of this amusing tale. We appeared to be in a species of repository, though instead of storing furniture it seemed to be the half-clad human form that it was warehousing. Harris said it reminded him of the Whitsun weekend mannequin display in the window of Marshal and Snelgrove.\n\nSome hours later we found ourselves watching a display of lubricious excess. The fellow behind George asked him to remove his boater as it was in his line of sight. George said the show brought to mind the experience of an old school friend who had once worked as a lifeguard in a nudist colony near Frinton-on-Sea. We got back to our digs in Dubrovnik at eight the next morning.\n\nWe did this every day for a week, then flew back to London and took a taxi to our lodgings. There was a welcome rattle on the stairs as Mrs Drudge staggered in with a shepherd's pie, a jug of ale and a rhubarb turnover.\n\n'What was it like?' enquired the good lady.\n\n'Well,' replied Harris. 'It reminded me of a holiday my uncle once took . . .'\n\n## HENRY FIELDING\n\n#### _made Tom Jones spend weeks in taverns \u2013 but not a modern one_\n\nMr Jones having been absent from our tale yet awhile, the reader may wonder what befell the young gentleman when we left him upon the threshold of a Greenspring Health restaurant beside the thoroughfare of Lincoln's Inn. Let us then rejoin our young hero as he hungers for his midday victualling . . .\n\nJones threw down his tricorn and sword upon the nearest table and addressed a wench whose uniform concealed the twin joys of womanhood beneath an apron of the coarsest fustian.\n\n'Don't bother me with bills of fare, woman, bring me of the landlord's plenty,' Jones commanded her. 'And a hogshead of ale to wash it down.'\n\n'Not a problem,' said the wench. 'One dish of the day.'\n\nAs he waited, Jones propped his boots, muddied from six days in the saddle, upon a convenient table and lit his pipe. He smiled as he envisaged a leg of mutton, roasted fowl \u2013 and kidney pudding with a gross of oysters to begin.\n\nIn her due hour, the serving wench returned with a paper plate. Its contents were green, exiguous and unfamiliar to our hero, who nevertheless contained his disappointment with the largeness of humour that enabled his acquaintance \u2013 and perchance, we dare to hope, the reader also \u2013 to overlook his giddiness, his flatulence and his satyriasis.\n\n'Zounds, but this is a monumental jest,' said he, slapping his breeches. 'You bring the garnish, but retain the dish. Like dear Sophia when she shows a glimpse of petticoat but conceals the joys beyond.'\n\n'It's called a quinoa salad,' said the wench.\n\n'Quinoa? What Popish nonsense is that?' said Jones. 'You force my hand, you impudent girl.'\n\nSo saying, he took her by the waist, bent her over his knee and administered a spanking such as old Thwackum had once imprinted on his own youthful person.\n\n'Now then,' he roared. 'Bring me a basin of hot tripe with caper sauce, if you please. And tell the pretty maiden in the corner to come and join me this instant. I shall give her money enough to buy a skirt that's long enough to cover the limbs that she displays for my delight.'\n\nBut at that moment Jones's ardour and his outer clothing were doused by a downpour of water from a source concealed above his head.\n\n'It's your pipe,' said a sickly-looking man with a beard. 'It's set off the sprinklers.'\n\n## WILLIAM BLAKE\n\n#### _turns travel agent, with one song of  \n_ Innocence _and one of_ Experience\n\nAt the Villa Soleil\n\nYou'll be happy all day.\n\nIt's just by the sea\n\nAnd there's biscuits for tea.\n\nIt's perfect for Gran,\n\nYou can all get a tan.\n\nAnd the food is delish,\n\nLocal salads and fish.\n\nIt's perfect for tots,\n\nIt can offer them lots.\n\nThere's tennis nearby,\n\nNot a cloud in the sky.\n\nYou just ring for a maid\n\nAnd find your bed's made\n\nWe all shout hooray\n\nFor the Villa Soleil.\n\n**\n\nVilla, villa, in the night,\n\nTacked on to a building site.\n\nWhat bacterial grill or fry\n\nDid cause that awful dysentery?\n\nWhat mendacious hack or fool\n\nPhotoshopped a swimming pool?\n\nWhat has caused the smell of feet\n\nTo overpower the master suite?\n\nWho the plumber? Who the cook?\n\nWho designed this squalid nook?\n\nAnd did he smile his work to see?\n\nDid he who made Toxteth make thee?\n\nVilla, villa in the night\n\nDeprived of any natural light\n\nHow could you have failed to say\n\nYou backed on to a motorway?\n\n## DANIEL DEFOE\n\n#### _cast Robinson Crusoe away on Ibiza, it turns out_\n\nIn my twenty-sixth year of solitude it happen'd one day about noon as I was procuring small fishes from my boat that an unseen Providence caus'd a mighty squall that drove my craft to the southernmost point of the island that in all my years I had feared to visit; where it founder'd upon some sharp rocks and I was wash'd upon the foreshore. I contriv'd to take with me only a fowling piece wrapp'd in cloth, some gunpowder and gold coins. It was now the middle of the night, yet a violent throbbing sound affrighted my imagination till I was terrify'd to the last degree. Nearing the pandemonium I took my spyglass; and from my point of lowly vantage in the sand I saw such a sight as surely neither God nor Providence had yet vouchsaf'd to human eye.\n\nThousand upon thousand of half-naked savages were leaping up and down in a ritual of frenzy that I conjectur'd was but a preparation for the killing and eating of some poor wretch among them. I had thought a Scotch man known to the savages by the name McKay had been their victim as he was push'd uncloth'd upon a wooden scaffold; though here he was not eat as I had thought but performed an act of conjugal lewdness upon his wife while the throng clapp'd hands about them.\n\nOne savage then crept off in search of water from a spring whereon I surprised the fellow with a blow to the head from my fowling piece. On his recovering his wits I took him with me to where my boat, some what battered but still seaworthy, now lay upon the sand. At dawn with a following wind we made landfall at my palisade upon the north side of the island where I instructed the savage in the holy scriptures and in the making of goat broth. Four years passed in this way and I may say that never had a master a more faithful and devoted servant than this pagan that I rescu'd from the mouth of damnation.\n\n## A SHOT RANG OUT\n\n## MARCEL PROUST\n\n#### _has a crack at starting off a thriller_\n\nA shot \u2013 or rather memory of the sound made by the tapping of a hammer on the iron wheel of a locomotive of the seaside train as it stopped for a moment among the hawthorn hedges and the lilacs of a village in Normandy \u2013 was embodied in the hand-held automatic as the striker was released from tension by the action of the trigger and driven into the rear end of the cartridge, causing the ejection of the bullet from the barrel and the empty casing from the breech, while a trace of cordite lingered like the smell of my grandmother's fresh baked bread on Sunday morning before Mass, and the sensation of the trembling recoil on my skin recalled my mother's transient goodnight kiss; so that what had started as an act of violence, offered in the shallow flux of present time, devoid of memory and its handmaid, the imagination, became with the reverberation of the sound about the station concourse an unexpected gateway into permanence, where, like the church bells that signalled the approach of old Fran\u00e7oise with a pail of fresh milk from the village dairy, the echo of the brief explosion reverberated in the gulf of time past, and, sedulously manipulated by the violent hands of the present as the termination of a human life, became in the patient clasp of involuntary memory, the means by which the moment was neither lost nor permanent, but memorialised as that in which a shot rang, with whatsoever repercussions, out.\n\n## EDGAR ALLAN POE\n\n#### _does a murder mystery to the metre of_ The Raven\n\nI met her at a drunken ceilidh where the fiddlers fiddled gaily\n\nAnd I'd drunk a fairish skinful of a curious forgotten brew.\n\nI was dancing, madly bopping, suddenly there came a hissing\n\nAs of someone loudly kissing, kissing till her lips went blue \u2013\n\nJust a slapper, nothing new.\n\nThis was all in deep December, maybe it was in November;\n\nAnyway I can't remember how I got off with Lenore.\n\nIn the car park fiercely snogging, all at once I heard some jogging\n\nAs of someone wildly dogging, dogging by my Escort door.\n\nI forced my bird down on the floor.\n\nShe's engaged to dimwit Eddy, he prevents us going steady;\n\nSays Lenore's a right posh item, just the kind to make a wife.\n\n'Len,' I says, 'I move a motion. Brew me up a poison potion.\n\nEddy won't have any notion \u2013 notion of what took his life.\n\nIf that fails, I'll use a knife.'\n\nWednesday night and Eddy bought it, spark out stiff, well who'd have thought it?\n\nLen and I were laughing madly as we buried him beneath the floor.\n\nShe was chortling, nearly singing when there came a sudden dinging\n\nAs of someone fiercely ringing, ringing on the old front door.\n\nNow who on earth can that be for?\n\nFour policemen slowly plodding, give the drains a good old rodding.\n\nFinding nothing, say they're sorry and they really should have known.\n\nAs they're leaving, Lenny's sleeping, from the floor there comes a beeping\n\nLike a Nokia fiercely bleeping, bleeping out the old ring tone.\n\nWe've buried Eddy with his phone.\n\n## ENID BLYTON\n\n#### _moves on to crime turf_\n\nMr Plod had gathered the suspects together in the long room at Malory Towers.\n\n'What we have here,' he said, 'is a gang killing. For some weeks the Secret Seven have been crossing the Famous Five postcode. This morning I discovered Mr Milko the Milkman had been run over by the train driver, Mr Train Driver.'\n\n'Do you think that's his real name?' said Gobbo, the Goblin.\n\n'Yes, I do,' nodded Noddy. He looked down at his feet where a dog, his friend Mr Bumpy Dog, had just bumped into him.\n\n'Golly,' said Golly.\n\nBig Ears sat down in the wishing chair. 'I wish I could lay my hands on the villain,' he said.\n\n'Careful what you wish for,' said the Naughtiest Girl in the School.\n\n'We need more evidence,' said Julian, sensibly.\n\n'And what's your name, sonny?' said Mr Plod. 'Mr Sensible?'\n\n'No. Julian.'\n\n'And what sort of a name is that?' said Mr Plod.\n\n'Forget it,' said Dick. 'I vote we do a DNA test on Mr Milko.'\n\n'Couldn't we just have a picnic?' said Anne. 'I'll wash up.'\n\nAt that moment a man with a beret came through the door of Malory Towers. 'Bonjour,' he said in a funny voice. 'I have listened to what you say. And the murderer is clear. Mr Milko was pushed on to ze train track by a small animal. My friends, we are looking for a little dog who bump into people. Do you know such a person?'\n\nThe Famous Five looked blankly at the Secret Seven then back at the man with the moustache.\n\n'And what do you think this Murderer might be called?' said Julian.\n\n'You tell me,' said the Foreigner.\n\n'Shut it, garlic breath,' said Mr Plod. 'You're nicked. Come with me.'\n\n'What for?' said the Foreigner.\n\n'For being foreign,' said Mr Plod.\n\n'Jolly good,' said Anne. 'I hope he gets lashings of time inside.'\n\n## GEORGE ELIOT\n\n#### _wonders for once whodunnit_\n\nThe body of Sir Hector Transome had been laid out in the library for Gertrude's inspection. The richest landowner in Warwickshire appeared to have been garrotted with the family jewels before being drowned in the mill race. The entire domestic staff was gathered in the twilight, their faces rapt.\n\nGertrude, however, found herself engrossed by the collection of Unitarian tracts on the library shelves. There was a complete set of Wesleyan hymns and almost all of Hegel and Spinoza. But why did no one these days read Feuerbach's seminal _Gedanken \u00fcber Tod und Unsterblichkeit_?\n\n'Pardon, Miss.'\n\nGertrude found her reverie interrupted by P. C. Bede from Nuneaton. 'Was it Lady Transome who done it? They was unhappily married you see.'\n\n'Marriage is a state of higher duties,' replied Gertrude. 'I never thought of it as mere personal ease, when I wed a man fifty years my senior, incontinent, avaricious and incapable of the most perfunctory marital kindness.'\n\n'Indeed,' said young Will Lawless, the tousle-headed adventurer who was Sir Hector's illegitimate son. 'But surely enlightened people can make arrangements beyond the constraints of society.'\n\nThe impudent young man appeared to have a twitch in his eyelid, Gertrude remarked; unless . . . he was winking at her. No wonder, she thought with a shudder, that the village slatterns referred to him as the Divine Will.\n\n'The solution you all crave is not easily dispensed,' Gertrude declared, surveying the row of credulous domestics. 'This library embodies mankind's futile search for a key to all mysteries. The jewels about Sir Hector's throat are the single pearls of wisdom that he gathered before drowning in the mill race of time. The miscreant you search is not among the humble people gathered here tonight. No parlour maid, or groom, no cook or housekeeper, no underfootman or even head footman could have wrought such an infernal deed.'\n\n'You mean,' said Will, 'it is the work of the Supreme Power.'\n\n'Yes, indeed,' cried Gertrude. 'The Butler did it.'\n\n## VIRGINIA WOOLF\n\n#### _once tried a crime story. Only once, though . . ._\n\nCordelia Galloway was pruning roses in the walled garden at Tillingfold, distracted by the sensation of their perfume, their scent, their aroma.\n\n'Call for you, Mrs G,' said Walsh, the odd-job man. 'Milton Keynes uniform branch.'\n\nMrs Galloway put her fingers to her temples. With Maynard Keynes she was familiar, but who was this Milton who so opportuned her by the electric telephone? As for the 'uniform branch', there could be no such thing. Every branch was particular, as G. E. Moore had established, unique in its own quiddity; none could therefore be 'uniform'.\n\n'They're sending a car,' said Walsh. 'Young woman's been murdered.'\n\nCordelia was by way of being terrified of automobiles, unless they were driven by her own chauffeur, Billingham. On the back seat, she thought of how the variety and noise of the world closed down to a moment of silence, to a core of selfhood. She gazed through the glass at a vulgar settlement, a city, she supposed \u2013 a town.\n\nAt the police station, Cordelia met an officer whose bulging eyes gave him something of the toad.\n\n'Inspector Ness,' he said, holding out his labourer's hand. 'But the lads just call me Ness.'\n\n'Cordelia Galloway,' she returned. 'Private investigator from Russell Square.'\n\n'Ah yes,' said Ness. 'The famous Bloomsbury Snoop.'\n\n'I also write books. My last was published in instalments.'\n\n'A serial thriller?' The coarse man chuckled.\n\n'I have yet to hear _The Weeks_ so described,' said Cordelia.\n\nIn the morgue Ness showed her the body of a young woman. Cordelia noted what appeared to be a mariner's tattoo above the coccyx.\n\n'But, Ness,' she exclaimed, 'she's a common little tart!'\n\n'She was,' said Ness, 'but she changed her ways. She was truly sorry.'\n\nCordelia took one last look at the body. 'You are quite right,' she declared. 'This girl was not murdered. She drowned in a stream of conscience, Ness.'\n\n## JOHN GRISHAM\n\n#### _sets a legal thriller on the Isle of Wight_\n\nDex Lewicki had been on secondment to the firm only six months, but already he'd seen too much. A shoplifting in Cowes. A parking violation in Seaview. But this was something else. This one smelled to high heaven.\n\n'Right,' he said to Marion, the secretary. 'I want the reports from the CIA and your British equivalent of the FBI. What is it \u2013 M Fifteen?'\n\n'Bear with me,' said Marion. 'M Fifteen? Well . . . There are two miles of slow moving traffic between Junction 12, Freshwater and Junction 13, Sandown. Or do you mean MI5?'\n\nLewicki fired up a Kool. 'What we got here, Marion, is corruption, top down. The Mayor of Ventnor's trying to pin the rap on the chair of the justices in Shanklin, but he's running for Boro' surveyor of Bembridge. We gotta nail this guy before he crosses the state line into Hampsheer.'\n\nMarion giggled. 'Sounds like a job for the Sweeney. You know, Sweeney Todd, the\u2014'\n\n'Yeah, the Sondheim thing. I caught it last year at the Met.'\n\n'No. Not the Met,' said Marion. 'They're the uniform branch.'\n\n'Whatever,' said Dex. 'Now this Town Clerk of Freshwater guy. How's his rap sheet read? Misdemeanours? Felonies? Give me the whole nine yards.'\n\nMarion looked at her screen. 'Bear with me. Yes, here we are. He has had an ASBO once.'\n\n'Asbo? Yeah, I knew an Asbo once. Polish guy. DA in DC. Feds nailed his ass on a bum rap.'\n\n'I don't think it's him,' said Marion. 'An ASBO's a punishment.'\n\nDex's eyes lit up. 'Our man is a felon? What he do?'\n\nMarion peered at the screen. 'Morris dancing at Bembridge. Without a licence.'\n\n## SPORTS AND PASTIMES\n\n## RABBIE BURNS\n\n#### _turns his gaze for once on something very_ English _: Wimbledon._\n\nFirst ae caper syne anither gang the weans a silver tassie\n\nGie a skelp a gude swats the heed o' peely-wally lassie\n\nWee white kiltie shows her breeks, aye guiden grunt\n\nWi chiels that winna ding \u2013 fae thrifty Dougal, worth a punt.\n\nYe bonnie banks and backhand braes\n\nYe hawk-eye ganga kennin wrang\n\nSo gi's a neep and cantie mair\n\nSrathspey your weans and wait yer hurry\n\nBehold, yon Lochinvar is Andy Murray!\n\nWee sleekit cowrin' tim'rous Tim . . .\n\nWi' sonsie face, a spindle shank\n\nThe dreich that Cowdenbeath, Kilmarnock nil\n\nGuid kennin gang thegither\n\nLoathsome brae o' Henman Hill.\n\nAye . . . Gie's pint o' whisky, pint o' wine,\n\nNae pint o' bairnswee Pimms.\n\nTim's made a halesome parritch o' the smash,\n\nThe histie wuzzock's overheeds gang aft agley.\n\nIt wasnae Scotia's pride as donned guid kennin white\n\nFor ance: fareweel \u2013 and tak' the lowroad, Anglish shite!\n\n## THOMAS HARDY\n\n#### _is sent to cover the big match_\n\nA traveller across that windy heath would have seen Wimborne Minster start the game well with a brace of neatly taken goals by the poacher, Boldwood, back from a loan spell with Charminster. The return of the native did not last long, however, as when celebrating his second, he slipped on ground made treacherous by a leaking gutter from the roof of the main stand and broke his back.\n\nOn the stroke of half-time, Farfrae, the new boy from Ayr, was penalised for handball, though replays clearly showed that the ball had not touched him. Egdon scored from the spot and the Minsters' lead was halved at the break.\n\nWhile the teams were off, heavy snow fell and the galeforce wind, which had been in Wimborne 's face for the first forty-five minutes, turned round to confront them with its bitter fury once again.\n\nHenchard, the left-back, did not return to the field of play after the interval, when he discovered that his wife had been delivered of stillborn twins. Durbeville, Wimborne's closeseason signing from Auxerre, was ruled ineligible when the Channel packet was delayed and his registration papers were accidentally delivered to the wrong address. To make matters worse for the Blues, Fawley, the other substitute, was found hanged in the team coach.\n\nReduced to nine men, Wimborne Minster battled bravely against the elements till the sixtieth minute, when Winterbourne, a tireless labourer in the middle of the park, felt his Achilles tendon snap. Troy scored a tap-in equaliser for the visitors in the eightieth minute.\n\nIn the pitiless rain, Wimborne held out till deep into stoppage time, when Everdene, on for the fatally injured Boldwood, sliced the ball into the roof of her own net from thirty yards. The President of the FA had, in the Aeschylean manner, finished his sport with Wimborne Minster.\n\n## TED HUGHES\n\n#### _on the detention at an airport of Jos\u00e9 Mourinho's Yorkshire terrier_\n\nHis eyes reflect the bed of lakes,\n\nThe sodden moors where\n\nStone walls endure his running and\n\nA skyline bends to the gravity of loss.\n\nHis coat is an anchorite's thistle shirt,\n\nHis beard the tangle of the thief\n\nBound for van Diemen's land. His\n\nSquat jaw would tear the head from a pullet.\n\nAbove the iron helmet of his skull\n\nHe wears the topknot bow, Plantagenet\n\nRed, seeped in the war blood drained\n\nFrom turf at Stamford Bridge.\n\nTo him in his wicker basket, there are\n\nNo borders and no quarantine.\n\nOn the drum of his caged ear resounds the\n\nScreech of hung rabbits in his teeth.\n\nAll night in Departures, Terminal Two,\n\nThrough the crazed yapping of his tongue,\n\nThe long horizons reel.\n\n## W. B. YEATS\n\n#### _reports on the_ 2006 _Ryder Cup at Kildare_\n\nThe restless multitude is pressed where\n\nThe wild falcon and the linnet wing\n\nBy Kildare's foam-thrashed sea:\n\nMore albatross than eagle, more\n\nEagle than birdie, less birdie than halved in par\n\nIn the afternoon four-balls\n\nWith Woods and Love.\n\nLove and innocence is born in Seven Woods\n\nAt Sligo in the spring,\n\nThough a five-wood's all that's needed with the wind behind.\n\nI think now of Kiltartan's sons whose names\n\nThe English Belfry tolled in widening gyres,\n\nThe Irish soldiery gone beneath the mire:\n\nPaul McGinley, Padraig Harrington, a tattered stick\n\nOf Dublin rock upon the threatening fifth;\n\nChristy O'Connor Senior, sixty years the pro at Lissadell,\n\nTaken by the fairy as a child and shown the interlocking grip,\n\nMore overlapping than interlocking,\n\nA public smiling man whose high slice\n\nLoosed left-handed Eamonn Darcy on the world.\n\nAnd in the final singles, as the sun falls behind\n\nThe lakeside tower, I watch him\n\nTake the hickory stick. His limbs dance to a frenzied drum,\n\nHis unsure grip bespoke\n\nBy Lady Gregory's own assiduous putting stroke\n\nPerfected on the borrowing lawns at Coole.\n\nAn old man is a paltry thing who hides his head\n\nAnd cannot watch the white orb roll towards the cup.\n\nSo may it be that when I am long stymied\n\nAnd gone beneath the divot\n\nUnder bare Ben Hogan's Head,\n\nYou may always pierce the veil and dream\n\nOf Christy O'Connor Junior's soaring three-iron\n\nTo the gull-tormented eighteenth green.\n\n## SEAMUS HEANEY\n\n#### _loved his native land, which was_ not _the Home Counties_\n\nMy father taught me what his uncle once showed him:\n\nTo strike the safety match away from me.\n\nThe diphthong of emery and phosphorus was\n\nThe flare of Surrey dialects. I tossed the wooden 'l'\n\nInto the tongueless babel of charcoal.\n\nBy God, the old man could handle a Volvo.\n\nHe drove at sixty on the old A3,\n\nHis eye fixed on Hog's Back, where\n\nNorman raiders glimpsed the upland, their\n\nRapine footprint dripping from Virginia Water.\n\nIn the scullery, my mother plunging raw hands\n\nIn white ceramic, pulled up gold. Egg yolks\n\nDripped through the webbing of her fingers.\n\nLegs planted like a pair of cricket bats,\n\nShe drew the wisdom of the Sussex Downs\n\nInto the alchemy of quiche lorraine.\n\nThe sausages spat protest at the flame, like\n\nCranmer burned by Catholics at the stake.\n\nThe T-bone wore a charred lattice of sectarian\n\nDivide. My aunt appeared at last after a\n\nCentury, when dug out from the bog.\n\nTo the longboat roar of Guildford bypass, we\n\nDrank all night, our kinship hammered out\n\nOn Beaujolais, discovering at dawn\n\nThe reinsurance market had gone belly-up;\n\nAnd with it, all my father's cash at Lloyd's.\n\n## GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS\n\n#### _decides to clean his car, a Vauxhall_\n\nI washed this morning Sunday morning's office, oblation,\n\nObligation \u2013 purifying man's four-door estate.\n\nGarbed in chasuble, proof against\n\nWatersplash, dash from bucket brim,\n\nDown damp door sills and air-filled tyres, tireless\n\nIn black, the soap sings to the sheen of the chamois and shower \u2013\n\nCarburettor, biretta, camshaft, big end\n\nOil pump, plump purple, vermilion, where the Lord\n\nMoves in motor ways, hatchback and patch, hard-shouldering me\n\nWindscreen-wiped, wheel-wetted wagon of rapture.\n\nInside I brushed footwell and mock-leather trim,\n\nDisconnected the sat-nav, no need of direction\n\nSave only His who showed men the true way, the one-way,\n\nLed free to lead-free, the fuel of heart's heat.\n\nBut sheer suds and power-polish palm work make hubcaps gleam\n\nAnd the fire that shines panel of glory with \u2013 ah, labourful, luminous love,\n\nMy roadster, redeemer \u2013 oh, my Cavalier!\n\n## RAYMOND CHANDLER\n\n#### _began his writing life as a poet \u2013 perhaps  \nwith a Shakespearean sonnet_\n\nShould I compare you to a Chevrolet?\n\nNo, you pack more power beneath the hood;\n\nThe tailback on Sunset bars my way,\n\nThe lousy price of gas can spoil the mood.\n\nSometimes the fender gets stove in\n\nWhen a guy rear-ends you as you hit the brake.\n\nEvery automobile has its fill of rovin',\n\nSold on to some young hustler on the make.\n\nBut your upholstery will never dim,\n\nYour speed and comfort always set to thrill;\n\nNo Junkyard Joe can crush your bodywork to him\n\nNo rust will touch your hub or subframe sill.\n\nSo long as men can lift the dipswitch to full beam,\n\nThe headlamps of your eyes will make them dream.\n\n## JOHN KEATS\n\n#### _once wrote a sonnet to a non-poetic subject, a traffic jam_\n\nWhen I have fears that I may not arrive\n\nBefore my friends have cleared their groaning plates\n\nBefore I've climbed out of my Renault Five\n\nOr even had the chance to greet my mates;\n\nWhen I behold upon the gridlocked street\n\nThe blushing tail lights of the moonlit queue\n\nAnd think that I may never get to eat\n\nThe dew-fresh salad or the monkfish stew;\n\nAnd when I feel, my neighbour for tonight,\n\nThat I may never see your laughing eyes,\n\nAs I sit for ever at the amber light\n\nOf non-reflective glass \u2013 then at the rise\n\nOf Hanger Lane I stall alone and think:\n\nDon't let the bastards finish all the drink.\n\n## IAN FLEMING\n\n#### _finds an everyday job for his retired hero_\n\nBond stilled the roar of the Amherst-Villiers supercharger and stopped the Bentley at the end of the suburban cul-de-sac. He thought how much he loathed the new company crest on the door: 'The Service. Plumbing and Heating Engineers. 24 Hours. Emergency'.\n\nHe spotted a parking place between a Renault Twingo and a Hyundai Pony. He eased the Bentley into it masterfully and took his tool bag from the boot. The pink docket Tracy had given him at the office said: 'Customer's Name: Mrs Sappho Crumpet.' Bond's mouth tightened into a cruel line. He enjoyed a challenge.\n\nMrs Crumpet let him into the kitchen. She had a platinum perm and a badly blocked sink.\n\n'I'm going to have to rod your drains,' said Bond.\n\n'Go on, then,' said Mrs Crumpet.\n\nBond took out his Vesper 416 power hose with the 2000-watt cold fusion battery. For perhaps ten minutes he used it cruelly.\n\n'No dice,' said Bond eventually. 'Can you show me the inspection hatch?'\n\nMrs Crumpet took him outside. Between the potting shed and a garden gnome was what Bond wanted: an innocent-looking iron rectangle let into the crazy paving. In an instant, Bond was deep beneath the foundations, crawling through the watery underworld. He estimated he was directly under the kitchen sink when he saw something odd. It was a recording device with the telltale label: Property of SPECTRE.\n\nI might have known, thought Bond. Surbiton Plumbing Electrical Carpentry Tiling and Roofing Experts \u2013 the Firm's deadliest rival.\n\n'We meet again, Mr Bond,' said a voice behind him.\n\nIt was Ernie Coldfinger, SPECTRE's master of leaks.\n\n'Indeed,' said Bond. 'I expected to find a rat in a sewer.'\n\nBond never liked having to kill people, but it was part of his job. He pulled out his Walton PPK adjustable spanner and did what was necessary, coldly, without remorse. That would teach SPECTRE to steal the Service's clients, he thought, as he watched the corpse float away.\n\n'Cup of tea, Mr Bond?' said Sappho Crumpet, back in the kitchen.\n\n'No thanks,' said Bond. 'Tea's for old maids. Let me have a cocktail of Wolfschmidt vodka, Dom Perignon '55 and a dozen Benzedrine.'\n\n'Coming right up,' said Miss Crumpet.\n\n'Well, something is, Sappho,' said Bond.\n\n## ENTER STAGE RIGHT\n## TERENCE RATTIGAN\n\n#### _tried the gritty new drama \u2013 only once, in_ French With Tears\n\n_A squat in the port area of Marseille. Monsieur, the landlord, and various young English exchange guests are finishing breakfast._\n\nHUGO: Anyone for tennis?\n\nMONSIEUR: What is the point of tennis? It is the definition of _ennui_. The pit of man's despair.\n\nSALLY: It's jolly good exercise, Monsieur.\n\nMONSIEUR: Get back on the street, _salope_. Like Madame my wife. That is her exercise.\n\nHUGO: Last time I played tennis I was\u2014\n\nMONSIEUR: Say it in French. You are 'ere to learn.\n\nHUGO: Golly, all right. La derni\u00e8re fois, j'\u00e9tais tout autour du magasin.\n\nMONSIEUR: What does he say?\n\nSALLY: He means last time he played he was all over the shop.\n\nHUGO: I say, Monsieur, can I lend you my translation of John Buchan? It's really awfully good.\n\nMONSIEUR: No, I read only the _Etoile du Matin_. The Communist paper, how you call it, _The Morning Star_.\n\nSALLY: Morning Star? I saw him run at Goodwood last year. A lovely frisky bay with a black tail.\n\nMONSIEUR: I tell you a black tale, Mademoiselle. My son is in prison. He is awaiting trial for stealing a postal order.\n\nHUGO: What awfully bad luck. But I'm training to be a barrister myself and I'd love to represent the poor boy.\n\nMONSIEUR: It does not look good for him. He was selling drugs to the gang leader at the dock to pay for the abortion of his girlfriend. His house was condemned because of the rats and he needed money for medicine for his venereal disease.\n\nHUGO: Gosh, that's what we call a real _drame d'\u00e9vier de cuisine_.\n\nSALLY: He means a kitchen-sink drama, Monsieur.\n\nMONSIEUR: Also the boy 'ave twelve previous conviction for soliciting, arson and 'ouse breaking.\n\nHUGO: The boy is plainly innocent. I accept the brief.\n\nMONSIEUR: No, you fool. He is guilty. I am his pimp. 'Ere is the money. Now let's all get _totalement piss\u00e9s commes des tritons_. [ _Pop_ ] _Salut_!\n\nHUGO: What's he say, Sally?\n\nSALLY: Never mind, Hugo.\n\n## TOM STOPPARD\n\n#### _writes an episode of_ The Archers __\n\n_The public bar of the Bull. At the bar are Clarrie Grundy, Edvard Munch, Ruth Archer and Ludwig Wittgenstein, who has come for a job as cellarman. Behind the bar are Sid Perks and his wife Jolene. Other regulars sit about the room._\n\nSID: Ludwig, meet my wife Jolene Perks.\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: Mmm. Is she one of ze perks of ze job?\n\nSID: No. But she's got two of the nobs of the Perks.\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: I had not known zat in philosophy you were such a dualist.\n\nRUTH ARCHER: Whoah no, Ludwig, man. Don't go puttin' Descartes before the 'orse.\n\nIAN CRAIG: Noy then, noy then. Just because I'm a gay Olsterman doesn't mean I can't be screamingly normal.\n\nEDVARD MUNCH: Thank you, Ian. I am a Norwegian expressionist. I would like to paint your Scream.\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: A scream? May I refer you to my Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.\n\nEDDIE GRUNDY: I don't know about your tractatus, but Oi got a Massey Ferguson.\n\nJOLENE: A massive what?\n\nEDDIE GRUNDY: Ferguson.\n\nCLARRIE: Oh, Eddie!\n\n_Enter Nigel Pargeter_\n\nNIGEL: Did the artist chappy say his name was Munch? My pater used to say that where there's Munch there's Braque.\n\n_Enter Georges Braque._\n\nBRAQUE: Mr Perks, I zink you find ze answer in Schopenhauer.\n\nJACK WOLLEY: Oh yes, Peggy. Ev'ry Wednesday five o'clock we have a shoppin' hour at Grey Gables. Very popular with the ladies.\n\n_Enter Alistair, the vet_.\n\nALISTAIR: Half of Shires, please, Sid. I've spent all morning trying to neuter Schr\u00f6dinger's Cat. Couldn't tell if he was dead or alive by the end. Possibly both at once.\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: I sink you should try ze vasectomy. A small part of ze _vas deferens_ is excised and ze two loose ends tied off.\n\nBRIAN ALDRIDGE: Oh yes, Jennie insisted I have that op once. But I can't say it made a vas' difference to me . . . Or Siobhan!\n\n_Enter Rob Titchener_\n\nROB (darkly): Anyone seen Helen?\n\nLINDA SNELL: She was hiding in my Resurgam Garden.\n\nTONY ARCHER: What do you want Helen for anyway, Titch?\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: Careful, Tony! Whereof one cannot speak, thereof \u2013\n\n_Enter Walter Gabriel._\n\nWALTER GABRIEL (for it is he): Hello me old beauty, me old darling!\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: Walter! I thought you were dead!\n\nWALTER GABRIEL: No more than that cat you was on about. How's the old Tractatus?\n\nWITTGENSTEIN: Mustn't grumble, Walter. Bert Fry's fixed her up a treat.\n\nWALTER GABRIEL: Good show. I don't know why we are here, Ludwig, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves!\n\n_Dum, di dum, di dum, di dum, dum, di dum, di dum, dum . . ._\n\n## SOPHOCLES\n\n#### _never dramatised really_ minor _disasters \u2013 until now_\n\nCHORUS\n\nOh what unhappy youth approaches\n\nTearing at his clothes in grief?\n\nWho turns his face to heaven\n\nWhere the implacable Fates\n\nPrepare his grievous end?\n\nHe strikes first this side with\n\nHis hand and then the left\n\nAs one whose body burns\n\nWithin a covering of fire.\n\nOEDIPUS\n\nI have lost the keys to this my home.\n\nI curse the day that first my\n\nFather let me have a spare.\n\nNow all the wrath of Heaven\n\nAwaits my entry to this hearth.\n\nBegone, foul townsmen!\n\nMock not my tears' libation\n\nAt the family step! Must now\n\nI wake the terror of the monstrous\n\nDog by ringing at the bell?\n\nWhat awful grief my murderous\n\nMother now portends with\n\nEvil omens where the gods\n\nDemand a sacrifice of blood.\n\nOh heavy load that I should so\n\nDisgrace this sacred house.\n\nWhat further woe, what shame\n\nCan I unleash within these\n\nCursed doors? Surely now\n\nThis is my fated end at last.\n\nCHORUS\n\nBe not so sure, young man.\n\nThe worst is yet to come if\n\nWe can say this is the worst.\n\nStrike not at the crossroads.\n\nTake not the widow of your king.\n\nBest turn away to Corinth,\n\nWhile your parents are annoyed.\n\nAbove all, young man, don't make\n\nYourself a whipping boy for Freud.\n\n## TENNESSE WILLIAMS\n\n#### _is at home in the deep south . . . of England_\n\nPENELOPE: Oh, baby, I glimpsed you from the fire escape. Did you hear the jazz band playing in the street? Did you hear them? Did you take the streetcar like Ah told you?\n\nGERALD: No. Briggs dropped me off.\n\nPENELOPE: Ah do believe a lady is allowed a cocktail at this hour. Some bourbon over ice is what Ah take.\n\nGERALD: I could offer you a glass of Pimm's.\n\nPENELOPE: It sounds . . . aromatic. All those herbs with brilliant colours, purple, midnight indigo . . . In the drink they carry all the swamp and festerin' o' Mississippi.\n\nGERALD: I think it's made in Norfolk.\n\nPENELOPE: Oh baby, you remember that summer with the houseboat on the Delta of the Ouse?\n\nGERALD: The Norfolk Broads, you mean?\n\nPENELOPE: The Norfolk broads are what came between us, baby. Those ladies from Thet-ford. And those belles from Swaff-ham.\n\n_She slumps down on a small stuffed stool_.\n\nGERALD: I was not the only one, Penelope.\n\nPENELOPE: You referrin' to my gentlemen callers? Pour me another Pimm's, baby. I had mah admirers, it's true. But all I want . . . is you to make love to me now, Gerald. Am Ah not pretty enough? And what we gonna tell Big Daddy?\n\nGERALD: You know I'm not a wrestling fan, Penelope. And you're drunk. I could tell by the way you sat down on that stool.\n\nPENELOPE: And how'd I sit down, Mr Know-it-All Englishman?\n\nGERALD: Like a . . . like a twat on a squat thin pouffe.\n\nPENELOPE: Oh, baby, I welcome your kind words o' warnin'. All my life Ah have pretended to a blindness of dangers.\n\n## PLAYING TO THE CROWD\n## KARL OVE KNAUSGAARD\n\n#### _took his title,_ My Struggle _, from an earlier_ Mein Kampf\n\nI had a phone call from Josef in the morning. 'Why don't you come to Wannsee for this thing at the weekend? It'll be fun.'\n\n'Maybe,' I said. 'I was just going to hang out. And I won't be able to bring any beers. I haven't got any ID.'\n\nI looked out of the window. The weather was grey. There was a building, some bricks, and a car.\n\n'Reinhard's got some great ideas,' said Josef. 'Do you remember Albie Speer from the fifth year? He's coming.'\n\n'My mum's moved north with her new boyfriend,' I said. 'I can't use her car any more.'\n\nI'd met this girl called Eva in the seventh year. She had a stripy top and trainers. She wasn't really pretty like Marlene, but she was nice. I thought there was a chance if I could get some beers with my dad's credit card that I'd get to kiss her. What I really hoped was I'd get to first base with Eva without for once, just this once, please God, coming in my Lederhosen.\n\nI went to the supermarket and put a bottle of salad cream and some margarine in my basket. Then I bought some tissues and some tinned peas. I looked at the smoked Wurst, but remembered I'd gone vegetarian. I went outside and it was cloudy. Next to the supermarket there was a car, and a building.\n\nBack home I listened to some Wagner and played along, imagining I was the conductor. Then I read a book about this kid called Young Werther. He just wanted to be different from the other kids, but he could never really connect to anything much.\n\nJosef rang again the next day about this Wannsee party. 'Otto's definitely coming,' he said. 'And do you remember that crazy guy Adolf Whatsit?'\n\n'Eichmann? The one who stuck his dick in the beer bottle at Heinrich's birthday party?'\n\n'Sure. Big Adsie. He's borrowed a tank, so you can have a lift.'\n\n'Maybe. I was thinking of going into Russia, actually.'\n\n'Russia? What for, man?'\n\n'I think if I borrow my dad's car I can probably get some beers there.'\n\nI looked out of the window and there was a building and a tree, and some bricks, and no car.\n\nIt was a shit weekend. I couldn't decide whether to go the Wannsee thing or invade Russia. I heated a tin of soup.\n\n## JAVIER MARIAS\n\n#### _gets into the swing, we see him at it_\n\nJos\u00e9 went into the library to read a book, the professor followed, he was a very important and learned professor of intelligence, this was a highly significant activity, Javier took a cigar from the box on the table, intelligence could mean spying, that was the thing where you pretended to be someone else and had Significant exchanges, the professor was not listening, he was reading a book, it was Proust, Jos\u00e9 knew Proust had very long sentences with the architecture of a great cathedral with its stress equations and proportions in a golden harmony, but that's utter _cojones_ , thought Jos\u00e9, I know better, I was once a fellow at All Souls don't you know, he took a lighter for his cigar, there was no point in going to that trouble, he poured himself a drink, all you have to do is change your full stops and semi-colons into commas, the professor smiled at his guest, this is fun, thought Jos\u00e9, here comes another clause, it's like the trucks on a goods train, chuff, chuff, went the professor, puff, puff, went Jos\u00e9, the door opened, a mouse ran up the clock, Jos\u00e9 jumped over the moon . . .\n\n## DAN BROWN\n\n#### _visits the cash dispenser_\n\nThe world-renowned author stabbed his dagger-like debit card into the slot. 'Welcome to NatWest,' barked the blushing grey light of the screen to the forty-two-year-old man. He had only two thoughts.\n\n_NatWest is a perfect heptogram._\n\nScratching his aquiline head, frantically trying to remember a number, the sun came up at last and rained its orange beams on Dan Brown. 'What do you want to do?' asserted the blinking screen. His options were stark for Brown, more than ever now. 'Get Mini Statement'. 'Withdraw Cash'. 'Change PIN'. For what seemed an eternity, trying to remember his PIN, the screen mocked the famous writer.\n\n_Someone somewhere knows my four-figure_ _PIN._\n\n_Whatever my_ _PIN_ _was once is still my_ _PIN_ _and in some remote safe someone somewhere still knows it._\n\nIn Paddington Station, an iconic railway terminal with a glass roof like the bastard offspring of a greenhouse and a railway station, a line of fellow travellers was waiting on Brown. Brown frowned down at his brown shoes and for the hundredth time that morning wondered what destiny may have in store for the Exeter, New Hampshire graduate.\n\nThe sandy-haired former plagiarism defendant felt his receding temples pounding in his guts. _Four figures. Four figures, you halfwit_, he almost found himself murmuring in Brown's ear, close at hand.\n\nTentatively his fingers pounded their remorseless melody upon the NatWest keyboard, numerically. He watched his fingers work with sallow eyes.\n\nHe typed in anything, literally anything, desperately. He didn't know what affect it may have.\n\nThe headquarters of the Royal Bank of Scotland resides in a hydraulically sealed ninety-eight-storey building guarded by hair-trigger sensitive nuclear firedogs at 4918, 274th Street in Manhattan, America, whose security protocol is known to only six elves whose tongues have been cut out for security by the Cyrenian Knights of Albania, the capital of Greece.\n\nIn an instant, the famous writer remembered their bleeding skin from barbed wire.\n\n_Of course. They must pass on the secret_ _PIN_ _. An unbroken chain whose links are not forged (not in that sense)._\n\n9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6. His fingers pronounced the Sigma number. The Sigma number was almost impossible to fake, whereby the Liberace Sequence was quite easy to forge for prominent author Dan Brown.\n\nThe cash machine cleared its throat and breathed in with a rasping exhalation that seemed to shake its very belly. Then finally it expectorated wheezily up twenty-eight million dollars into the fingers pregnant with expectation of the forty-two-year-old man.\n\n'Take your cash now please,' pleaded the mocking screen, no longer mocking.\n\n_It's like giving candy to a baby_ , it occurred to the universecelebrated prose stylist.\n\n_It's like shelling eggs._\n\n## P. G. WODEHOUSE\n\n#### _writes the Diary of Sir Walter Raleigh_\n\nHaving just returned from two years in the New World, where I had acquired a sackful of seed potatoes and a hundred weight of tobacco, I was surfacing from a restorative ten hours, when my varlet, Grieves, oozed into my tower with a disapproving cough.\n\n'I found this item of attire outside the bedchamber last night, Sir Walter. I presumed you had attended an entertainment of a theatrical nature and inadvertently brought home the costume worn by the jester.'\n\n'That item,' I replied, and I meant it to sting, 'is a velveteen pelisse, or cloak. I wore it on the Spanish main all summer. It drew many admiring glances from the ladies.'\n\n'Perhaps they thought you were a matador, Sir Walter.'\n\n'Dash it, Grieves, I shall wear it at court this evening when I go to introduce my potatoes to her Majesty.'\n\n'As you wish, sir. The feculent tuber is not something I feel her majesty, conscious as she is of the royal figure, will be desirous of consuming.'\n\nI pushed an anxious hand across the b. 'Perhaps. But I'm pretty sure she'll go for the tobacco. Everyone in the New World was smoking it.'\n\n'It is somewhat difficult to envisage her majesty with a branch of brier in her mouth emitting clouds of smoke, Sir Walter. I fear the royal bodyguard may fear she has inadvertently caught fire and take measures to douse her person.'\n\nWell I saw what the fellow meant, of course, and it was a pensive WR who strolled beside her majesty at Hampton Court that evening. Between the parterres was a large and stagnant puddle at which she hesitated, letting I dare not wait upon . . . something about a cat. I heard a discreet cough at my shoulder and the next thing I knew I found the velveteen pelisse in my hand. Well, it was with me the work of an instant to lay it down and so secure a dry passage for the royal slipper.\n\nWhen I asked Grieves to return the garment that night, an evasive expression appeared on the blighter's face. 'I fear, sir, that the cloak's unforeseen immersion has rendered it unwearable. I have . . . er disposed of it accordingly. It is the poet Shakespeare who\u2014'\n\n'No one's heard of this bally poet Shakespeare,' I said sharply.\n\n'As you wish, Sir Walter. Will that be all for tonight?'\n\n## T. S. ELIOT\n\n#### _reflects that it might have come out better in limericks_\n\n##### THE WASTE LAND\n\nSaid a Lloyd's clerk with mettlesome glands:\n\n'To Margate \u2013 I'll lie on the sands.\n\nThe Renaissance and Dante,\n\nDardanelles and now \u2013 Shanti!\n\nGod, it's all come apart in my hands.'\n\n##### ASH WEDNESDAY\n\nThe weight of the past makes me pine\n\nFor a language that's English, but mine.\n\nNo more hog's-head and Stilton,\n\nAnd to prove I'm not Milton,\n\nI'll compose with four beats to a line.\n\n##### THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI\n\nWe were freezing, ripped off and forlorn,\n\nAs we travelled towards a false dawn;\n\nBut the truth of the stable\n\nShowed my world was a fable;\n\nNow I wish that I'd never been born.\n\n##### THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK\n\nI once missed the moment to be\n\nSomeone not on the periphery;\n\nBut my second-hand life\n\nWas too dull for a wife:\n\nNow the stairlift awaits only me.\n\n##### FOUR QUARTETS\n\nFor an Anglican, time is too vast;\n\nA rose or a vision can't last:\n\nIt's a moment in history,\n\nOur grace and our mystery,\n\nAnd the future is lost in the past.\n\n## JOHN OSBORNE\n\n#### _takes Jimmy Porter off his sweet stall to make a speech_\n\nLadies and Gentlemen \u2013 or at least you think you are in your borrowed morning suits and marshmallow hats. I know your kind. Oh yes, you're trying to strangle the life out of my daughter. Alice. God knows how we managed to have a child. Her mother \u2013 or Attila as she's called by those who know her \u2013 managed to avoid having enough babies to run a Woolworth's pick 'n' mix before Alice stuck it out. Oh yes, she's got her mother's ruthlessness all right.\n\nShe may look like a jelly baby but believe me she's a toffee brittle you can break your molars on. That's called a metaphor. I read it in a posh weekly that was trying to make me feel stupid. I bet the writer had never worked on a sweet stall. And anyone who's never weighed out a bag of dolly mixture is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity.\n\nAnd here's the groom, young Peregrine. Don't be fooled, 'Perry', don't be lulled by all that softness when you're married. She's a Gulag commandant, my daughter. She's a Shankhill Road butcher. Any feelings of being human that you have, she'll drain them out of you like a . . . like a . . . like an Eton boy sucking up a sherbet dip.\n\nSo you're a teacher are you, Peregrine? In a 'comprehensive'? But what can you comprehend? Do you fill their little heads with sentimental yarns of old Empire? What can you possibly know about real life? Ever run out of Maltesers on a Friday afternoon? Ever had to shoo a bluebottle from the liquorice twirls? I thought not. One day I'll wake you from your death-in-life complacency. Believe me, I've no public-school scruples about hitting comprehensive teachers.\n\nSo, Daddy and Mummy are from Wiltshire, are they? The family that put the Pewsey into Pusillanimous. I suppose my daughter is expecting? I'm surprised you're still alive to tell the tale. Normally after mating in our family the female consumes the male. Gobble. Gulp. One shudder and he's swallowed in the giant maw of all that . . . all that candy-coated, oh so considerate . . . kindness.\n\nLadies and Gentlemen . . . those of you still here. Raise your glass to the Bride and Groom, the Died in Gloom.\n\n## DOROTHY PARKER\n\n#### _is famous for saying witty things at Algonquin lunches, but in fact she was mostly suicidal and wrote in verse_\n\nI pondered lonely as a cab\n\nThat's stalled on Tenth and Madison,\n\nWhen all at once I felt a stab,\n\nA pang that made me sad as one\n\nBeneath the car, beside the trees,\n\nMuttering and whining in the breeze.\n\nUnending as the lamps that shine\n\nAnd mark the end of gloomy day\n\nAnd mock the failures that are mine\n\nAlong the length of all Broadway:\n\nTen thousands cocktails at a guess\n\nHave washed me to this twilight mess.\n\nThe puddles of the sidewalk threw\n\nReflections of the ghastly night;\n\nA poet could not but be blue\n\nConfronted by this awful sight.\n\nI moaned and groaned but never thought\n\nWhat wealth to me this stuff had brought.\n\nAnd often when in bed I've lain\n\nIn bitter, suicidal mood,\n\nThe lamps reflect my inner pain\n\nIn verses that are short and crude.\n\nAnd then self-harm is my delight;\n\nMy husbands say it serves me right.\n\n## BETWEEN THE SHEETS\n\n## JACKIE COLLINS\n\n#### _goes posh and literary, like a fourth Bront\u00eb_\n\nCathy Earnswell lived in a to-die-for penthouse in Wutherley Hills. Her fabulously rich father owned _the_ late-night place of choice in Micklethwaite. Cathy regarded her nude form in the mirror and marvelled at her ten grand's worth of boob job, teeth whitening and elocution lessons. 'I'm worth every last farthing,' she thought. Just then the incredible 210-pound Latino pool-boy called Studcliff sauntered in. His eyes were liquid black pools, his chiselled abs were exploding from his jerkin and he had way too much attitude for his menial job.\n\nIt was lust at first sight. Studcliff was a legendary swordsman who put seven sovereigns' worth of white powder a week up his cute little nose. Studcliff liked to wander on the bleak moors above Wutherley Hills where he had a weird nature thing. But Cathy, whose idea of the great outdoors was a Friday-night dogging, couldn't get enough of him.\n\nTill one day she met mega-rich Edgar 'Eddie' Lintonio, who ran a top-of-the range, state-of-the-art business in Heptonstall. His father was a world-renowned neurosurgeon with acute business savvy, his mother was the heir to a string of luxury hotels and kid sister Isabella was the raunchiest chick this side of Hebden Bridge. She was already an action-movie mega-star and head of rocket science for All Europe. She had a brain the size of Ilkley Moor and an ass as pert as a Pontefract cake.\n\nThen Cathy had a brainwave. She could marry Edgar Lintonio, suck up his millions and play the little wifey while still seeing Studcliff on the side for mind-blowing bouts of wildness between her silicone bust and his prodigious endowments in every superlative department.\n\nShe checked her diamond Rigatoni watch and narrowed her eyes to fierce slits. This'll make _Jane Eyre_ look like a vicarage picnic she told herself, originally.\n\nUnfortunately, that fall she got super-rare dengue fever and died. But Studcliff dug her up out of her grave for the kinkiest night of passion ever. She was literally in heaven.\n\n## STEPHEN KING\n\n#### _tries a frothy romance_\n\n'Oh Thad,' purred Dolores, slipping off her beautiful new shoes and standing in a silken underskirt, 'you always seem to know what I'm thinking. It's as though you can read my mind.'\n\n'I can,' said Thad. 'And by the way, I don't do that thing you're picturing. Not on a first date.'\n\n'Mmm, Thad,' said Dolores when they had finished their love-making. 'Did the earth move for you?'\n\n'Sure,' said Thad, frowning in furious concentration as he used his telekinetic powers to move the four-poster back into the bedroom from the rooftop where they lay.\n\n'My sweetest Thad,' said Dolores, 'you have started a fire in my heart.'\n\n' _What_?' said Thad. 'That was meant to be my old teacher's house. Pyrokinesis. Don't move, Dolores, I'm going to call 911.'\n\n'Too late, my sweet,' said Dolores. 'A part of you is mine for ever. And you can't take it back.'\n\nAs she made for him with a giant machete, Thad ran out of the house. But a minute later he was back, shame-faced, at the front door.\n\n'You know that thing, Dolores, that . . . part of me, that's, like, yours for ever. I discovered what it was and I'd . . . kind of like it back.'\n\nBut it was too late. Suddenly, Christina, the over-possessive station wagon, rolled up her headlights in anger and reversed vengefully over Thad, crushing his brains out on the driveway.\n\n'Oh Thad, my dearest love,' cried Dolores.\n\nBut then . . . Oh, what the heck? thought Dolores. This bedroom stuff is for sissies. Give me a hobbling sledgehammer and a bucket of pig's blood and I'll give you 'romance'!\n\n## ALAN HOLLINGHURST\n\n#### _goes hetero_\n\nThe football game had been going ten minutes when Kev felt obliged to make an effort at conversation.\n\n'Who's your mortgage with, Trev?'\n\n'The Abbey National,' said Trev, wishing it sounded somehow less ecclesiastical, or at any rate more provincial.\n\n'Fixed rate or variable?'\n\n'Collar and cap, actually,' said Trev, blushing as he wondered if this suggested something on offer from a Soho _grisette_.\n\nA burly man in a coloured nylon shirt with a number on its back squeezed in between them.\n\n'Bob, Trev, Trev, Bob,' said Kev with a reluctant irony that seemed to hold out little hope for either.\n\n'That new winger,' said Bob with an inclusive relish, ''e's a fuckin' genius.'\n\n'Quite,' said Kev, leaving it tantalisingly ambiguous whether by 'quite' he meant definitely or moderately so.\n\n'Hot dog?' said Trev at half time, shouldering his way to the stall where a young woman served boiled saveloys in cotton-wool buns.\n\n'Fantastic tits,' said Trev, appreciatively looking up at the vendeuse as she squeezed tomato sauce from a self-referentially shaped container.\n\n'You bet,' said Kev, suddenly engorged at the thought of their . . . their . . . _binarity_. Two of them. Corr, thought Kev. Two! _Phwoarrr_.\n\n'Don't get many of them to the pound,' said Trev appreciatively, but with a faint regret, as though he wished that the mammary to avoirdupois ratio had been a fraction more favourable.\n\nThe football pitch was greened with a verdigris of age and longing. In the matrix of the white rectangle the perspiring players moved in dazzling ellipses, now pausing for a pli\u00e9 or an arabesque more daring or ironic than the last, eliciting the hoarse commendation of their supporters.\n\n'Wanker!' they cried. 'Send him off!' when one of the visitors tumbled like a stricken Giselle inside the white marquetry of the penalty 'box'.\n\n'What route you take your kids to school?' said Kev.\n\nFor twenty minutes they discussed the school run, its cut-throughs, its anfractuosities, its triumphs and seasonal vagaries, in such a way that Kev felt obscurely proud to be both such a fecund breeder and so resourceful a navigator.\n\nBob passed him a plastic pint of lager and Kev inhaled its fizzy bouquet. He drank deep, and felt its chilly gas revive the dormant hot-dog onions in his gut. Recalling the elegant duality of the vendor's breasts, he belched with unambiguous relish.\n\n'Cheers, Kev,' said Trev.\n\n'Cheers, Trev,' said Kev.\n\nThe tense obbligato of 'Colonel Bogey' sounded in Trev's pocket and he fished out a vermilion Nokia.\n\n'Did you remember the yoghurt?' It was his wife. 'Did you get the baby wipes? What time will you\u2014'\n\n'Sorry, love, terrible reception,' Trev said, squeezing the disconnect button with hesitant finality.\n\nKev, meanwhile, stared straight ahead, his eyes focussed on neither Rovers nor United, but on a midfield of ironic conjecture.\n\n## E. M. FORSTER\n\n#### _imagines a more liberal age in his posthumous_ Tea in Venice\n\nAubrey Winsome had never liked the vaporetto; it reminded him of the steam engines that used to take him back to Bastards, his brutal private school in Surrey. And this morning it seemed especially tiresome as he found himself seated next to Archie Trader, who talked about his annual bonus from the private equity company that employed him.\n\nBut at that moment Aubrey saw someone who might be his special friend: Giancarlo Finocchio, the pagan gondolier he'd chanced across during last night's _ballo in maschera_. Giancarlo waved his left hand in greeting to Aubrey as with his right he pulled out his wooden pole from the lagoon. Aubrey smiled. Giancarlo was all rough edges and anachronisms, like a Quattrocento bike boy.\n\nThat afternoon in the Scuola San Rocco, as he stood rapt before the Tintorettos, Aubrey heard a polite little scream. It was Miss Honeywell, the English teacher, and the clasp on her handbag had tragically broken.\n\nWhat happened next was like a bulletin from the world of panic and email. Miss Honeywell's mobile phone fell with a terrible tinkle to the marble floor. As Archie Trader went to help her, one of the great Tintorettos, unstable from many centuries of hanging, fell from its wall and crushed the mercantile man to death \u2013 killed by the art he had ignored.\n\nFreed by this sudden death from social obligation, Aubrey sauntered back across the Piazza San Marco to where a special friend was waiting.\n\n'Signore,' said Giancarlo, 'now I take you on my Ducati over rough roads. You meet my mother. Then we have . . . linguine for dinner? Is good?'\n\n'Rath\u2013er,' said Aubrey. 'Only connect, dear boy, only connect . . .'\n\n## JOHN LE CARR\u00c9\n\n#### _tries his hand at chick lit_\n\nFiona had finally persuaded hunky George Smiley to book a mini-break, and next morning she received a printed postcard, second class. 'Come to the Mason's Arms, Railway Road, Beaconsfield at five o'clock. Ask for Mr White.'\n\nFiona screeched to a halt outside the hotel in her red Jilly Cooper Gti. The reception area smelled of Bovril and paraffin. She had hoped for a log fire and champagne. After a _sotto voce_ exchange by telephone, the night manager gained clearance to show Fiona to a safe room on the first floor. The single bed had a candlewick counterpane, and through the net curtain she could see the exit _and_ the entrance to the car park.\n\nGeorge returned from the bathroom down the landing and cleaned his spectacles on his tie, slowly, carefully, then replaced them on his nose.\n\n'Did anyone see you come in?' he said.\n\n'Only the night porter,' said Fiona. 'Now, come on, Mr Grumpy, get those braces off.'\n\n'Were you followed?' said George. 'Do Brian's people know you're here?'\n\n'Brian's at work, darling, I've told you.'\n\n'But who's Brian working _for_?' said George, taking off his glasses again and squeezing the bridge of his nose.\n\n'Abbey National, I've told you!' said Fiona. 'Ooh, I love that thing you do with your nose.'\n\n'Mmm . . . I think Brian may have been turned,' said George grimly. 'Bradford's been on to him. So's Bingley.'\n\n'Darling,' said Fiona. 'Get under the blankets. Do that thing where you pretend to be a mole.'\n\nGeorge took off his glasses \u2013 yet again \u2013 and did as he was told, without committing himself.\n\n'That's heaven,' called out Fiona. 'And how is it for you, George?'\n\n'I really couldn't say,' said Smiley, getting up and putting on his hat. 'I have to go now. My wife telephoned. We're taking the children to the Circus.'\n\n## D. H. LAWRENCE\n\n#### _submits a treatment for a_ Carry On _film_\n\nThe proposed _Carry On Mining_ is a story for the cinematograph in which the principal characters feel their souls ground down in the industrial valleys of the Midlands. Sir Rodney Longpiece (to be played by Mr Sidney James) is a man whose spirit is coarsened by the fear of Bolshevism and by the carnal demands of Lady Jane, played by Miss Harriet Jacques. An itinerant Polish worker called Bustier Brazoff (to be played by Miss Katie Price) arrives in Cokeby seeking work in the mines. The foreman is a degenerate type of the mincing kind of man, played by Mr Kenneth Williams; he asks Miss Brazoff to work his most dangerous shaft. A young miner called John Thomas, to be played by Mr James Dale, takes Miss Brazoff for a country walk, where she catches her first glimpse of Aaron's rod. Afterwards they spend the night in a hayrick by an old farm. But John Thomas is appalled by the experience, the paucity of so functional an act, the miserable drip of the life force, and feels himself a soul wretched almost to hopelessness. His loins and nerves are tied up in shame and his bowels are moved with pity.\n\nAngered by this response, Bustier Brazoff walks into a snowdrift to die, not knowing that she is with child by John Thomas. He next day applies to Sir Rodney Longpiece, the mine owner, for a job above ground among the hyacinths and the bluebells in the first tight buds of spring in his longing to find the soul of the old England through the queer thwarted clumsiness of his spiritual relations. Alas, Sir Sidney is away on business, but John Thomas is welcomed by the enthusiastic Lady Jane round the Tradesmen's Entrance, where she happily instructs him in his new duties.\n\n## BEDTIME STORIES\n\n## ALLEN GINSBERG\n\n#### _writes a Bedtime Collage, for children_\n\nI have seen Humpty Dumpty in Bellevue Hospital where doctors\n\nIn white masks with electroshock try to put him together again\n\nI have seen Miss Muffet ride a boxcar out of Denver past empty lots\n\nAnd diner backyards while the ghosts of Whitman and Pound\n\nSmoke marijuana from the ashcans and sit beside her tuffet\n\nI have seen Jack Horner strung out on Benzedrine in a coldwater flat\n\nBeneath the El, begging nickels from the Buddha\n\nI have seen Danton and Baudelaire crawling on the stoops of Bowery\n\nFire-escapes to read the I-Ching in Fugazzi's to an\n\nAudience of three blind mice\n\nI have sung all night in Luna Park where Bo Peep naked with a baseball mitt\n\nDove from a pea-green rowboat with a cat who thought he was an owl\n\nI've been wasted all night in the Village Vanguard where Little Boy Blue\n\nCame blow up his horn with Coltrane and Lester Young\n\nI have seen Old King Cole pursued by fiddlers three in straitjackets hymning\n\nCuban revolution to the tune of Nature Boy \u2013 or maybe it was _Nat_ King Cole\n\nIn Atlantic City I have met a man who wasn't there. We hitchhiked ten days\n\nThrough Nevada, living on Wild Turkey bourbon and grits. He wasn't\n\nThere again today when we made love by the light of the Nickelodeon in Reno.\n\nAmerica, America, one day you'll put a cow over the fucking moon.\n\nAmerica, America, one day you'll put a cow over the moon.\n\n## WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\n#### _writes a speech for Basil Fawlty_\n\nGood morrow, Major, what news of battles past,\n\nReunions, oft-told tales and regimental ties?\n\n( _aside_ ) The man's a fool and deaf as Lethe's soundless\n\nWaters sunk in sempiternal tacitude.\n\nAh, Ladies, must you be gone so soon upon\n\nYour trysts and messages? Haply the charabanc\n\nAwaits without. Sirrah, good morrow, the room\n\nIs not to taste? The prospect circumscrib'd,\n\nThe lodging cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd? Pray tell\n\nMe, sir, exactly what your fancy had envisag'd.\n\nA wood near Athens, the bright Illyrian shore,\n\nOr Arden's forest dense, pack'd e'en unto\n\nIts utmost bound with prancing unicorns?\n\nManuel, philosopher and sage of the Iberian\n\nCoast, pray take in charge our noble friend,\n\nExplain \u2013 as best thy tongue may serve \u2013\n\nThe virtues of our hostelry, its charms\u2014\n\nBut hark! What ghastly shrieking rends the morning\n\nAir? 'Basil! Basil!' My poisoned posset, verucca\n\nOf my heart, she-witch of wither'd dugs and venom\n\nFor her mother's milk. I come, I come, my bride!\n\nMay Aphrodite's chariot speed me to thy side.\n\n## HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN\n\n#### _tells a modern fairy tale_\n\nA little boy called Hans lived in a tiny crooked house in a crowded city. The landlord was the King's cruel nephew. Hans worked as a cobbler making shoes for all the rich people. One day an old witch came in and said, 'Would you like to _own_ your tiny crooked house and not pay horrid rent to the King's cruel nephew?' Little Hans was thrilled. He clapped his hands and danced. The Old Witch lent him sixty crowns to buy his house and he promised to repay two crowns each year and signed his name on a piece of paper.\n\nAnd that piece of paper was stolen by a Jackdaw, who gathered lots of other paper promises and made them all into a nest in the hawthorn. Then the Eagle came and said, 'I will buy your paper promises and sell them sight unseen to a Goose who cannot read.'\n\nAnd the Eagle told the Goose, 'There is no risk because the Wise Owl says so. Look, he's rated them A*.'\n\n'Thank you,' said the Goose and sold the promises to birds all over the world. And some birds wrote insurances that the promises would not fail and sold the insurance policies as well.\n\nMeanwhile, back in the crowded city, the Old Witch rapped on Hans's door one morning. 'From now on,' she said, 'you must pay back not two crowns a year but _ten_ crowns.'\n\nAnd little Hans worked night and day but couldn't make enough shoes. He went blind and his hands fell off and the Old Witch said he must leave his house at once. And Hans became a beggar and wandered the world for a year in rags.\n\nAnd when one day he came back to his crowded city he saw that everyone was out of work and no one had a house or a job.\n\nExcept the Old Witch and the Jackdaw and the Eagle and the Goose and the Wise Owl, who now owned the whole street, tax free.\n\n## STEPHENIE MEYER\n\n#### _has a_ Twilight _rethink and sets her school in England_\n\nWhen my mom left my dad in Phoenix, Arizona, he couldn't manage so he sent me to this school in Europe which is in England someplace. It's called Greyfriars and at the end of class none of the kids go home but they stay in a like, dorm. I'm not allowed to keep my Chevy here; can you believe the kids don't have cars? We don't do Math or Trig or Government class, we do Latin which is like what people spoke a zillion years ago in Greece or somewhere. The teacher, Mr Quelch, he's always on about some poet guy called Horace, I don't know if that's his first name or what.\n\nThere's a group of kids here who keep themselves apart, they're kind of creepy. There's Bob Cherry, who has like the biggest feet in class. There's Huree Jamset Ram Singh who's like this ethnic guy who speaks weird, I think it may be Latin, though not as weird as this kid out of Chinatown called Wun Lung.\n\nBut the one who really freaks me out is this guy called Bunter. I am like so totally in awe of him. He can like do voices, ventriloquism, shit like that. He has these thick glasses and his eyes change colour behind them. I think he reads my mind.\n\nI think maybe he's a little shy around women, but he told me last night he loves the . . . smell of me. He said I smell of like . . . shepherd's pie and jam roly poly.\n\nAbout three things I am like totally positive. First, Billy Bunter will eat anything. Second, I am unconditionally and totally in love with him. Thirdly, there's a part of him \u2013 and I don't yet know how potent it is \u2013 that wants to put me in his tuck box for what he calls a 'midnight feast'.\n\n## SYLVIA PLATH\n\n#### _tells the story of Goldilocks_\n\nI am the doctor who takes\n\nThe temperature of each bowl.\n\nDaddy Bear, your gruel,\n\nGrey as the Feldgrau,\n\nPungent as a jackboot,\n\nRises under an ailing moon.\n\nI have been sleeping\n\nIn your bed, Daddy.\n\nMother's oats are blebbed\n\nWith ruby stains of fruit preserve\n\nBeside the glass fire\n\nOf her blood-orange juice.\n\nThe baby's porridge bubbles\n\nWith a foetus eye.\n\nI swallow the sins it is not\n\nHis to shrive. I devour\n\nThe cancerous pallor\n\nWith spoons of handled bone.\n\nI plough the winding-sheets\n\nOf each bear bed with my\n\nSurgical breathing, as I die and rise\n\nThree times before dawn.\n\nMy golden hair is electric\n\nWith the light of\n\nBorrowed stars, spread out\n\nOn my pillow of skulls.\n\n## PHILIP ROTH\n\n#### _turns his hand to a children's story_\n\nMolestein spent the morning spring cleaning his burrow in the old Jewish district of Woodland, New Jersey. Afterwards, he had lunch with his friend Whiskers Wasserat, who lived on the waterfront at Hoboken. He and Molestein had been at college after the War on the GI Bill. They ate at Salmon's Deli. These days it was Salmon's son who cooked, but he still made mushrooms with the red sauce like his father. Molestein himself knew how to make a proper burrow, like his great grandfather who had burrowed all the way from Lithuania.\n\nMolestein had an imaginary friend called Rutterman who was having an affair with Wasserat's 21-year-old daughter, Miriam, a dental hygienist in Newark with a fancy tail on her. Her white tunic and tan pantyhose gave Rutterman a fantasy life so rich he'd had an octuple heart bypass the previous fall.\n\nThat afternoon at Bellevue Hospital, Molestein went for a prostate exam. The geriatrician, a pop-eyed _goy_ called Jimmy Toad, slipped on his rubber glove and probed the colo-rectal opening. Molestein could see the nurse, a little _shikse_ ferret in a gingham pinafore, holding his discarded pants at arm's length. Dr Toad at last withdrew his probing flipper.\n\n'Keep the news simple,' said Molestein. 'No fancy words for me or Rutterman, just the vernacular: its special force.'\n\n'You have three months to live,' said Dr Toad, chucking his soiled glove in the trash.\n\nMolestein went out blind onto Second Avenue. He felt the fury of his ebbing life. He thought of his elder brother, Isaac, killed while flying short-sighted night missions in Korea. Then Molestein pictured the graves of his forefathers, forgotten molehills in the forests of the remote Carpathian _shtetl_. He swore he could put Rutterman through one last trial of strength and lust for life before they shut his burrow to the light.\n\nAwkward with his new cellphone, Molestein stopped on the corner of 58th and called Wasserat's daughter, Miriam, at the dental surgery. His voice cracked with rage and fear.\n\n'Can you see me one more time?' said Molestein. 'It's not for me, it's for my friend Rutterman.'\n\n'Sure, honey,' said Miriam. Her voice reminded him of gravy trickling over _kishkes_. 'There's nothing half so much fun as messing about with old goats.'\n\n## J. K. ROWLING\n\n#### _tries a sequel with Harry Potter now grown up_\n\nAt the age of forty, Harry Potter's divorce came through. After ten years his wife Ginny was revealed to be not Ron Weasley's sister but the reincarnation of Princess Tangerina, high priestess of the Evil Mingers. Naturally, in the settlement Ginny got the kids and the house and Harry had no place to live so passed his day in the local caf\u00e9 trying to write his memoirs till the owner kicked him out.\n\nEventually, desperate for a bed, he went to the local estate agent, Malvolius Slime, who sounded like a good chap, he thought, oddly.\n\n'There's no mortgages available,' explained Malvolius, 'and with your equity, you're looking at a broom cupboard, tops. Actually this one's just come in at Number 4 Privet Drive.'\n\n'Gazumper and gazunder!' exclaimed Harry. 'Quis circumambit circumvenit. What goes around comes\u2014'\n\n'I know what it means,' broke in Malvolius. 'In fact, I know all about your true history, Harry. I look like an estate agent but actually I'm one seventh of Albus Dumbledore's ghost.'\n\n'Really?' said Harry.\n\n'Now for the truth,' said Malvolius, promisingly. 'Hermione Grainger's pussy cat, Tarantella, is your godmother. Your parents are\u2014'\n\n'I know who my parents are,' replied Harry. 'And I'm an only child.'\n\n'No,' contradicted Malvolius, testily, 'you are one of three brothers. The first is called Ant, the second is called Dec.'\n\n'Really? Which is older?' said Harry, quizzically.\n\n'No one knows,' said the old estate agent. 'Not even Dec. Your father \u2013 your _real_ father, I should say, was Saddam Hussein. And your mother\u2014'\n\n'Who?' asked Harry, interrogatively. 'Who was she?'\n\n'Your mother,' disclosed Malvolius confidentially, 'was Diana, Princess of Wales.'\n\n'Blimey!' swore Harry, blasphemously. 'That's straining credulity a bit, isn't it? You mean my parents were . . . were Muggles?' he asked, incredulously.\n\n'It's a long story,' said Malvolius, at length.\n\n'How long?' said Harry, curiously.\n\n'About seven volumes,' said Malvolius Slime, 'each one seemingly a little longer than the one before.'\n* Martin McGuinness was indeed appointed minister for education in Northern Ireland.\nThis ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.\n\nEpub ISBN: 9781409099277\n\nVersion 1.0\n\nPublished by Hutchinson 2016\n\n1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Sebastian Faulks 2016  \nIllustrations \u00a9 Giorgos Papadakis 2016\n\nSebastian Faulks has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nFirst published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hutchinson\n\nHutchinson  \n20 Vauxhall Bridge Road  \nLondon, SW1V 2SA\n\nwww.penguin.co.uk\n\nHutchinson is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library\n\nISBN 9780091931070\n\n#### **H. G. WELLS**\n\nfn1 Readers may care to spot the only one that did. Answer here.\n\n## Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Contents\n  3. About the Book\n  4. About the Author\n  5. Also by Sebastian Faulks\n  6. Title Page\n  7. Author's Note\n  8. Modern Times\n    1. John Betjeman\n    2. The Brontes\n    3. Gustave Flaubert\n    4. Jonathan Swift\n    5. A. A. Milne\n    6. Mark Twain\n    7. Philip Larkin\n    8. H. G. Wells\n    9. Jerome K. Jerome\n    10. Henry Fielding\n    11. William Blake\n    12. Daniel Defoe\n  9. A Shot Rang Out\n    1. Marcel Proust\n    2. Edgar Allan Poe\n    3. Enid Blyton\n    4. George Eliot\n    5. Virginia Woolf\n    6. John Grisham\n  10. Sports and Pastimes\n    1. Rabbie Burns\n    2. Thomas Hardy\n    3. Ted Hughes\n    4. W. B. Yeats\n    5. Seamus Heaney\n    6. Gerard Manley Hopkins\n    7. Raymond Chandler\n    8. John Keats\n    9. Ian Fleming\n  11. Enter Stage Right\n    1. Terence Rattigan\n    2. Tom Stoppard\n    3. Sophocles\n    4. Tennesse Williams\n  12. Playing to the Crowd\n    1. Karl Ove Knausgaard\n    2. Javier Marias\n    3. Dan Brown\n    4. P. G. Wodehouse\n    5. T. S. Eliot\n    6. John Osborne\n    7. Dorothy Parker\n  13. Between the Sheets\n    1. Jackie Collins\n    2. Stephen King\n    3. Alan Hollinghurst\n    4. E. M. Forster\n    5. John le Carre\n    6. D. H. Lawrence\n  14. Bedtime Stories\n    1. Allen Ginsberg\n    2. William Shakespeare\n    3. Hans Christian Andersen\n    4. Stephenie Meyer\n    5. Sylvia Plath\n    6. Philip Roth\n    7. J. K. Rowling\n  15. Copyright\n\n  1. \n  2. \n  3. \n  4. \n  5. \n  6. \n  7. \n  8. \n  9. \n  10. \n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110.\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Contents\n  3. Contents\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nDESPATCHES FROM THE FRONT\n\nThe Commanding Officers' Reports From the Field and At Sea.\n\nTHE WAR IN ITALY 1943\u20131944\n\nIntroduced and compiled by  \nMartin Mace and John Grehan  \nWith additional research by  \nSara Mitchell\n\nFirst published in Great Britain in 2014 by  \nPen & Sword Military  \nan imprint of  \nPen & Sword Books Ltd  \n47 Church Street  \nBarnsley  \nSouth Yorkshire  \nS70 2AS\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Martin Mace and John Grehan, 2014\n\nISBN 978 1 78346 213 1\n\nThe right of Martin Mace and John Grehan to be identified as Authors of this Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.  \nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.\n\nPrinted and bound in England  \nBy CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY\n\nPen & Sword Books Ltd incorporates the Imprints of  \nPen & Sword Aviation, Pen & Sword Family History,  \nPen & Sword Maritime, Pen & Sword Military, Pen & Sword Discovery, Pen & Sword Politics, Pen & Sword Atlas, Pen & Sword Archaeology, Wharncliffe Local History, Wharncliffe True Crime, Wharncliffe Transport, Pen & Sword Select, Pen & Sword Military Classics, Leo Cooper,  \nThe Praetorian Press, Claymore Press, Remember When,  \nSeaforth Publishing and Frontline Publishing.\n\nFor a complete list of Pen & Sword titles please contact:  \nPEN & SWORD BOOKS LIMITED  \n47 Church Street, Barnsley, South Yorkshire, S70 2AS, England  \nE-mail: enquiries@pen-and-sword.co.uk\n\nWebsite: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk\n\n## CONTENTS\n\nIntroduction\n\nList of Illustrations\n\nThe Despatches\n\n1. Viscount Alexander's Despatch on the Conquest of Sicily, 10 July to 17 August 1943.\n\n2. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Andrew Cunningham's Despatch on the Invasion of Sicily.\n\n3. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Andrew B. Cunningham's Despatch on the Landings in the Gulf of Salerno, 9 September 1943.\n\n4. Field-Marshal Lord Alexander's Despatch on the Campaign in Italy, 3 September 1943 to 12 December 1944.\n\nAbbreviations\n\nIndex\n\n## INTRODUCTION\n\nIt had been decided at the Casablanca Conference in January 1943 that following the complete defeat of the Axis forces in North Africa, the invasion of Italy could be undertaken. The first step was to occupy Sicily and this operation forms the first despatch in this book. In the planning for the invasion of Sicily it was expected that the enemy forces on the island would amount to eight mobile divisions and five coastal defence divisions. The worry was that two of these might be German divisions and this led the Joint Planning Staff to warn that: \"We are doubtful of the chances of success against a garrison which includes German formations.\"\n\nThe man given responsibility for the operation, Field Marshal Harold Alexander, thought that this was \"too strongly expressed\" and he insisted on pressing ahead. Interestingly, he was possibly more concerned that the Germans would be in charge of the defence of the island than of the number of troops they had there. German organisation and efficiency would improve the Italian forces chances of repelling the invaders.\n\nThe balance of forces was also roughly even. Equally, whilst the Allies would be able to choose the time and place of attack, the large number of troops that would be needed to overcome the enemy meant that the invading forces could not be landed together would have to be widely dispersed. It was also expected that the Italians would show a greater determination to defend their own soil than they had shown in the fighting in North Africa. Furthermore, Alexander points out, the assault upon Sicily was the first large-scale amphibious operation in the war against a defended coastline and facing opponents equipped with modern weapons. The recollections of what had happened at Gallipoli in 1915 must have weighed heavily on Alexander's mind.\n\nThe various, and changing, plans form a large part, around half, of the content of this first despatch. As Alexander points out, one of the most difficult tasks he faced was co-ordinating the forces for a simultaneous assault, as those forces were despatched from all over the southern and eastern shores of the Mediterranean as well as from the United Kingdom and United States.\n\nThe air operation was also on an unprecedented scale. The air attacks upon Sicily began almost as soon as the battle for Tunis had ended with raids upon the island's infrastructure and enemy installations. For the entire operation _Husky_ , the total aircraft employed, including transports but excluding gliders, amounted to over four thousand, which came from 110 British and 132 American squadrons.\n\nThough not every element of the operation was a great success, especially the airborne assault which was a marked failure, the capture of Sicily was achieved in just thirty-eight days\n\nA highly detailed description of the naval element to the invasion of Sicily is included in Admiral Andrew Cunningham's despatch. This takes the form of a narrative provided by Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay, who was the commander of the Eastern Task Force.\n\nAdmiral Cunningham is also the author of a despatch concerning the Salerno landings. The reason why the Gulf of Salerno was chosen for the landing of the Allied forces which began on 9 August 1943 was its proximity to Naples, the port of which was considered essential as a base from which the rest of Italy could be subdued. Operation _Avalanche_ came perilously close to failure with the Germans defending their positions with, as Cunningham described it, \"a ferocity which we have now come to regard as normal.\"\n\nThe despatch dealing with the rest of the operations in Italy forms the bulk of this volume, amounting to almost 100,000 words and represents possibly the most detailed analysis of this important campaign ever published. It is complemented by Orders of Battle of both the Axis and Allied armies at different stages of the campaign.\n\nThe Italian theatre was never intended to be the main focus of operations for either the Allies or for the Germans. It was understood by both sides that the ultimate victory would be won on the Eastern and Western fronts. Italy was a sideshow with the objective of bringing to battle the maximum number of German troops thus preventing their deployment to the main theatres. This was also the principle objective of the Germans \u2013 to tie down large numbers of Allied troops thus reducing the numbers that could be sent against northern Europe in what everyone knew would be the decisive operation.\n\nIt was with this in mind that Alexander planned his moves. \"At every minute of the campaign, therefore, I had to pose to myself the question, who was containing whom in Italy?\" He wrote. \"This was the vital question for the Germans also, and to them the answer can never have been satisfactory. In all, forty-five German divisions were employed in Italy, together with four Italian regular divisions, one Cossack division and miscellaneous formations of Czechs, Slovaks and Russians. The Allies employed in Italy a total of forty divisions of which eight were transferred to Western front in 1943 and ten in 1944 and followed by three diverted to the Balkans.\" Not all of these forces were employed at any one time, but throughout the fighting, the Axis forces employed generally exceeded those of the Allies.\n\nThe operations of the Allied forces could not just be of a holding nature. A real possibility was that if a large part of Italy could be occupied by the Allies, the Italians might be forced to capitulate. Though as Alexander stated, the Italian troops were not of the finest quality, they did perform important garrison duties throughout many Axis-occupied territories. In the summer of 1943 Italy still had seven divisions in Southern France, extending as far west as Marseilles, and no less than thirty-two in the Balkans, together with many non-divisional anti-aircraft and coast defence units in both theatres. If Italy withdrew from the war the loss of these garrisons would thrown a severe strain upon the Germans.\n\nFortunately, just before the invasion began in earnest, and far earlier than had been expected, the Italians surrendered, on 8 September. Alexander now only had to contend with the Germans.\n\nThere were, of course, two principle factors that assisted Alexander. Firstly, as the aggressor, he was in many instances able to chose the time and place of his offensive operations, though the nature of the terrain and the location of the major population centres limited his choices. Many of the key objectives were also obvious to both sides, making surprise impossible.\n\nThe second factor was, as Alexander, put it 'psychological'. Once the Italians had surrendered, there was nothing to be gained by attempting to hold the entire country. The obvious line of defence for the Germans was the Apennines, where indeed they built the fortifications known as the 'Gothic Line'. With relatively few troops these defences could have been held against frontal assault indefinitely. The Allies would not have wasted lives attacking such formidable positions and the Italian theatre of operations would have drifted into stalemate.\n\nBut, what Alexander called Hitler's \"well-known reluctance, exhibited both previously and subsequently, to yield any ground without a fight,\" meant that the Germans were forced to commit troops to hold territory that otherwise would have been abandoned.\n\nAlexander's conclusion is a fitting one also for this brief introduction. \"It was the Germans therefore, who were contained in Italy and not the Allies; the Italian campaign drained their strength more than ours. The reasons why the Germans decided to fight in Italy rather than withdraw to the Alps I have already discussed; they were not, or at least the more important were not, military reasons but political. Perhaps the future German historian, if he is as eager as his predecessors have always been to extol the virtues of Prussian military science, will admit the folly of protracted resistance in Italy and, throwing the blame on a megalomaniac Fuehrer, will seek consolation by pointing to the bravery and stubbornness in defence of the German soldier. He will be justified in so doing; but a still finer theme will be that of the historian who describes how that stubborn defence and the barrier of so many mountains and rivers were triumphantly overcome by the Allies.\"\n\n*\n\nThe objective of this book is to reproduce the despatches of Alexander and Cunningham exactly as they first appeared to the general public some seventy years ago. They have not been modified or edited in any way and are therefore the original and unique words of the commanding officers as they saw things at the time. The only change is the manner in which the footnotes are presented, in that they are shown at the end of each despatch rather than at the bottom of the relevant page as they appear in the original despatch. Any grammatical or spelling errors have been left uncorrected to retain the authenticity of the documents.\n\n## LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n1 The invasion of Sicily, Operation _Husky_ , underway on Saturday, 10 July 1943; this picture shows Axis prisoners of war marching along the beach to waiting ships being watched by Royal Marine Commandos. A Landing Craft Infantry (Large) and two Landing Craft Tanks, can be seen on the beach in the background. The large scale amphibious and airborne operation was followed by six weeks of land fighting. (ww2images)\n\n2 The Allied invasion of Italy gets underway. This image shows British troops and vehicles from 128 Brigade, 46th Division being unloaded from LST 383 onto the beaches at Salerno, 9 September 1943. The main invasion force landed around Salerno on the western coast in Operation _Avalanche_ , while two supporting operations took place in Calabria (Operation _Baytown_ ) and Taranto (Operation _Slapstick_ ).(ww2images)\n\n3 Part of the Allied invasion force pictured heading towards the Italian coast as part of Operation _Shingle_ , the Allied amphibious landings at Anzio which began on 22 January 1944. (Historic Military Press)\n\n4 Tanks of an American armoured regiment are pictured disembarking from a Landing Ship, Tank \u2013 LST 77 \u2013 in Anzio Harbour as the US Fifth Army's VI Corps builds up its forces in Italy. In due course, LST 77, originally part of the US Navy, was decommissioned (on 24 December 1944) and commissioned in the Royal Navy. (US National Archives)\n\n5 A vertical photographic-reconnaissance photograph taken over the docks at La Spezia, Italy, showing destroyed sheds, storehouses and workshops in an area of the naval dockyard north-east of Bassin I (lower centre), as a result of the raid by aircraft of Bomber Command on the night of 18\/19 April 1943. (Historic Military Press)\n\n6 Axis prisoners of war are pictured being guarded by British and American soldiers on 19 September 1943, as the push inland from the Salerno beachhead begins \u2013 the hills and mountains in the distance would be the scene of bitter fighting in the days and weeks to come. (Historic Military Press)\n\n7 British troops go ashore at Salerno. (Historic Military Press)\n\n8 A German _Fallschirmj\u00e4ger_ , or paratrooper, observing the lower ground from the heights of Monte Cassino, Italy, during February 1944 \u2013 an image which illustrates the scale of the challenge that Allied troops faced. (Bundesarchiv, Bild 146-1974-006-62\/Czirnich\/CC-BY-SA)\n\n9 A photograph of a 240mm howitzer of 'B' Battery, 697th Field Artillery Battalion, US Fifth Army, taken just before it fires into German-held territory around Monte Cassino, Italy, on 30 January 1944.\n\n10 German vehicles destroyed during an Allied air attack north of Cassino, Italy, in 1944. The halftrack artillery tractor carries the identification plate WH1028 348. (US National Archives)\n\n11 Bombs lie on an Allied airfield in Italy ready to be loaded into RAF Consolidated B-24 Liberators during January 1944. (US National Archives)\n\n12 The aftermath of one of the most successful German attacks on Allied shipping of the Second World War. During the raid on Bari Harbour on 2 December 1943, 105 Junkers Ju 88s of _Luftflotte 2_ , achieving complete surprise, bombed shipping and personnel operating in support of the Allied campaign in Italy, sinking twenty-seven cargo and transport ships and a schooner in Bari harbour. (The James Luto Collection)\n\n13 Another view of the devastation at Bari during the _Luftwaffe_ attack on 2 December 1943. Not for nothing has the raid been called, with some justification, \"The Second Pearl Harbor\". One of the merchant vessels destroyed \u2013 the U.S. Liberty Ship _John Harvey_ \u2013 had been carrying a quantity of mustard gas bombs which exploded with devastating consequences. (The James Luto Collection)\n\n14 British gunners are pictured preparing to fire on enemy positions during the fighting in and around the Serchio Valley in late 1944. The Allied intention was to dislodge German troops from a number of well-defended, but important, positions. (Historic Military Press)\n\n15 A Consolidated B-24 Liberator of No.205 Group flies over the target area during a daylight attack on the port of Monfalcone, Italy. Smoke from exploding bombs can be seen rising from the shipbuilding and repair yards and other installations in the harbour.\n\n16 US troops in action during the Battle of Garfagnana, 26\u201328 December 1944. Known to the Germans as Operation _Unternehmen Wintergewitter_ (\"Winter Storm\") and nicknamed the \"Christmas Offensive\", this was an Axis offensive on the western sector of the Gothic Line in the north Tuscan Apennines, near Massa and Lucca. (US National Archives)\n\n##\n\n## VISCOUNT ALEXANDER'S DESPATCH ON THE CONQUEST OF SICILY\n\n10 JULY TO 17 AUGUST 1943\n\n_The War Office, February, 1948_\n\n### THE CONQUEST OF SICILY FROM 10TH JULY, 1943 TO 17TH AUGUST, 1943\n\n_The following Despatch was submitted to the Secretary of State for War on 9th October,_ 1946, by _HIS EXCELLENCY FIELD-MARSHAL THE VISCOUNT ALEXANDER OF TUNIS, K.G., G.C.B., G.C.M.G., C.S.I., D.S.O., M.C., former General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Fifteenth Army Group._\n\n#### The Decision.\n\nAt the Casablanca conference in mid-January, 1943, it was decided by the Prime Minister and President Roosevelt, assisted by the Combined Chiefs of Staff, that after Africa had been finally cleared of the enemy the island of Sicily should be assaulted and captured as a base for operations against Southern Europe and to open the Mediterranean to the shipping of the United Nations. I attended the conference and was designated the Commander-in-Chief of the group of Armies entrusted with the operation. As I was also appointed to an identical r\u00f4le in command of the operations then proceeding in Tunisia, in which I was soon involved in the day to day conduct of an intricate and difficult battle situation, it was not possible for me to take direct control immediately of the planning of the operations. A tentative outline plan had already been produced by the Joint Planning Staff in London, supplemented at Casablanca, and this was given, as a basis on which to work, to the nucleus of my future Headquarters, known for security purposes as \"Force 141,\" which assembled at Bouzarea, near Algiers, on 12th February, 1943. This planning staff was headed by Major-General C.H. Gairdner, as Chief of General Staff.1 The operation was given the code name HUSKY.\n\nAlthough provision had thus been early made for the planning of the operation it was none the less surrounded with great difficulties. The prerequisite that the whole of the North African coastline should be cleared of the enemy meant that the battle in Tunisia took first priority and, until that was concluded, it would be impossible to know what resources would be available for the invasion of Sicily. The question of the date to be aimed at was also affected. It was calculated at Casablanca that the Tunisian campaign would be completed by 1st May and the target date for Sicily was provisionally fixed at the favourable moon period in July. The Combined Chiefs of Staff subsequently directed that an attempt should be made to advance this date to the corresponding period in June. This proved impossible, owing to the need for adequate training for the assaulting divisions and the preparation of the necessary administrative basis for the operation, and on 15th April the Combined Chiefs of Staff agreed that 10th July should be the target date.\n\n#### Elements of the Problem.\n\nThe problems to which the main attention could be directed in the early stages of planning were those presented by geography and logistics and the probable scale of enemy resistance. The island of Sicily has been compared to \"a jagged arrowhead with the broken point to the west.\" The total area is about ten thousand square miles, the greatest measurement from east to west is one hundred and fifty miles and the length of the coastline is about six hundred miles. In the north-eastern corner Cape Peloro is separated from the peninsula of Calabria by the Straits of Messina, only two miles at their narrowest. Cape Passero, the south-eastern corner, scene of a British naval victory in 1718, is about fifty-five miles due north of the island of Malta and about four hundred miles from Benghazi. At the western end of the island Cape Boeo (also known as Cape Lilibeo) is about ninety miles to the northeast of Cape Bon in Tunisia. In the straits between Tunisia and Sicily lies Pantelleria which the Italians claimed to have transformed into a fortress of a strength to rival Malta.\n\nThe greater part of Sicily is mountainous with many peaks over three thousand feet. The most extensive plain lies south and west of Catania, dominated by the conical peak of Etna. All round the coast, however, except for a short stretch on the north coast, there is a narrow strip of low-lying country through which runs the main road encircling the island. The coastline is divided into a series of wide-sweeping bights, separated from each other by more or less prominent capes. Over ninety stretches of beach were enumerated by the planning staff, ranging from less than a hundreds yards to many miles in length, usually of sand but sometimes of shingle; offshore gradients were in most cases rather shallow. These beaches generally admit direct access into the narrow coastal strip. The main ports, in order of importance, are Messina in the north-east, Palermo in the north-west, Catania and Syracuse on the east coast; none of these is a first class port and their daily clearance capacity was reckoned, after making due allowance for possible damage from air bombardment and demolitions, at four to five thousand tons per day for Messina, two thousand five hundred for Palermo, one thousand eight hundred for Catania and one thousand for Syracuse. Minor ports, all reckoned as having a capacity of about six hundred tons per day, are Augusta on the east coast (mainly a naval base with a good protected anchorage), Licata and Porto Empedocle on the south coast and Trapani on the west coast.\n\nThere were nineteen known airfields in Sicily when planning started, a figure which was subsequently raised by new construction to over thirty at the time of the attack. They fell into three main groups, in the east, south-east and west of the island. The first two were mutually self-supporting but could neither afford fighter cover to the western group nor be themselves covered from there. All were situated within some fifteen miles of the coast. Most important for the German Air Force was the eastern group, Catania-Gerbini; there were important supply and operational organisations here and the capture of the area would probably mean that the German Air Force could no longer operate effectively in Sicily. If we could bring these airfields into operation we could cover the Straits of Messina, only sixty-five miles away, and the German Air Force would be driven back on Naples and Brindisi, both about two hundred miles away, for the three small airfields in the toe of Italy were only suitable for use as advanced landing grounds.\n\nIt was more difficult to calculate the probable strength of the enemy defending forces. The greater part of these were known to be Italian and in January there were in the island three regular infantry divisions and five \"coastal\" divisions. The latter were composed of lower quality troops than the ordinary divisions, had a lower scale of equipment and were almost entirely non-mobile. Their task was to man the coastal defences and to form a covering screen to break the first impact of an assault and allow time for the intervention of the \"field\" divisions. The major interest centred on the latter. It was reasonable to expect that the Italians would wish to increase the garrison of so important and so obviously threatened a portion of their metropolitan territory and, to be on the safe side, we calculated that by July the garrison would probably have risen to a total of eight mobile divisions, excluding the coastal divisions. It would be easy to reinforce, for communications were excellent, the train ferries at Messina could move up to forty thousand men in twenty-four hours or, in the same period, seven thousand five hundred men and seven hundred and fifty vehicles.\n\nWe were naturally particularly interested in the prospects of reinforcement by German troops. There were already in Sicily extensive German Air Force establishments, which included detachments for the ground defence of airfields as well as anti-aircraft gunners and the normal Air Force service troops, and there was also a fluctuating number of German troops at various points, particularly in the west, representing units in transit in Tunisia. Perhaps, when resistance ceased in Tunisia, it might be found that the Germans had been able to evacuate sufficient troops to Sicily to make a considerable difference to the strength of the island garrison. In any event it was likely that Germany would consider it necessary to reinforce the Italians and it was calculated that two out of the eight divisions expected as the strength of the garrison might be German. The Joint Planning Staff, in their original report, felt it necessary to state, \"We are doubtful of the chances of success against a garrison which includes German formations.\" This seemed to me to be too strongly expressed, but all the commanders concerned agreed that if the Italians should be reinforced with substantial, well-equipped German forces before the attack the chances of success would be considerably reduced, not only because of the superior fighting quality of the Germans but because, if the German proportion of the garrison approached parity with the Italian, they would certainly demand a share, probably the predominant share, in the direction of the operations.\n\n#### The First Plan.\n\nWhen the headquarters of Force 141 was set up in Bouzarea on 12th February, 1943, the basis on which the staff were in the first instance to work was the plan drawn up for the Casablanca conference. This was accepted by me as a preliminary and tentative basis of planning, though I realised, from such attention as I had been able to give it, that it would undoubtedly need modification when I should be free to give my mind wholly to it. Certain elements were bound to remain constant. It was clear, as laid down in the plan, that for many reasons the operation would have to be a joint Anglo-American undertaking. Each nation would provide a task force of Army size commanded respectively by General Montgomery2 and General Patton.3 Naval and Air forces would be also jointly provided and commanded by Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham 4 and Air Chief Marshal Tedder.5 The British assault force would be mounted mainly from the Middle East Command and the United States force from North Africa.\n\nThe strategic conception of the operation was influenced very largely by administrative considerations. It was still an essential element of the doctrine of amphibious warfare that sufficient major ports must be captured within a very short time of the initial landings to maintain all the forces required for the attainment of the objectives; beach maintenance could only be relied on as a very temporary measure. The experiences of operation TORCH, the North African landing, though difficult to interpret in view of the special circumstances of that operation, were held to confirm this view. This meant that attention was at once directed to the three major ports of Messina, Catania and Palermo. Messina was clearly out of the question as an immediate objective. It was strongly defended, difficult of access and well out of range of air cover that had to be provided from Tunisia and Malta. An assault on Catania could be given air cover, though the port itself was at the extreme end of our range, and successful exploitation would give us control of the main group of enemy airfields in the island, from which it would be possible to provide cover over the Straits of Messina, our final objective. On the other hand it was calculated that the port could only maintain four divisions in the first month and six divisions subsequently, and this would be insufficient for the reduction of the whole island. Palermo would give us sufficient maintenance facilities provided the enemy allowed us time enough to build up to the strength required. The disadvantages of an assault in that area were that it left the enemy in possession of Catania and Messina through which to reinforce, and the eastern and south-eastern groups of airfields, while exploitation towards Messina, our final objective, would be difficult.\n\nThe plan therefore proposed a simultaneous assault in the west and south-east. On D-day the Eastern Task Force (British) was to land at four points, Avola, Pachino, Pozzallo and Gela, with forces totalling three infantry divisions, four parachute and two tank battalions. The tasks of the force were to capture the ports of Syracuse and Augusta and the airfields at Pachino, Comiso and Ponte Olivo. At the same time an American force of one infantry division and a tank battalion from the Western Task Force (United States) was to land at Sciacca and Marinella in the south-western corner of the island to capture the airfields, in particular the large airfield at Castelvetrano, in order to be able to provide air cover over the landings in the Palermo area. On D plus 2 the main American landings would be made in the Palermo area, from the Gulf of Castellammare to Cape Zaffarano, east of the port, in a total strength of two infantry divisions and two tank battalions. The tasks of this force were to capture Palermo and cut off the enemy in the west of the island by linking up with the force at Castelvetrano. On D plus 3 the Eastern Task Force was to make another landing, with one infantry division, plus a brigade group, and an airborne division, in the Catania area, to capture the port and the Gerbini group of airfields. A reserve division was allotted to each\n\nTask Force, to follow up into Catania and Palermo, when secured, and by D plus 7 it was hoped that sufficient forces would be ashore to deal with any forces which could be brought against them.\n\n#### Modification of the First Plan.\n\nThe month of February and the early days of March were the most critical periods in Tunisia, where I assumed command on 19th February, and it was impossible for me to give the plans for Sicily any detailed attention. I did, however, suggest certain modifications to General Gairdner when he saw me at the end of February, for the consideration of his planning staff. These were directed to eliminate certain unsatisfactory points, in the original London plan; to ensure, for instance, that divisions were employed as such and not split up unnecessarily, to provide a Force Reserve and to ensure a more concentrated use of our airborne forces to neutralise the beach defences by cancelling a proposed operation against communications in Calabria. I also considered at this time concentrating the efforts of both Task Forces against the south-eastern corner of the island. This was a proposal to which I was later to return but on first consideration it was rejected on the ground that port facilities in this area would be insufficient to support our whole force, and it still seemed essential to ensure the early capture of Palermo. To overrun the island if defended by a garrison of eight enemy divisions, which was the current Intelligence estimate of the probable enemy strength, would require at least ten divisions and I was informed that only with the use of both Palermo and Catania could we be sure of maintaining that number.\n\nIt would be unnecessary to describe in detail the many conferences at which the strategy of the attack was thrashed out until they resulted in the adoption of the final plan. Nor need I emphasise again the difficulties involved; I myself and my two future Army commanders were engaged actively in the field and even when a conference would have been physically possible the hazards of air communications in the uncertain weather of a North African spring often meant that we could not meet. The staff at Bouzarea were short-handed and many of the heads of branches, still fully employed at my Eighteenth Army Group Headquarters, were unable to take over as yet or divert their attention from the Tunisian battle. All that was possible was to work out loading tables, training schedules and all such matters which must of necessity be taken in hand long before the date of the assault, while preserving complete flexibility of mind about the objectives which might eventually be selected for the assault. Flexibility was, indeed, the keynote of the whole planning period and every proposed solution was examined on its own merits. It is for this reason that it is difficult to show in detail how the final plan grew to completion but it will be useful to consider the main aspects that presented themselves and sketch the way in which they contributed to the ultimate solution.\n\nThe air situation received my first attention. From our bases in Malta and Tunisia we could give air cover over the southern half of Sicily south of a line running from Trapani to Catania; both these two places, however, were near to the limit of effective air action. The plan provided for an early attack on all three groups of airfields, but at the cost of a loss of concentration. The Eastern Task Force, in particular, would be dispersed in assaults all along the coast between Catania and Gela. This raised serious doubts as to whether it would be strong enough at the crucial point, the landing at Avola; it was vital that there should be no risk of failure here, for the whole enterprise depended on seizing the ports of Syracuse and Augusta, and if possible Catania, very soon after landing. The plan entrusted this task to one division and one brigade, only a third of the total force, and it was apparently impossible to increase this except by abandoning one of the other landings. The obvious solution was to divert the division which it was intended to land at Gela, and this was suggested by General Montgomery. On the other hand Air Chief Marshal Tedder pointed out that Ponte Olivo, the airfield centre inland from Gela, had been developed into a first class air base and unless it were captured for our use our air forces would labour under an intolerable situation. Admiral Cunningham agreed, from the naval point of view, that the risk of allowing the enemy air forces to operate from the south-eastern group of airfields would be unacceptable.\n\nThis was a serious dilemma since both the arguments for strengthening the east coast assault and for the early capture of the airfields inland from Gela were overwhelmingly strong. My first solution was to transfer to the Avola assault the division assigned to Gela and entrust the latter assault to an American division, transferred from the landings at Sciacca \u2013 Marinella, which would therefore have to be cancelled. It was not a satisfactory solution, for I was unwilling to put an isolated American division under command of Eighth Army, but it seemed the best available. Air cover for the assault on Palermo would now have to be given from the southeastern group of airfields, when captured, and this would cause some delay. I  recommended this change of plan to General Eisenhower on 19th March and at a conference on 20th March he agreed to it. My staff continued, however, to explore the possibility of mounting another British division and by 6th April it had been found possible to provide one from Middle East which would stage at Malta. I therefore, in the new plan which was presented on 6th April, restored the American assault at Sciacca \u2013 Marinella, added an armoured brigade to the Avola landing and still left the Eastern Task Force with a reserve division which could either be used for the landings south of Catania, as originally planned, or, as now seemed more likely, put in to support the main landings on the south-eastern coast. The western, American, assaults were put back a little, the Sciacca \u2013 Marinella landing to D plus 2 and Palermo to D plus 5 or later.\n\nSo far changes which had been adopted had represented only modifications of the plan as prepared by the Joint Planning Staff in London but as the time for a final decision approached I began to consider more and more the dangers presented by the dispersal of our forces. It was particularly difficult to estimate the likely scale of enemy resistance, and even our calculations of the fighting value of enemy troops seemed possibly subject to error. General Montgomery shared the same views. In a signal to me on 24th April he said: \"Planning so far has been based on the assumption that the opposition will be slight and that Sicily will be captured relatively easily.6 Never was there a greater error. The Germans and also the Italians are fighting desperately now in Tunisia and will do so in Sicily.\" Indeed it was only natural to expect that the Italians would show some reasonable spirit in defence of their own soil for they were at that time, to our surprise, stubbornly resisting the Eighth Army attack on the Enfidaville positions. The estimate on which we were working, as already stated, assumed an enemy garrison of two German and six Italian mobile divisions and five Italian coastal divisions, against which we were bringing a force of just over ten divisions with two more in reserve. From the point of view of numbers, therefore, we had no actual superiority and such advantages as we enjoyed \u2013 the initiative to attack where we chose, command of sea and air, and a certain superiority in equipment, at least over the Italians \u2013 would be diminished by dispersion. Moreover, it must be remembered when considering the frame of mind in which we set out on this expedition that this was the first large-scale amphibious operation in the war against a defended coastline and opponents equipped with modern weapons. I am not belittling in any way the landings of 8th November, 1942, but the description I have given above could not be applied to the resistance met on that occasion and we could not expect the fighting in Sicily to cease as quickly as it had done in Algeria and Morocco. No care was too great to ensure that our first landing in Europe should be successful beyond doubt.\n\nWith the end of the fighting in Africa the enemy picture had become clearer. One extra Italian mobile division had been added to the garrison and the German forces in the island were reckoned as the equivalent of one division; but none of the forces in Africa had escaped and any further reinforcement must come from the mainland of Italy, from Germany and from enemy-occupied countries. There was still time, and excellent communications, to admit of such a reinforcement. The whole question of comparative strengths was due for discussion at a new conference on 27th April in Algiers.\n\nThe conference was eventually called, after some mishaps, on 29th April and attention was at once directed to proposals for strengthening the assault in the southeast. General Leese7 represented Eighth Army's point of view. He argued that the Army was, on the present plan, divided into two halves which were too widely separated to be able to support each other and possibly too weak for either to be able to achieve their respective objects. He therefore proposed that both Corps should assault the east coast, one in the area of Avola and the other on either side of the Pachino peninsula (Cape Passero); this would give a firm base for the conquest of the island. Admiral Cunningham did not approve of the suggested change. Apart from his conviction, on general grounds, that in amphibious operations the landings should be dispersed, he considered it essential to secure the use of the south-eastern airfields in order to give protection to ships lying off the beaches. Air Chief Marshal Tedder also entered strong objections from the air point of view. The Eighth Army plan would leave thirteen landing grounds in enemy hands, and this was far too many for effective neutralisation by air action. He considered that it was vital to success to capture these airfields for our own use at the earliest possible opportunity and gave as his formal opinion that unless this could be guaranteed he would be opposed to the whole operation. I was therefore faced with a complete contradiction of opinion between the Army view, represented by General Leese, and the views of the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean and the Air Commander-in-Chief. On the existing plan it was impossible to reconcile these conflicting points of view.\n\nI therefore decided to recast the whole plan. I took the decision on 3rd May, based on a conference on 2nd May which I had been prevented from attending by impossible flying weather, to cancel the American assault in the west and transfer the whole weight of Seventh Army to the south-east of the island, on the immediate left of Eighth Army. I decided, in fact, to take a risk on the administrative side rather than the operational risk of dispersion of effort. This was contrary to what had hitherto been regarded as one of the fundamental principles of the operation: that we must capture Palermo at the earliest possible opportunity if we were to have a hope of maintaining sufficient forces for the reduction of the island. On my new plan the only ports we should be certain of capturing in the first stage would be Syracuse and Augusta, the latter more a naval anchorage than a port, and possibly Catania; the whole of Seventh Army would have to depend on beach maintenance except for such help as it might get from the small port of Licata which, as already stated, was only rated at a capacity of six hundred tons a day.8 The risk was therefore grave, but there were two factors which brightened the prospect. The first was that there was a reasonable probability of suitable weather in July for beach maintenance. The second was the coming of the DUKW. I need not describe these ingenious amphibious vehicles, which are now familiar to everyone, but it is interesting to note, in view of the great part they later played, that I had never seen one up to that time. General Miller9, my Major General, Administration, had received advance reports and had ordered large quantities from the United States on 22nd March. When they arrived it was discovered that the claims made for them were fully justified by their performance. It is not too much to say, indeed, that the DUKW revolutionised the problem of beach maintenance. Nevertheless I arranged that Eighth Army should meet the commitment of providing a thousand tons per day through Syracuse for Seventh Army from D plus 14 to supplement their maintenance over the beaches until they could capture and bring into use the port of Palermo.\n\nIn changing my plan in this way to obtain concentration of force I was proceeding on sound strategic lines but there was one consideration which gave me some concern and which I should like to mention here. As I have said, I had decided to take a calculated administrative risk for operational reasons; but this risk was unevenly divided and almost the whole would fall on the Seventh Army. In other ways also it might well seem that the American troops were being given the tougher and less spectacular tasks: their beaches were more exposed than Eighth Army's and on some there were awkward sand bars, they would have only one small port for maintenance and Eighth Army would have the glory of capturing the more obviously attractive objectives of Syracuse, Catania and Messina, names which would bulk larger in press headlines than Gela or Licata or the obscure townships of central Sicily. Both I and my staff felt that this division of tasks might possibly, on these understandable grounds, cause some feeling of resentment. I knew, from the Tunisian campaign, General Patton's punctilious and scrupulous sense of duty and that there was no possibility of his questioning any orders he might receive from me, but in the case of so difficult and important an operation and since it might appear that an American Commander was being required to scrap the results of difficult and tedious planning and undertake a heavier burden than he had expected at the order of a British superior, I felt a natural anxiety about American reactions. I wish to place on record here that General Patton at once fell in with my new plan, the military advantages of which were as clear to him as to me, and neither he nor anyone in Seventh Army raised any form of objection. It is an impressive example of the spirit of complete loyalty and inter-Allied co-operation which inspired all operations with which I was associated in the Mediterranean theatre.\n\n#### The Final Plan\n\nThe new plan was approved by the Combined Chiefs of Staff on 12th May, the day before that on which German resistance in Tunisia came to an end. I accordingly issued on 19th May my Operation Instruction No. 1. This laid down the principles on which the plan of operations was based and the tasks of the two Armies. At the risk of some repetition of facts already given it will serve a useful purpose to set out the main lines of this instruction.\n\n_\"An operation is to be prepared to seize and hold the island of Sicily as a base for future operations . . . The intention of the Allied Commander-in-Chief is to seize and hold the island by operations in five phases_\n\n> \" _Phase_ 1.\n> \n> Preparatory measures by Naval and Air forces to neutralize enemy naval efforts and to gain air supremacy.\n> \n> \" _Phase_ 2.\n> \n> Pre-dawn seaborne assaults, assisted by airborne landings with the object of seizing airfields and the ports of Syracuse and Licata.\n> \n> \" _Phase_ 3.\n> \n> The establishment of a firm base from which to conduct operations for the capture of the ports of Augusta and Catania, and the Gerbini group of airfields.\n> \n> \" _Phase_ 4.\n> \n> The capture of the ports and airfields outlined in Phase 3.\n> \n> \" _Phase_ 5.\n> \n> The reduction of the island.\"\n\nThe naval, ground and air commanders were nominated as follows: Eastern Task Force, Vice-Admiral B.H. Ramsay; Western Task Force, Vice-Admiral H.K. Hewitt; Seventh Army, Lieutenant-General George S. Patton Junior, Eighth Army, General Sir Bernard Montgomery, North-west African Tactical Air Forces, Air Marshal Sir Arthur Conmgham, Seventh Army Air Force, Colonel Lawrence P. Hickey, U.S.A.A.F., Eighth Army (Desert Air Force), Air Vice Marshal H. Broadhurst.\n\nThe Army tasks were defined as follows:\n\n(a) _Eighth Army._\n\n(i) The assault between Syracuse and Pozzallo, supported by such parachute troops as could be lifted in one third of the available transport aircraft.\n\n(ii) Capture of the port of Syracuse and the airfield at Pachino.\n\n(iii) Establish itself on the general line Syracuse \u2013 Pozzallo \u2013 Ragusa and gain touch with Seventh Army.\n\n(iv) The rapid capture of the ports of Augusta and Catania and the Gerbini group of airfields.\n\n(b) _Seventh Army._\n\n(i) The assault between Cape Scaramia and Licata, supported by such parachute troops as could be lifted in two thirds of the available transport aircraft.\n\n(ii) Capture of the port of Licata and the airfields of Ponte Olivo, Biscari and Comiso.\n\n(iii) Establish itself so as to gain contact with Eighth Army at Ragusa and protect the airfields and port in (ii) above.\n\n(iv) Subsequently to prevent enemy reserves moving eastwards against the left flank of Eighth Army.\n\nFuture tasks for the Armies were only sketched out at this stage but I indicated that my intention for the first phase was to establish the group of Armies across the southeastern corner of the island on a line from Catania to Licata with a view to final operations for the reduction of the island. It was not practicable to plan further ahead for the present but I was clear in my own mind how I wanted to develop operations after the firm base had been established. The next thing to do was to split the island in half, and the first stage would be to seize and hold the irregular rectangle of roads in the centre round Caltanissetta and Enna. This would by itself seriously hamper all enemy east-west communications. From there I should be able to press on to Nicosia, which would leave only the north coast road open to the enemy, and then to the coast near San Stefano. I could probably only maintain a small force at San Stefano but if it could hold firm the interruption of communications would be complete.\n\nOn 21st May my headquarters issued Operation Instruction No 2 which gave fuller details of the forces to be used and the conduct of operations in the first two phases, the Preparatory Measures and the Assault. Eighth Army were allotted two Corps Headquarters, six infantry divisions, one infantry brigade and one airborne division.10 Seventh Army had one Corps Headquarters, four infantry divisions, one armoured division and one airborne division. 11 One infantry division in each Army was designated as reserve, not to be used without reference to me, and a further infantry division of those allotted to Eighth Army was designated as a reinforcing division, only to be moved from North Africa if need should arise. In the event it was not needed and became available, therefore, for the landings at Salerno.\n\nEighth Army's plan called for a simultaneous assault by both Corps. On the right 13 Corps was to land on a three brigade front, with 5 Division right and the 50th left, over the beaches from Cape Murro di Porco, south of Syracuse, to just south of Noto. Commandos were to land on Cape Murro di Porco to capture the coast defence guns there and a brigade of 1 Airborne Division was to be landed in gliders to capture the bridge over the River Anapo south of Syracuse, and also, by a landing in the western suburbs, to assist in the capture of the town. 5 Division, when ashore, was to move north and capture Syracuse and Augusta while 50 Division secured Avola and protected the left flank. Subsequently the Corps was to move north and capture Catania, being relieved in its original area by 30 Corps. 30 Corps was to assault on the left of 13 Corps with 231 Infantry Brigade on the right at Marzamemi, on the east of the peninsula of Cape Passero, 51 Division, four battalions up, astride the tip of the peninsula and 1 Canadian Division, two brigades up, on the west side. A Special Service Brigade of two Royal Marine Commandos was to land on the Canadians left. The first task of the Corps was to seize the airfield at Pachino, which had been ploughed up by the enemy, and restore its serviceability at the earliest possible moment. It was then to seize the line of the road from Noto to Ispica (also known as Spaccaforno) and thereafter relieve 50 Division of 13 Corps at Avola. In the second phase the Corps' objective was the high ground in the area Palazzolo \u2013 Ragusa, and at the latter place the Canadians were to make contact with the Americans.\n\nSeventh Army's assaults were divided between two forces, II Corps on the right and 3 Infantry Division, reinforced, on the left. II Corps consisted of 45 Infantry Division on the right and 1 Infantry Division, less one Regimental Combat Team, on the left together with Rangers and a tank battalion. The Corps task was to land in the Gulf of Gela, from Cape Scaramia to Gela town, and capture the airfields at Ponte Olivo, Comiso and Biscari, subsequently to make contact with Eighth Army in the area of Ragusa. Parachutists of 505 Regimental Combat Team were to be dropped on the night of D minus I\/D-day about four miles inland and six miles east of Gela to capture the high ground and road junctions covering 1 Division's beaches. On the left of the Army front 3 Infantry Division, with a Combat Command of 2 Armoured Division, was to land in the area of Licata and capture the port and airfield. To support either of these assaulting forces a floating reserve sailed with the Army, consisting of the remainder of 2 Armoured Division and one Regimental Combat Team of 1 Infantry Division. In reserve in North Africa was the remainder of 82 Airborne Division, less those elements which had already been dropped before the landings, and 9 Infantry Division. The frontage of attack of the two Armies covered about a hundred miles, from Cape Murro di Porco to Licata.\n\nThe problem of assembling these forces for a simultaneous assault was perhaps the most complicated that ever faced a planning staff, for they were mounted from all over the southern and eastern shores of the Mediterranean and in part from the United Kingdom and United States. Of the British forces 5 and 50 Divisions and 231 Infantry Brigade came from Suez in ships; 51 Division came from Tunisia in craft and part of it staged at Malta _en route;_ 1 Canadian Division sailed from the United Kingdom in two ship convoys. 78 Division, earmarked for reserve, was waiting in the Sousse \u2013 Sfax area to be ferried across in craft. Seventh Army used the ports west of Tunis, 1 Division came from the Algiers area, partly in ships and partly in craft; 3 Division from Bizerta and 2 Armoured and 9 Divisions from Oran, again partly in ships and partly in craft; 45 Division came from the United States, staging in the Oran area. Both the airborne divisions, 1 British and 82 United States, were based on Kairouan in Tunisia. From the command point of view also there was extreme dispersion. My Headquarters was originally near Algiers and later at La Marsa, near Carthage, with a small Tactical Headquarters on Malta. Seventh Army Headquarters was near Oran for the planning stage, subsequently moving to Bizerta, Eighth Army Headquarters was originally in Cairo and moved to Malta for the assault; Admiral Cunningham established his Headquarters also in Malta, and Mediterranean Air Command Headquarters and the Headquarters of the Tactical and Strategic Air Forces were all grouped around Carthage, adjacent to my main Headquarters.\n\nTraining was carried out at a number of different stations; it was not as thorough as I should have liked, but the pressing considerations of time and shortage of craft imposed serious limitations. The British forces mounted from Middle East carried out \"dryshod\"12 training in the desert and had some very incomplete landing rehearsals in the Gulf of Aqaba. The Canadian Division had been well trained in the United Kingdom but its attempted exercise on the Ayrshire coast had to be cancelled as soon as it had begun owing to bad weather. 51 Division, which had no previous training or experience in combined operations, was put through a short course at Djidjelli, much hampered by shortage of craft. The American 3 Division trained at Bizerta and La Goulette and 1 Infantry and 2 Armoured Divisions at the old established training area of Arzew, near Algiers. 45 Division had been trained in Chesapeake Bay before embarking, and had a short rehearsal at Arzew after their arrival in North African waters.\n\nThe tasks of the Naval forces (British and United States) fell under four main heads: the cover of the whole operation against interference by enemy naval forces, the close support of the convoys to their destination and the delivery of the troops to the beaches, close support of the landings by gunfire, and the maintenance by sea of the forces landed, including the protection of shipping off the beaches. The Naval Covering Force, consisting of four battleships, two aircraft carriers, four cruisers and some eighteen destroyers, was concentrated in the Ionian Sea by 9th July. In this position it was well placed to meet any threat from the Italian Taranto fleet, or from the Spezia fleet if it should attempt to reinforce through the Straits of Messina. An additional force of two battleships, two cruisers and six destroyers, based at Algiers, provided cover for convoys on the North African coast and constituted a reserve for the reinforcement or relief of the covering force if required. A light covering force of cruisers and destroyers was despatched on 9th July to protect the northern flank of Eighth Army. The main bases of this covering force were Mers-el-Kebir, Alexandria and Malta, with fuelling and ammunitioning facilities at Tobruk and at Benghazi.\n\nFor the air forces of Mediterranean Air Command the battle for Sicily could be said to have begun with the last minute of the battle for Tunisia, or even, to some extent, still earlier, and D-day represented merely a peak of intensity. They were faced first by an administrative problem. After the enemy surrender in Tunisia many air force units required rest and refitting and an extensive programme of airfield construction in northern Tunisia was put in hand. Although, therefore, preparatory bombing of enemy installations began at once it was not intended to apply more than steady pressure until about one week before the assault. During the preparatory phase targets were mainly strategic but a steady programme of interference with the enemy ground and air build-up in Sicily was carried out. A particularly heavy scale of attack was directed against the Messina rail ferry. By 1st June only one of the original five ferry boats was still in operation and the harbour facilities at both ends were very heavily damaged. The traffic was continued by lighters and small craft. From about D minus 7 the air forces went over to a concentrated and powerful attack on the enemy air force; enemy airfields in the island were attacked both by bomber aircraft and, where within range, by fighter sweeps. Radar installations, which would give warning of the approaching invasion fleets, were also successfully attacked. We were thus able to ensure air superiority over the landing beaches and very shortly, when the captured airfields in the south-east came into use, over the whole island. The total aircraft, including transports but excluding gliders, employed in the operation came to over four thousand, divided into one hundred and ten British and one hundred and thirty-two American squadrons.\n\n#### Enemy Strength and Dispositions.\n\nIt is now time to consider \"the other side of the hill\" and review briefly the strength which the enemy could bring to meet our attack. Since January the Axis had been reinforcing Sicily, but not on the scale which we had allowed for; it had produced the two German divisions we had expected but only one extra Italian division instead of three. My Intelligence Staff was able to follow with some success the enemy preparations for invasion. The Italian Order of Battle was fairly easily established but the German only became clear towards the end of June, a fact which reflects the tardiness with which the Germans reinforced the island. It will be realised that the task of establishing the enemy Order of Battle in Sicily was surrounded with many difficulties; normal means were not available as we were not in contact with the enemy and so good was the police and counter-espionage system in Sicily that we were unable to obtain any information direct from the island. It is gratifying to record that, in spite of these difficulties, one captured Italian general considered our Order of Battle to be superior to the official document in his possession.13 I will not, however, detail the steps by which the enemy picture was built up, but give the situation as it was on the day of the invasion.\n\nCommand in Sicily was exercised by the Sixth Army (Italian), with headquarters near Enna. The Army Commander was General Guzzoni, a sixty-six year old officer who had recently been recalled from the retired list on which he was placed in 1940; he was assisted by a German liaison officer, General von Senger und Etterlin, later a Corps commander in Italy. The west of the island was commanded by XII Corps, headquarters Corleone, with 28 (Aosta) Division covering the Marsala \u2013 Trapani area with headquarters near Salemi and 26 (Assietta) Division covering the southwest with headquarters north of Santa Margherita.\n\nThe eastern and central portion of the island was the responsibility of XVI Corps, headquarters Piazza Armerina; its two field divisions were 4 (Livorno) at Caltanissetta, a nodal point of road communications in the centre of the island, and 54 (Napoli) north of Palazzolo, inland from Syracuse. The coastal defences were assigned to five \"Coastal Divisions\" and an autonomous coastal regiment; these forces played, in the event, little part in the defence of the island and need not be further considered. It will be seen that the Italians showed a tendency to concentrate greater strength in the western part of the island, the nearest to Tunisia, and had only one division in the south-eastern corner.\n\nThe original German forces in the island consisted mainly of drafts in transit to Tunisia. When resistance collapsed in Africa they were organised into a provisional division known first as \"Division Sicily\" but later as 15 Panzer Division,14 in memory of one of the formations destroyed in Africa. Its commander was General Baade who had commanded a regiment of the original 15 Panzer Division in Africa and was later famous in Italy as the commander of 90 Panzer Grenadier Division. It was divided into three battle groups of all arms and these were dispersed to provide extra stiffening for the Italians at points considered vital: one battle group was in the extreme west between Marsala and Mazzara, a second in the centre of the island with divisional headquarters, and the third in the Catania area. There was a detachment from the central battle group covering the airfields at Biscari and Comiso. This central group, and divisional headquarters, moved west immediately before D-day in accordance with the enemy appreciation that that part of the island was our most likely target. The second German division was the Hermann Goering Panzer Division. Part of this formation had fought in Africa and been destroyed there, but the remainder, after reforming in Italy near Naples, began to arrive in the island late in June. It was divided into two battle groups: one was in the Catania area, where it took under command the regimental group from 15 Panzer Division which was already there, and the second was established in the area of Caltagirone, from where it was able to operate against Gela or the Comiso airfields. This battle group had relieved the group from 15 Panzer Division which was moving to the west as already stated.\n\nBesides their forces in Sicily the Germans were moving troops into other parts of the Italian homeland. By the beginning of July there were about five German divisions in southern Italy, one in Sardinia and a regimental group in Corsica. These were therefore available for the reinforcement of Sicily, though the event was to show that the Germans were prepared to reinforce the island from as far away as France.\n\nTo sum up, the enemy forces opposing me in Sicily amounted in round figures to about three hundred and fifteen thousand Italians and fifty thousand Germans, the latter total rising to ninety thousand when the reinforcing divisions which arrived after the attack began are included.15\n\n#### Capture of Pantelleria.\n\nBefore the attack began General Eisenhower decided to assault and capture the island of Pantelleria and subsequently the minor islands of the Pelagian group. The original plan for Sicily had proposed that Pantelleria should be merely silenced by heavy bombardment, for any losses in amphibious equipment which might be incurred in an attempt to capture the island would directly reduce the resources available for the main operation; it was obviously more economical, however, to capture the airfield on the island for our own use rather than merely deny it to the enemy. A further advantage lay in denying to the enemy the use of the RDF16 stations there. The operation, which was preceded by a very heavy Air and Naval bombardment, was carried out under direct command of General Eisenhower, using 1 (British) Infantry Division. It was entirely successful at negligible loss, and the use of the airfield was very valuable for the Sicilian campaign.\n\n#### Invasion and Conquest of Sicily.\n\nThe period of planning for the invasion of Sicily was unusually prolonged and it was possible to devote a more intensive study to the subject than is generally the case. I have omitted, in the account given above, a good many of the stages in that planning but it is essential to give sufficient detail to make quite clear the nature of the problem with which we were faced and the solution which was eventually adopted. This has also made it possible to present the narrative of operations in a much briefer form since on the whole in this case the conventional phrase is justified and operations proceeded according to plan. I should like to take the opportunity now, before passing on to the narrative of events, of giving their due credit to the men who made success possible.\n\nGeneral Dwight D. Eisenhower, Commander-in-Chief, Allied Expeditionary Force, was the man on whom fell the ultimate responsibility of taking the great decisions. He commanded directly all sea, land and air forces in the theatre. He and his staff could not have been more helpful to me throughout; I knew that when he had given his confidence he would support me through everything and I had already had the happiest experience in Tunisia of what that support could be. His great merits as a commander have been too well illustrated in all the campaigns in Europe to need further tribute from me but I would like to single out one aspect in which I think he excelled: the gift for managing a coalition of different allies in arms. In almost all the wars in which Great Britain has been involved we have fought as a member of a coalition and a British commander has, therefore, what I may call a deep historic sense of the difficulties of combining the efforts of an allied force; he can remember the controversies of Marlborough with the Dutch Field Deputies and Wellington going down on his knees to humour the fractiousness of a Spanish General. Throughout all the operations which I commanded in the Mediterranean the British and American forces fought not merely as two armies with the same general objective and the same war aims but as a single homogeneous army and, without for a moment derogating from the spirit of loyal co-operation of all commanders and men, there is no doubt that the inspiration which gave life and vigour to that co-operation derived originally from General Eisenhower.\n\nThe Commanders-in-Chief of the naval and air forces in the theatre came, in the chain of command, directly under General Eisenhower and occupied therefore a position co-ordinate with my own. It is for this reason that I have dealt only summarily in this despatch with their operations but I must at this point try to make clear the debt which land operations owed to the sister services. On Admiral Cunningham fell the weight of what was in some ways the most arduous, detailed and vital part of the operation, the actual conveyance of the troops to their objectives. I do not mean merely to point out the obvious: that to invade an island it is necessary to cross the sea; but to evoke to the imagination some picture of the gigantic nature of the task of convoying for such distances, assembling and directing to obscure and unlit beaches in an enemy territory an Armada of over two thousand ships and craft. I must mention only in passing the assistance of naval gunfire on the beaches and the silent strength of the covering forces waiting, and hoping, for the appearance in defence of its native soil of that fleet which once claimed to dominate the Mediterranean. It is a theme which can be adequately described only by a naval specialist, and one of which the Royal Navy and the United States Navy are justly proud. Air Chief Marshal Tedder, Commander-in-Chief of the allied air forces in the Mediterranean, was an old colleague from the Middle East. His mastery of air strategy was demonstrated in Africa, Sicily and Italy and his mastery of the art of war as a whole was shown by his subsequent appointment as Deputy Supreme Commander, of all three arms, to General Eisenhower for operations in France and Germany. I have referred elsewhere to the work of the allied air forces. To sum it up it is only necessary to say they gave us command of the air and to demonstrate it to point to the protection our troops enjoyed in the first critical days when the fighters swarmed over the great, vulnerable convoys and the fighter-bombers hunted up and down the roads of Sicily seeking and destroying enemy reinforcements moving up to the beaches. The Commander of the Tactical Air Forces, Air Marshal Coningham, was another old colleague from the Middle East. His headquarters moved always with mine and our contact was so close that the word co-operation is too weak; we were two parts of the same machine and worked as one.\n\nOf the Armies under my command I had already had successful experience. General Patton, commanding Seventh Army, had already served under me in Tunisia and I had complete confidence in him. He had there taken command of a body of troops, the excellent material of which had been prevented hitherto from showing its full capabilities by a certain lack of experience and by difficulties of terrain and climate, and had transformed it by his inspiration into a fast-moving and hard-hitting force crowned with victory. Seventh Army was certainly fast-moving and hard-hitting and it undoubtedly owed these qualities to the leadership of its commander. General Montgomery was also a commander in whom I had every trust and confidence. He and his Eighth Army had served under my command since August, 1942. Fresh from a campaign where they had advanced eighteen hundred miles in six months to share in the capture of a quarter of a million prisoners, they showed in Sicily that they could apply the lessons learnt then to a very different type of terrain and style of fighting. I was glad to welcome, in addition to the veteran formations of the Desert, the splendid 1 Canadian Division, trained to a hair in the United Kingdom and eager and confident for battle. I also welcomed 78 Division, the most experienced of First Army's. As will appear, Eighth Army had to face the heaviest opposition from the Germans and had some of the hardest fighting of the campaign in their struggle for the plain of Catania. The stubbornness of the German defence was more than equalled by their stubbornness, and their skill and endurance in the heat of a Sicilian summer brought them the success they thoroughly deserved.\n\nI must add here my thanks to my own staff. Most of the senior British officers had come with me from Middle East when I set up the headquarters of Eighteenth Army Group in Tunisia; of the Americans some had also served on that staff, some came from Allied Force Headquarters and elsewhere. They made a fine team, headed by my Chief of Staff, General Richardson and his American Deputy, General Lemnitzer.17\n\nIn the circumstances, therefore, it was natural for me to feel that everything that could possibly be done to make the operation a success had been done. We had a team of commanders and men who since the previous autumn had known nothing but success. I had no illusions that the task would be easy but I had confidence that we were bringing to this task the best that Great Britain and the United States could provide.\n\nOn the afternoon of 9th July the various convoys from both ends of the Mediterranean began to arrive in their assembly areas east and south of Malta and from there, when assembled, to move north to their landing areas. That afternoon the wind began to rise and the sea became suddenly choppy with the characteristic short, steep swell of the Central Mediterranean. It was a bad omen for the assault at dawn, but I was assured that these sudden storms were liable to drop as suddenly as they arose, and it would certainly be too dangerous to attempt a postponement at this stage. We had quite clearly, contrary to all reasonable expectations, achieved strategic surprise and evidence appeared to show that the Germans were, as we had hoped, thinning out in the assault area to reinforce western Sicily. After dusk that night I went down to Cape Delimara, the south-eastern point of Malta, to watch the gliders fly past for the landing in support of Eighth Army. As the tandem-wise pairs of tow and glider came flying low, now in twos and threes, now in larger groups, with the roar of their engines partly carried away by the gale and their veiled navigation lights showing fitfully in the half light of the moon, I took note that the first invasion of European soil was under way. On my right the quiet expanse of Marsa Scirocco waited for the Italian fleet which, two months hence, was to anchor there in humble surrender.\n\nShortly after midnight the wind began to fall off and the swell to subside. These conditions had favoured us in one respect, for at many places along the coast the hostile garrisons, which had been on the alert for weeks, were lulled into a sense of security by the bad weather and, believing that no one would attempt a landing under such conditions, relaxed their vigil.18 Resistance was slight on the beaches on both Army fronts and by first light it could be said that all landings had been successful at the cost of very small casualties. The airborne attack had been less fortunate. The wind was still blowing at some forty miles per hour when the parachutists were dropped and the gliders slipped, and many of the pilots of the transport and tow aircraft, who had had no previous experience in actual operations, ran into difficulties with their navigation or were disconcerted by enemy anti-aircraft fire. The result was that the American airborne troops were scattered in small parties over an area of some fifty miles from Licata to Noto; in Eighth Army's area nearly fifty of the hundred and thirty-four gliders of 1 Airlanding Brigade which took off from Tunisia came down in the sea, about seventy-five came safely to land somewhere in south-eastern Sicily and only twelve landed in the correct dropping zone. The force which actually reached the bridge south of Syracuse, the Brigade's main objective, only numbered eight officers and sixty-five men, but they held the bridge until 1530 hours on D-day, when nineteen survivors were relieved at the last minute by 5 Division troops. However, in spite of this miscarriage, the effect on the nerves of the none too steady Italian troops of the descent of these airborne forces all over south-eastern Sicily was of the utmost value to the assault. Small isolated units of parachutists seized vital points, attacked roads and created widespread panic which undoubtedly disorganised all plans for defence.\n\nOwing to the swell raised by the gale of the previous day some of the landings, especially on the more exposed Seventh Army beaches, suffered a slight delay; but the weakness of the defence soon allowed us to make up any time which had been lost. On the right 13 Corps made good its initial bridgehead, seized the high ground overlooking the coast road and, advancing over the bridge captured by I Airborne Division, entered Syracuse at 2100 hours on the evening of D-day. This was a particularly fine feat of arms. It involved a landing on a defended coast followed immediately by a march to a flank without waiting to consolidate the beachhead and, owing to the partial failure of the airborne operation, it had to be carried out in less strength and without the tactical advantages which had been planned. 30 Corps had captured all its beaches by 0545 hours, Pachino landing ground by 1000 hours and the town of Pachino by 1330 hours. During the first day Eighth Army made no contact with any of the Italian mobile divisions or with any German troops; the men of the coastal divisions who were met made little difficulty in surrendering after slight resistance. Seventh Army had met equally poor opposition and easily seized all its D-day objectives Licata, Gela, Scoglitti and Marina di Ragusa were all in our hands and in the afternoon the floating reserve was ordered to disembark in the Gela area. This was the centre of the Army's front which now consisted of three separate bridgeheads: 3 Division at Licata, 1 Infantry and 2 Armoured at Gela and 45 Division on the right at the south-eastern end of the Gulf of Gela. The Gela bridgehead, now strengthened by the addition of the reserve, was the smallest, and enemy tanks had already been seen approaching from the north-east, a presage of what was to come on the morrow.\n\nNext day, the 11th, Eighth Army continued to press on up the east coast in the direction of Catania. 30 Corps on the left extended its bridgehead to Pozzallo and Ispica, but the main weight of interest lay with 13 Corps which pushed on a marching column to Priolo, halfway to Augusta. The heat was intense and few vehicles were as yet ashore; contact was first made that day with the Italian 54 Division, outside Syracuse. On the American front, in the meantime, a more serious battle was developing. The battle group of the Hermann Goering Division which was disposed to cover the centre of the island and the Ponte Olivo airfields made a strong and deliberate counter-attack on 1 Infantry Division at Gela. From 0800 hours to 1630 hours these attacks continued, supported by a battalion of tanks, and at one stage penetrated to the beach, but they were repulsed in hard fighting in which the direct fire of naval escort ships played a considerable part. By the end of the day landing strips were made available for our aircraft at Gela and Licata; in Eighth Army's sector we had Pachino, and the bridgehead was assuming very solid proportions.\n\nThe German Command put in the eastern group of Hermann Goering Division to defend Augusta but the impetus of our assault was such that, after being held up at Priolo all day of the 12th, 5 Division was able to capture the town next morning before dawn. Seventh Army had counter-attacked the Germans opposing them and by the 13th were firmly in possession of the three vital airfield areas of Comiso, Biscari and Ponte Olivo. Both Armies were pushing ahead impetuously and it seemed as though nothing could stop them. Ahead of the troops, the Tactical Air Force bombed intensively the lines of communication in the centre of the island to hold up the movements of enemy forces across Sicily. On my right General Montgomery was developing two thrusts, one with 13 Corps due north on to Catania, which he hoped to capture on the 16th, and one on the left with the Canadians whom he was hoping to send in a wide outflanking movement through Caltagirone and Enna to come in behind the enemy north of Mount Etna. This meant that Seventh Army would be free to pivot on its left and strengthen its grasp on the central portion of the island, preparatory to carrying out the task for which I had designated it. 30 Corps would be advancing straight across the front of Seventh Army's right wing where 45 Division, although fresh from the United States with no previous battle experience, had been making striking progress.\n\nI issued orders for the new plan on 13th July. The new boundary between the two Armies gave to Eighth Army the road Vizzini \u2013 Caltagirone \u2013 Piazza Armerina \u2013 Enna; it then ran due north to the north coast west of San Stefano, which was 30 Corps' ultimate objective. Eighth Army's attack on the right began on the night of the 13th, when I Parachute Brigade was dropped to capture the Primosole bridge over the River Simeto at the southern edge of the Catania plain. 5 Division, followed by 50 Division, were to attack northwards to make contact with the parachutists, establish a bridgehead over the river and advance on Catania. The parachutist operation was successful, though only about half reached the right area, and about two hundred men with five anti-tank guns seized the bridge, removed the demolition charges and prepared to defend the position until relieved. All day on the 14th they withstood enemy counter-attacks and only withdrew after dark to a ridge to the southward from which they could still cover the bridge. Early on the 15th contact was made with the main body which had been delayed by strong German counter-attacks, in one of which Augusta had been temporarily lost. The vital bridge was intact and on the 15th we succeeded in getting some troops across, though it was not until the 17th that we could consolidate our shallow bridgehead north of the river. This stubborn and partly successful defence was due to the arrival of German reinforcements. A regiment of parachutists from 7 Air Division19 was taken from Tarascon, in Southern France, and brought by air via Naples to the area south of Catania. It was these excellent troops who were mainly responsible for the defence of the line of the Simeto.\n\nOn the right, therefore, we had been only partially successful; the capture of the bridgehead over the Simeto was a considerable advantage, but we had been halted south of Catania. In the centre, the sector of 30 Corps, we had made steady progress, but the nature of the country and the exiguous road-net meant that that progress had been slow. Vizzini was captured on the 14th, after strong resistance, by 51 Division assisted by 45 (United States). The Canadians then went into the lead capturing Grammichele and Caltagirone on the 15th and Piazza Armerina on the 16th.20 Their next objective was Enna, the centre of the island and meeting point of a network of main roads against which the bomber effort of the air forces had been focussed during the first five days of the invasion. Seventh Army was now reorganising in order to meet the needs of its changed directive. On 15th July General Patton created a Provisional Corps Headquarters to command the left flank of the Army, consisting of 3 Infantry Division, with under command 4 Tabor of Goums,21 old friends from Tunisian days, and 82 Airborne Division. II Corps continued to command the right flank with 1 and 45 Divisions, while 2 Armoured Division was under Army command. II Corps had made good progress northwards and 45 Division on its right had cooperated with 30 Corps in the capture of Vizzini and Caltagirone; on the 16th, however, the Division reached the new inter-Army boundary and started to transfer to the left wing of the Corps, behind 1 Division. 3 Division in the Provisional Corps made ground westwards along the coast and inland beyond Canicatti, which it had captured on the 12th. The Germans were now withdrawing across the front of Seventh Army from west to east. They had already decided that the most they could hope to hold was the north-eastern portion of the island and on the 16th 15 Panzer Division was reconnoitring the northern slopes of Etna. XIV Panzer Corps was arriving to take command in the island and its intentions clearly were to rely no further on the Italians but to secure a defensible position with its own German troops which would cover Messina, to ensure an eventual evacuation, and deny us as long as possible the airfields in the Catania plain.\n\nOn 16th July 1 issued a second directive to both Armies. In it I laid down three axes of advance for Eighth Army: northwards through Catania; from Leonforte to Adrano to sever communications this side of Etna; and via Nicosia \u2013 Troina \u2013 Randazzo to sweep round the northern slopes of Etna. I was already concerned with the problem of the Messina peninsula.\n\nIt is a long, mountainous, isosceles triangle with the great mass of Etna almost filling its base. The southern slopes of the mountain dominate the plain below and give perfect observation of any attack we could mount on the Gerbini airfields or the port of Catania. Our attack to drive the Germans from the island must therefore be canalized either side of Etna, in difficult country with few and bad roads. I hoped that Eighth Army would be able to mount a rapid attack on this formidable position before the Germans could assume a good position of defence. Seventh Army was ordered to protect the rear of this attack by seizing the central rectangle of roads around Enna and cutting the east-west road at Petralia. If it were found possible without involving heavy casualties General Patton was to capture Agrigento and Porto Empedocle, which would be useful for maintenance.\n\nIn accordance with this directive General Montgomery attacked northwards from his Simeto bridgehead on the night 17th\/18th July. Two brigades of 50 Division made the attack but met very heavy resistance and gained little ground. The Air Force, at this period, was concentrating almost entirely on action to break the enemy's resistance at Catania. To this end, a continuous bombardment was maintained against all rail, road and air communications by which supplies might reach that area. The enemy had now concentrated the whole of the Hermann Goering Division in this area and added to it six battalions of 1 Parachute Division and two \"Fortress\" battalions rushed across from Calabria. The ground on this front was open but intersected with water courses which made difficult the employment of our armour. On the 19th General Montgomery informed me that he had decided not to persist with his thrust on the right, but to increase the pressure on his left. His first plan was to attack towards Misterbianco with 5 Division on the left of 13 Corps but this attack also met the same heavy resistance and could only draw level with 50 Division's bridgehead. 30 Corps now began to apply pressure. On the 20th 51 Division crossed the Dittaino River at Sferro and advanced on the Gerbini airfields but was driven back to the bridgehead by a counter-attack on the 21st. On 30 Corps' left the Canadian division, with 231 Brigade on its right, was still making the wide sweep as originally planned but it was now clear that Eighth Army would not have the strength to encircle Etna on both sides against the stout resistance of the Germans. The Canadians were therefore ordered to advance to Leonforte and then turn east to Adrano, the centre of the three original thrusts, abandoning the proposed encirclement through Randazzo. The Germans were continuing to reinforce, for we identified part of 29 PanzerGrenadier Division opposing 30 Corps on the 20th. On that day General Montgomery ordered forward his reserve division, the 78th, from North Africa.\n\nSeventh Army continued to make good progress following my directive of the 16th. The Provisional Corps took Porto Empedocle the same day and Agrigento the next, and II Corps captured Caltanissetta on the 18th. 15 Panzer Division had by now succeeded in making a rather scrambling retreat across Seventh Army's front, and were coming into line with the Hermann Goering Division to oppose 30 Corps' advance. There were therefore no German troops west or north-west of Seventh Army and there was no reason to anticipate effective resistance from the Italians on this front. Now that Eighth Army were stopped south of Catania I should need Seventh Army as the left arm of my enveloping movement round Etna. I therefore issued another directive to Seventh Army on 18th July. In this I ordered General Patton to push north after the capture of Petralia, which was provided for in my previous directive to him, and cut the north coast road. As soon as he had secured a line across the island from Campofelice on the north coast to Agrigento on the south he was to advance and mop up the whole western part of the island.\n\nThe rapid and wide-sweeping manoeuvres envisaged in this directive were very welcome to General Patton and he immediately set on foot the measures necessary to carry them out with that dash and drive which were characteristic of his conduct of operations. II Corps was given the task of securing the base in the centre of the island and cutting the north coast road, and the Provisional Corps, to which on 20th July he assigned 2 Armoured Division, was given that of the reduction of western Sicily. On the 20th the former entered Enna with the Canadians and the latter captured Sciacca, which had once been deemed an objective worthy of a separate amphibious landing. Progress was so good that I decided to push rapidly ahead with Seventh Army. On the 20th I directed General Patton to turn eastwards on reaching the north coast and develop a threat along the coast road and the road Petralia \u2013 Nicosia \u2013 Cesaro. This meant an alteration in the inter-Army boundary which entrusted the Americans with the operation north of Etna. In order to sustain this threat General Patton was ordered to capture at the earliest possible opportunity the port of Palermo and bring it into use as his main base of supply. American maintenance would then be switched from the south coast beaches and the ports of Licata and Empedocle to an axis running along the north coast from west to east.\n\nThe new directive was put into force with great rapidity and energy. The Provisional Corps entered Palermo on the evening of the 22nd and 45 Division of II Corps cut the north coast road east of Termini Imerese on the next day. These rapid advances had involved little serious fighting but considerable feats of endurance, for a large proportion of the troops had to march long distances in the sweltering damp heat of a Sicilian summer, far more trying than anything we had experienced in Libya or Tunisia. Seventh Army during this period took thirty-six thousand prisoners, nineteen thousand of them between the 16th and the 22nd.\n\nThe last week of July was characterised by a comparative lull on the Eighth Army front and the transference of the American effort to the axis of the north coast road and the road running parallel to it to the south. General Montgomery wished to rest his troops and await the arrival of 78 Division before resuming the offensive. I fixed on 1st August as the date at which both Armies should be ready to recommence active operations and I expected that after that date the process of clearing the island would be fairly rapid. The Germans had now four divisions in Sicily, Hermann Goering, 15 Panzer, 29 Panzer Grenadier and 1 Parachute, but they were not all complete and the first two had already suffered heavy casualties. General Hube, a man in whom Hitler was reported to have great confidence, had arrived to command them from the XIV Panzer Corps Headquarters. I moved my own headquarters over to Sicily and opened in a dusty but well-concealed site in an almond grove near Cassibile on 28th July.\n\nActivity on Eighth Army front during this period was confined to the left flank where the Canadians and 231 Brigade continued to make ground. Nissoria fell on the 24th and Agira on the 28th. 78 Division had now arrived and it was General Montgomery's intention to use it in an attack down the axis Catenanuova \u2013 Adrano. The capture of Adrano would mean that the great mass of Etna was interposed between the two halves of the German force and the enemy's lateral communications would be pushed back to the far side of the mountain. On the night of the 29th 78 Division, with 3 Canadian Brigade under command, attacked and captured Catenanuova. There was further fighting before the bridgehead over the Dittaino was firm and on the night of 1st August the division proceeded to the attack on Centuripe. This hill city on an isolated pinnacle of rock was the main outpost of the Adrano position and was defended with fanatical vigour by troops of the Hermann Goering Division reinforced by 3 Parachute Regiment, perhaps the best German troops in Sicily. Fighting continued in the steep, cobbled streets of the town all the next day and it was not cleared until the morning of the 3rd. The storming of Centuripe was a particularly fine feat and its effects were widespread, for from that time the front once more became fluid. In face of the threat to Adrano the enemy position covering Catania became untenable.\n\nSeventh Army in the meantime was pushing eastwards along the north coast. This was in accordance with my directive of 23rd July which called for the maximum pressure in this area. General Patton calculated that he could operate one division on each of the two roads and in order to keep up the pressure proposed to relieve the leading formations regularly. He therefore sent for 9 Division, his reserve in North Africa, which was to sail direct to Palermo.22 45 Division began the advance along the coast road and 1 Division on the southern road; on 25th July the former captured Cefalu and the latter Gangi. On the28th 1 Division took Nicosia and by 2nd August had advanced to near Troina. On the north coast 45 Division captured San Stefano on 31st July, where it was relieved on 2nd August by 3 Division. 9 Division was now in position behind the 1st on the southern road and the 45th behind the 3rd on the coast road and Seventh Army was in a position to keep up pressure continuously until they reached Messina.23 Meanwhile, far to the rear, the whole of western Sicily had been cleared.\n\nOperations were continuous and continuously successful from 3rd August onwards until the final reduction of the island. On that day Centuripe fell, 13 Corps began to advance on Catania and Seventh Army began the bloody attack on Troina. 5 Division, supported by the 50th on its right, began to attack on the night 3rd\/4th August and by the 5th Catania, Misterbianco, and Paterno were in our hands. Adrano still resisted but it fell to 78 Division on the night of the 6th, together with Biancavilla in 51 Division's sector. All this time some of the fiercest and costliest fighting of the campaign was raging in and around Troina. 15 Panzer Division offered a desperate resistance lasting four days, though by the end of that period their position was becoming rather precarious, and 29 Panzer Grenadier Division offered an almost equally stubborn resistance on the coastal sector at Santa Agata and San Fratello. Troina was finally cleared on 6th August. General Patton now mounted a small amphibious operation on the north coast behind the enemy lines which was brilliantly successful and led to the capture on the 8th of Santa Agata which had been holding out against us for six days. On the southern road 9 Division passed through the 1st and captured Cesaro on the 8th. The next vital point north of Etna was Randazzo, the capture of which would leave the enemy with only one more lateral road across the peninsula. Both 9 and 78 Divisions were now converging on this point, though the latter had had some hard fighting for Bronte, which it captured on 8th August. Randazzo eventually fell on the 13th and 78 Division passed into reserve. On the coast road a further German line of resistance at Capo d'Orlando was turned by another seaborne hook behind it on the night 10th\/11th August. These two small amphibious operations were prepared at very short notice and were most ably executed. They were of the utmost assistance in accelerating the advance on the coastal road which was delayed by extensive demolitions. This road was in part built _en corniche_ and the work of the American engineers in restoring it was worthy of the highest praise.\n\nEast of Etna the country offered many obstacles to a rapid advance. It is a thickly inhabited narrow strip, confined between the mountains and the coast, and the cultivation, especially the walls of the vineyards and olive groves, makes it excellent defensive terrain. 5 and 50 Divisions could make only slow progress, although the enemy had by now decided to evacuate and was seeking only to impose the maximum delay. Thanks to the difficulties of the terrain which I have already mentioned, he was able to extricate a high proportion of his troops, though not, of course, their heavy equipment. The Messina area was very heavily defended; anti-aircraft fire, for instance, was described by our pilots as worse than over the Ruhr. General Montgomery was anxious to bring a Corps into reserve to prepare for the invasion of Italy and on 13th August he pulled out 5 Division and 13 Corps Headquarters to join the Canadian Division in preparation for the new assault. 50 and 51 Divisions continued the pursuit. An attempted landing in rear of the enemy on the night of 15th August, in the style of those carried out on the north coast, was very nearly successful but the enemy were retreating too fast for any to be cut off.\n\nOn the night of 16th August the leading troops of 3 United States Division entered Messina. They were joined next morning by Commandos from 30 Corps. Just before dawn on the 17th, according to the German account, General Hube, the German commander, sailed from a beach north of Messina in the last boat to leave the island. Sicily had been conquered in thirty-eight days.\n\n## APPENDIX.\n\n## HQ FIFTEENTH ARMY GROUP\n\nADMINISTRATIVE REPORT ON THE SICILIAN CAMPAIGN.\n\n_10th July \u2013 17th August, 1943._\n\n### THE PLANNING PHASE.\n\nPlanning for the Sicilian campaign began at Bouzarea, near Algiers, in February, 1943. Brigadier E.P. Nares and Brigadier-General Archelaus L. Hamblen, United States Army, were appointed for Administrative planning with British and American planning staffs representing Q (Maintenance), Q (Movements and Transportation), A Branch and the G-4 and G-1 Branches.24 To the above was added a strong R.A.F. team of planners which worked throughout in the joint scheme.\n\nConsiderations of concentration of force had originally suggested an attack by both Armies on the south-eastern corner of the island but this had been abandoned in the first plan on the administrative grounds that there was no port on the southern shores of sufficient capacity to maintain the forces in that area which could be captured. They would, therefore, have to be maintained indefinitely over the beaches. The lessons of TORCH Operation25 had indicated that it was necessary to capture a suitable port within forty-eight hours. Consequently it was decided to proceed with the plan for the U.S. Seventh Army to assault in the area of Palermo and capture that port and for the British Eighth Army to capture Syracuse together with the airfields of Comiso and Ponte Olivo.\n\nIn May the Allied Commander-in-Chief directed that the administrative aspects of the original plan should be reviewed. After full examination, the administrative risks involved in assaulting in the south-east corner of the island were accepted and a plan of campaign using this area for the assault was evolved.\n\nOn 23rd May the staff of Eighteenth Army Group was dissolved, the Tunisian campaign having been concluded. Major-General C.H. Miller, MGA Eighteenth Army Group, was appointed MGA Force 141 (later known as Fifteenth Army Group) and the Administrative Staff was concentrated at Algiers to complete the planning of the Sicilian campaign. The War Establishment of Fifteenth Army Group initially approved included the Administrative Staffs of all Services and departments, but was not implemented in full, only those officers immediately required for planning being appointed. It was later decided that these Services and departments would not be required until the allied forces had been established on the mainland of Italy and that for the Sicilian campaign HQ Fifteenth Army Group would only fulfil the function of operational command and co-ordination as HQ Eighteenth Army Group had done during the Tunisian campaign.\n\nIn view of the unknown risks involved in maintaining the United States Seventh Army over beaches for an indefinite period, it was decided to set up a detachment of a United States Base Section in Syracuse on D plus 10 together with the British Base Area designated for that port and to include American ships in the D plus 14 convoy for discharge at 1,000 tons per day at the expense of Eighth Army for the maintenance of Seventh Army. The object of this decision was to relieve the maintenance of Seventh Army over the beaches at the earliest date possible. It was further decided that HQ Tripoli Base Area (redesignated FORTBASE on arrival in Sicily) should move to Syracuse as early as possible after the capture of that port to co-ordinate shipping demands and maintenance between Eighth Army, Seventh Army and the Air Forces in accordance with the policy laid down by Fifteenth Army Group. In the event this co-ordination was not required since all the maintenance requirements of Seventh Army were successfully and adequately provided over the beaches and through Licata and Empedocle.\n\nOn 22nd June, the Naval and Army Task Forces together with the supporting Air Forces, both British and United States, taking part in the operation presented their outline plans before the Allied Commander-in-Chief and the three Service Commanders-in-Chief at Algiers.\n\nOn 24th June HQ Fifteenth Army Group moved from Algiers to the British Consulate at La Marsa, and on 4th July General Alexander moved his Tactical Headquarters to the Governor's Palace at Malta leaving Main Headquarters at La Marsa.\n\n### THE MOUNTING.\n\nThe operation was successfully mounted from North African and Middle East ports according to plan.26 The mounting of this operation within two months of the conclusion of the Tunisian campaign was a very remarkable achievement on the part of all administrative staffs and formations responsible under AFHQ and GHQ Middle East, including the Naval and Sea Transport authorities concerned. It also involved very heavy commitments in the supply and maintenance of the large air forces operating in support from airfields in North Africa, Middle East, Malta, Pantelleria and Lampedusa.\n\n### THE OPERATION.\n\nThe assault on Sicily by Seventh and Eighth Armies, supported by the Royal Navy, United States Navy and the North-west African Air Forces, took place according to plan on 10th July 1943, in spite of an exceptionally high wind. There was little or no opposition on the beaches Syracuse was in our hands by D plus 1 and was opened to receive the first convoy on D plus 3 by 86 Base Area (Brigadier H.C.N. Trollope) under command of Eighth Army. Licata was captured by 3 United States Division according to plan.\n\nBeach maintenance was carried out by both Task Forces satisfactorily and the rate of discharge over the beaches was much higher than had been anticipated. From 10th July the weather was favourable and the sea calm; air and sea superiority was established and although there were some losses of craft and shipping due to enemy action, these did not seriously affect maintenance. No serious administrative shortages were encountered, and the DUKWS proved a marked success for transport from ship and landing craft to beach depot area.\n\nBy D plus 14 FORTBASE had taken over the general administration of the beaches and of the ports of Syracuse and Augusta from Eighth Army in accordance with the plan.\n\n#### Seventh Army.\n\nOn the Seventh Army front in the western half of the island, the German forces retired eastwards towards the Messina peninsula, and there was no serious resistance from the Italian forces. The Commander-in-Chief directed that Palermo should be captured and the port opened up as the main base of supply for Seventh Army. This gave Seventh Army the port they needed and switched their main axis of supply for the final attack on the Messina peninsula from beaches and two small ports in the south to Palermo and eastwards along the north coast.\n\nThe main administrative problems confronting the staff of Seventh Army in the course of this operation ashore were:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) To maintain the divisions in the initial advance to Palermo and the western end of the island from beach maintenance areas and from the small ports of Licata and Empedocle in the south.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) To open up Palermo port and to switch the convoys from the southern ports and beaches to the axis of supply along the north coast for the final drive against Messina.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) To get supplies of all natures to the troops over mountainous and narrow roads in poor condition with limited mechanical transport in the face of considerable demolitions that had been carried out on roads and railways by the enemy. In the final advance on Messina it was found necessary to supply the forward American divisions by sea from landing craft since the coast road from Palermo had been cut by demolitions.\n> \n> ( _d_ ) To maintain the Air Forces operating from Comiso and Ponte Olivo.\n\nIn spite of these problems and difficulties the troops never went short, and particular credit is due to the United States Engineer units who carried out repairs to roads and railways with great energy and speed.\n\n#### Eighth Army.\n\nOn the Eighth Army front in the eastern half of the island strong German resistance was encountered on the general line south of Catania and to the west then running northwards round Mount Etna.\n\nMaintenance over the beaches of the Pachino Peninsula and south of Syracuse was successfully achieved. Although some ships were lost owing to enemy air action no serious interference with maintenance resulted. The ports of Syracuse and Augusta were opened according to plan.\n\nIt was the administrative policy of Eighth Army to:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) Form a main base of supply for Eighth Army at Syracuse.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) Utilise Augusta in the initial stages for the maintenance of 13 Corps on the eastern flank.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) Maintain 30 Corps from beach maintenance areas, but to close these down as soon as possible and shift the supply axis of this Corps on to the Syracuse main depot area.\n\nThe railways and such locomotives and rolling stock as were available were used to the maximum possible extent and Corps railheads were opened up as far forward as circumstances permitted. Roads were narrow and twisty but, with good Q (Movements) traffic control, presented no insuperable difficulties in the movement of mechanical transport, and all demands for ammunition and other supplies were adequately met.\n\nAfter the capture of Catania, this port was used for the maintenance of Air Forces located on the Gerbini airfields and subsequently for the mounting of operations against the Toe of Italy. The port of Augusta was closed for maintenance and handed over to the Royal Navy, stocks in beach maintenance areas being cleared into Syracuse depots according to plan.\n\nThe outstanding administrative feature of this operation was the speed with which ports were opened to shipping immediately after capture and the efficient manner in which stores were off-loaded, transported into depots and moved by rail and road to the forward troops.\n\nThis was due to:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) The fact that FORTBASE and most of the Base Areas and Sub-Areas concerned had had considerable previous experience in this type of work during the campaigns in the Western Desert.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) The high standard of co-operation which had been developed with the Royal Navy, the Air Forces and the Anti-Aircraft in opening up ports to shipping and in protecting them against enemy air attack.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) The efficient work of the Q (Movements and Transportation) Staffs and Transportation units concerned with all port working.\n\n#### Maintenance of the Air Forces.\n\nThe main airfields in Sicily were located at Gerbini near Catania in eastern Sicily, and at Comiso and Ponte Olivo on the southern coast. The latter were rapidly captured by Seventh Army and the necessary supplies moved to them from the beach maintenance areas. Seventh Army Engineers arranged to erect bulk petrol storage at Gela and to lay pipelines from there to the Comiso and Ponte Olivo airfields, an operation which was successfully carried out and saved much transport. At Syracuse and Augusta, and later at Catania, bulk storage was found intact. After the capture of Catania, its port was used to maintain the Air Forces that occupied the Gerbini airfields.\n\nThroughout the operation Air Force supplies were successfully maintained, although at times in the early stages the margin of safety was a small one. Considerable difficulties were encountered owing to the fact that American Air Force supplies were shipped from the United States at the same time as ground force supplies, the former were required for delivery at eastern ports in the neighbourhood of which the Air Forces were mainly located, and the latter at Palermo which was the main port of supply for Seventh Army.\n\n#### Air Transport.\n\nTransport aircraft were available in large numbers for the first time in the Mediterranean campaigns. Full use was made of them for the rapid conveyance of air force supplies, mails and urgent stores (particularly Ordnance stores), and for the evacuation of casualties to hospitals on the mainland. A very large proportion of the total sick and wounded, both British and American, were successfully evacuated by air, and there is no doubt that a certain limited number of aircraft under exclusive medical control are required to enable serious casualties to be evacuated promptly.\n\n#### Medical.\n\nMedical arrangements worked very well except that the organisation for calling forward hospital ships for evacuation from the ports of eastern Sicily was initially unsatisfactory and had subsequently to be improved. In view of the dangers of malaria in Sicily at this time of the year, preventive measures were taken by all troops before and during the operation. The incidence of malaria during the campaign was therefore not unduly high.\n\n### CONCLUSION OF OPERATIONS.\n\nWhen the capture of Messina brought operations to a close on 17th August the Administrative boundary between Seventh and Eighth Armies was made to coincide with the Civil Administrative boundaries. The whole of Seventh Army, except for certain Artillery and Engineer units required in support of Eighth Army for the next operation against the Toe of Italy, was withdrawn to the western half of the island where it could be most easily and economically maintained. The United States Island Base Section assumed Administrative control of the port of Palermo and all American stocks were moved to this area except those required for local maintenance. The ports of Licata and Empedocle were closed.\n\nCivil Administration under AMGOT27 (headed by Major-General Lord Rennell) had been set up in all districts immediately behind the armies as they advanced.\n\nAll necessary Administrative arrangements were at once put in hand for mounting subsequent operations against the mainland of Italy. These were the responsibility of Seventh Army in the west and FORTBASE in the east.\n\n#### The Administrative Organisation28\n\nIt was the Administrative plan of Eighth Army to move HQ Tripoli Base Area, which had been established under its command soon after the capture of Tripoli to carry out general and local administration of that area as the Advanced Base for the Tunisian campaign, into Sicily where it was to undertake similar duties at Syracuse and in eastern Sicily as soon as possible. The great advantage of this plan was that it retained the existing administrative organisation of Eighth Army and made use of a most experienced and efficient team under the GOC Base Area, which knew the Army's requirements and had its complete confidence as well as that of GHQ Middle East. On the other hand it meant that there could be no place in Sicily for the full establishment of the Administrative Staff, Services and departments of Fifteenth Army Group, and it was clearly unsuitable for the general administration of the mainland of Italy with a single axis of supply from North Africa and the West under AFHQ. It was, however, decided to adopt the existing organisation for the Sicilian campaign and not to make any change until the allied forces had been established on the Italian mainland except for placing FORTBASE under command of Fifteenth Army Group instead of Eighth Army when it arrived in Sicily.\n\nThe administrative organisation therefore for the Sicilian campaign can be summarised as follows:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) Fifteenth Army Group was responsible for administrative policy and co-ordination of general administration of all ground and air forces in Sicily, in accordance with the Army Group Commander's plan of operation.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) Seventh Army was responsible for general and local administration in western Sicily including the port of Palermo. This port was not taken over by the United States Island Base Section under CG NATOUSA29 until operations had been concluded.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) FORTBASE assumed responsibility for general administration of all ports and beaches in eastern Sicily under command Fifteenth Army Group, whilst local administration in eastern Sicily was carried out by Eighth Army through the various Base Areas and Sub-Areas.\n\nThis organisation proved entirely satisfactory under the particular circumstances involving the capture of an island by two armies maintained initially on two separate supply axes with a view to a further advance across the sea to the mainland of Italy. It would, however, have been more satisfactory if Palermo had been taken over immediately after capture by the United States Island Base Section. The Army Administrative Staff would then have been free to devote its attention entirely to the maintenance of formations in battle.\n\nFootnotes\n\n_1_ _Succeeded in May by (the late) Major-General A.A. Richardson. The Headquarters was \"integrated\", i.e., Anglo-American, but organised on the British Staff System, just as Allied Force Headquarters, also integrated, was organised on the American system._\n\n_2_ _Now Field-Marshal the Viscount Montgomery of Alamein, K.G., G.C.B., D.S.O._\n\n_3_ _The late Lieutenant-General George S. Patton Junior._\n\n_4_ _Now Admiral of the Fleet the Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, K.T., G.C.B., O.M., D.S.O._\n\n_5_ _Now Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Tedder, G.C.B._\n\n_6_ _Actually planning had been based on the appreciation that the mobile part of the garrison of the island would be more than doubled and I myself thought that the Joint Planning Staff had taken a rather unduly pessimistic view._\n\n_7_ _Now Lieutenant-General Sir Oliver Leese, Bt, K.C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_8_ _Seventh Army actually managed to raise this figure in practice to a thousand tons per day._\n\n_9_ _Major-General C.H. Miller, C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_10_ _13 and 30 Corps Headquarters, 5, 46, 50, 51, 78 and 1 Canadian Infantry Divisions, 231 Infantry Brigade and I Airborne Division._\n\n_11_ _II Corps Headquarters, 1, 3, 9 and 45 Infantry Divisions, 2 Armoured Division and 82 Airborne Division._\n\n_12_ _\"Dryshod\" was a technical term meaning exercises carried out on land simulating landings from craft._\n\n_13_ _One serious error was made. By an extraordinary series of coincidences a body of evidence was built up which made it appear that an extra Italian division (103 Piacenza) was in the area south of Catania. This was in fact false, but the mistake was discovered before it could have any untoward effect._\n\n_14_ _It was not a real Panzer Division and had only one tank battalion; after the Sicilian campaign it was renamed Panzer Grenadier Division, which name it retained._\n\n_15_ _Enemy air force strength amounted to about eight hundred German and seven hundred Italian combat aircraft counting all those based in Sicily, Sardinia, Italy and South France. The Italian battle fleet included six battleships and two 8-inch cruisers._\n\n_16_ _RDF = Radio Direction Finding (now known as Radar)._\n\n_17_ _Major-General Lyman L. Lemnitzer._\n\n_18_ _It was also of assistance in helping the craft to cross the off-lying sand bars which formed \"false beaches\" on some of the American beaches._\n\n_19_ _This was the original German airborne division which had been responsible for the invasion of Crete. It was at that moment engaged in splitting into 1 and 2 Parachute Divisions; 3 Regiment, which is the one in question here, was assigned, either already or later, to 1 Parachute Division._\n\n_20_ _War Office footnote. According to official records, Caltagirone was captured at 0400 hours, 16th July, 1943, and Piazza Armerina at 0600 hours, 17th July, 1943._\n\n_21_ _Goums are composed of French Moroccan native troops particularly skilled in mountain warfare. A Tabor is the approximate equivalent of a battalion._\n\n_22_ _One Regimental Combat Team was already in the island having arrived to reinforce II Corps on 15th July at Licata._\n\n_23_ _This was done by employing one regiment at a time on each axis for a short period of about forty-eight hours each, relieving continuously with the other two regiments of this division and then with the next division. This meant continuous fresh troops in action and must have imposed an intolerable strain on the German defence._\n\n_24_ _War Office footnote. G-4 and G-1 Branches are the American equivalents of the British Q and A Branches._\n\n_25_ _Operation TORCH was the Anglo-American assault on French North Africa, 8th November, 1942._\n\n_26_ _War Office footnote. In addition 1 Canadian Division, ancillary units and 3,000 R.A.F. personnel were embarked in the United Kingdom and transported to Sicily. 45 U.S. Division (less 1 Regimental Combat Team) and ancillary units were mounted from the United States of America._\n\n_27_ _AMGOT = Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories._\n\n_28_ _War Office footnote. The following paragraphs deal with Administration from the Army aspect only. Mediterranean Allied Tactical Air Forces had its own Administrative organisation._\n\n_29_ _CG NATOUSA = Commanding General, North African Theatre of Operations, United States Army._\n\n##\n\n## ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET SIR ANDREW CUNNINGHAM'S DESPATCH ON THE INVASION OF SICILY\n\n### THE INVASION OF SICILY\n\n> _The following Despatch was submitted to the Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force on the 1st January,_ 1944, _by Admiral of the Fleet Sir ANDREW B.CUNNINGHAM, G.C.B., D.S.O._\n\n_Office of the Commander-in-Chief,  \nMediterranean.  \n1st January, 1944._\n\nI have the honour to forward the accompanying reports on the Invasion of Sicily. Many of these reports have been forwarded previously to the appropriate authorities in order that there should be no delay in the digestion and application of the \"lessons learnt.\" The reports of the naval Task Force Commanders, and of the Vice-Admiral Commanding, Force \"H\"1, are very full and carefully compiled, giving a complete narrative of the operation in all its stages, and summarising a wealth of experience in the sound conclusions they have reached and suggestions they have offered.2\n\n2. It is not my intention to add a further narrative to those already written nor to do more than comment on salient points of importance. Except in so far as stated in the succeeding paragraphs, I concur fully in the suggestions and recommendations of the Force Commanders.\n\n#### Planning.\n\n3. The following outstanding lesson emerged from the planning stage of this operation.\n\n4. It is essential, if much time is not to be wasted and much confusion caused, that the responsible Commanders-in-Chief, together with the Task Force Commanders who will be responsible for the tactical conduct of the battle, should meet at the outset for the discussion and evolution of a sound basic plan which should not thereafter be changed except for reasons of exceptional urgency, such as a complete change in the enemy's dispositions or a major strategic upheaval.\n\n5. In the case of \"Husky\"3 this was not done, since both General Alexander and General Montgomery were absorbed in the Tunisian battle. In consequence, although the operation was authorised on 23rd January and combined planning headquarters set up on 12th February, the final firm plan was not approved until the 12th May. Thus, although five months were available for perfecting plans for the operation, all detailed planning had in fact to be compressed into two months, resulting in some confusion and considerable unnecessary duplication in the issue of orders.\n\n6. It cannot be too clearly recognised that a combined operation is but the opening, under particular circumstances, of a primarily army battle. It is the function of the navy and of the air to help the army to establish a base or bases on the hostile coast from which the military tactical battle to gain the object must be developed. It is upon the army tactical plan for the fulfilment of its object that the combined plan must depend. The navy and the air commanders must join with the army commander to ensure that the base or bases selected for seizure are capable of achievement without prohibitive loss in the irrespective elements, and that, when seized, they will fulfil the requirements of the force; but it is of no use to plan on the seizure of bases unrelated to the realities of the military situation when ashore.\n\n7. It was upon this point that the initial planning of \"Husky\" broke down. It maybe that the earlier plans would have succeeded equally well; but the fact remains that these plans in the end proved unacceptable to the army leaders called upon to fight the tactical battle for the object, and that, had it been possible for those leaders fully to study the tactical aspect at the outset, the undesirable last minute changes would have been saved.\n\n8. A further point is that in the initial planning great weight was lent to the value of airborne troops for the softening of beach defences. The conditions of light required for the employment of paratroops were inimical to the secure and undetected approach of naval forces. As the result of much discussion and in view of the importance attached to the airborne attack, the date selected for the assault was one which was not favourable from the naval point of view. In fact the airborne troops were never used in the manner projected, but that they were not to be so used did not emerge until it was too late to change the date. In consequence, the navies, for no advantage, had to accept a disadvantageous light for approach, and a subsequent period of moonlit nights off the beaches which could have been avoided.\n\n9. The Naval Commander Western Task Force comments at length and stringently on this subject in his report.4 While I do not in all respects agree with his estimate of the effectiveness of naval gunfire, I concur generally in his remarks, and, in particular, in questioning the wisdom of attaching a high degree of importance in the plan to the employment of airborne troops. A seaborne assault is unalterably committed to a date for some days in advance of D day. In tidal waters it is even more inflexibly bound by time and tide. It may well be that, on the selected date, airborne troops are weatherbound and cannot operate. It does, therefore, appear most necessary that airborne troops should be considered as a useful auxiliary rather than as a governing factor which may react to the disadvantage of other services involved.\n\n10. Apart from the use of airborne troops, many other factors affect the selection of D day and H hour5: but a dominating factor must always be the high casualty rate inflicted by aimed machine-gun fire. Unless it can be guaranteed to the army that the enemy beach defences can be neutralised by naval gunfire or air attack or both \u2013 or by smoke \u2013 it is felt that darkness will always be chosen for the first waves to reach the beach. \"Husky\" gave but poor opportunity for judging the soundness of our choice since surprise was unexpectedly attained; but it is felt that, had the enemy been resolute and alert, it would have required more than the gun support actually available if the soldiers were to be landed in daylight without heavy casualties. Bomber forces were not available since they were occupied in neutralising the enemy air forces.\n\n#### Preparation, Training and Mounting.\n\n11. The training and mounting of \"Husky\" proceeded under difficulties, particularly in the case of Force \"B\"6 of the Eastern Task Force, and to a lesser extent of the Western Task Force. Both these forces had to establish their base facilities in captured ports which had been considerably demolished, namely Sfax and Sousse for Force \"B\", and Bizerta and Tunis for the Western Task Force. Great credit is due to all concerned that these difficulties were ably surmounted in the time available. Force \"B\", in addition to other difficulties, was faced at short notice with the task of capturing Pantellaria but the task was taken in its stride and successfully accomplished without prejudice to \"Husky\", of which operation indeed it was an essential preliminary.\n\n12. The reception and absorption in the station of the great number of landing ships and craft, and the establishment of their bases, presented a heavy problem to both navies. The probable performance of these craft, manned as they were by new and inexperienced officers and men but recently enrolled in their respective services, gave cause for some anxiety, and in the early stages of training they caused some slight wavering of confidence among the troops they were to land. The manner in which they buckled to and met and overcame their inexperience can best be measured by what they achieved, and deserves the highest praise.\n\n13. Another cause of anxiety at this stage was the large demand for movement of troops, airmen and vehicles to their staging points or bases for the attack. This involved heavy and continuous running by the landing craft at times when they should have been training, and fear was felt, not only that their training would be inadequate, but that their engines would not stand the strain. These fears were happily disproved, and in fact the sea training provided by these voyages must have stood them in good stead. That the craft themselves withstood the extra wear and tear is a tribute to those who designed and built them.\n\n14. Additional difficulties in the way of training and mounting arose from late arrival of craft and material. This was particularly so in the case of Force \"A\"7 of the Eastern Task Force which received its L.S.T.s8 extremely late and had little or no opportunity of trying and practising with pontoons. This portion of the force was also separated by 900 miles from the L.C.T.s9 which were to form a part of its assault. A high standard of staff work was required to knit these scattered components into an operational whole.\n\n15. The Western Task Force was more fortunate in that opportunities for training and mounting were undisturbed, and all ships were concentrated. Although this force also suffered to some extent from late arrivals and rushed planning, as compared with the Eastern Task Force the Western Task Force was much better placed since the U.S. warships came into the Mediterranean for the specific purpose of the operation, and only very slight calls were made upon them for extraneous duties on the station. In the case of the Eastern Task Force, all ships, belonging as they did to the normal forces of the station, were heavily and continuously employed right up to the date of sailing for the operation, and in but few cases took part in any rehearsal or training. That their duties were performed so adequately when the time came reflects highly alike on the adaptability of their ships' companies and on the standard of maintenance achieved in spite of many months of arduous service at sea.\n\n#### Collection of Beach Intelligence.\n\n16. Much credit is due to the officers and men of the beach reconnaissance parties for their arduous and hazardous effort to obtain details of the beach gradients and sand bars. Credit is also due to the submarines of the 8th and 10th Flotillas which worked on beach reconnaissance in company with these parties.\n\nTheir casualties in this operation were unfortunately heavy; apart from natural dislike of such losses, the possibility of capture always gives rise to anxiety on grounds of security.\n\n#### Location of Headquarters.\n\n17. Much discussion was devoted to the best location for the combined headquarters from which the three Commanders-in-Chief should conduct the operation. Various alternatives were explored in an effort to find a common site satisfactory to all, but in the end communications problems, and, to a lesser extent, lack of suitable accommodation, caused an undesirable dispersion in that though the navy and army headquarters moved to Malta from Algiers, the Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief found himself unable to move from his existing headquarters at Marsa, where he was in close touch with his main forces.10\n\nI am sure Malta was a wise choice from both naval and army viewpoints, and apart from an unexpected assault of sandflies which devastated my staff, the arrangements were in all respects excellent.\n\n18. The separation of the Commanders did not in the event have serious reaction, but was manifestly undesirable and might have proved extremely awkward had things begun to go awry. In particular the navy and the air are closely interdependent in a sea assault, and with the exception of the coastal air component, the air plans of the operation had all along appeared to the other services to be somewhat nebulous, and their day-to-day exposition was necessary to make the picture clear.\n\n#### The Approach and Assault.\n\n19. The co-ordination and timing necessary to ensure the punctual concentration of this vast force in the assault areas, presented a problem of some complexity. The problem was to some degree complicated by the great distances over which the forces were initially dispersed11, by the need for deceptive routeing to avoid disclosure of intention, by the bottleneck presented by the Tunisian war channel, and, finally, by the requirement for topping up the fuel of escort vessels before their arrival in the assault area.\n\nVery detailed orders were issued regarding the routes and timing of the approach, backed up by track charts and the inevitable \"Mickey Mouse\" diagrams which are in my view essential to the clear understanding of a problem of this nature. Even so, everything depended, as always, on the seamanship and good sense of individual commanding officers and on the smooth working of the berthing and fuelling organisations of the several ports concerned.\n\nMy confidence in their abilities was not misplaced. The operation ran like a well-oiled clock.\n\n20. The only incidents which occurred to mar the precision of this remarkable concentration were the loss by submarine attack of four ships in convoy, the CITY OF VENICE and ST. ESSYLT in K.M.S. 18B on the 4th July, the DEVIS in K.M.S. 18B on 5th July, and the SHAHJEHAN in M.W.S. 36 on the 6th July. The passage of the convoys was covered most effectively by the operations of the North-West African Coastal Air Force, of No. 201 (Naval Co-operation) Group, of squadrons operating under Air Headquarters Air Defence, Eastern Mediteranean, and, on D - 1 day, of the North-West African Tactical Air Force Squadrons based on Malta. Their problem was one of a complexity equal to our own. It was solved with conspicuous success, since no bomb was dropped on any convoy \u2013 the majority were not sighted by enemy aircraft \u2013 and all reports showed that the fighter cover was excellent.\n\n21. An aspect of the approach which caused me concern was the slow speed of the L.C.T. convoys, and the necessity for their arrival at the assault beaches well before first light to provide the supporting arms the army needed. Throughout the planning stages, the estimates of speed of advance allowable for L.C.T. convoys had continually to be lowered as experience was gained. In the end it became clear that not more than 5\u00bd knots could be counted upon in safety, even in calm weather. I was not sanguine of our ability to maintain surprise at any time after 1200 on D -1, since it appeared beyond doubt that the enemy must by then become aware of our concentration south of Malta: but it appeared to be beyond the wildest expectation that he should be unaware of the L.C.T. convoys which must be within 20 miles of his coast at sunset.\n\nIt is, I suggest, a matter of urgency that some means be devised of landing supporting arms at an early stage from craft whose speed is at least in the region of that of the average infantry assault ship, if tactical surprise is to be aimed at.\n\n22. Little anxiety had been felt on the score of weather, which is so rarely bad in the Mediterranean at this time of year. Nevertheless, plans had been made whereby a postponement of 24 hours could, if necessary, be ordered as late as 1200 on D - 1. Beyond this time it was felt impracticable to disturb the march of events, and it was also expected that in the event the weather would have sufficiently disclosed its intentions by this time.\n\nSuch was not the case however \u2013 at 1200 D \u2013 1 the wind was blowing force 4 from the northwest but there was no evidence of imminent increase and no question of postponement arose. By 1700 the wind was force 6 to 712 and a nasty sea had risen. It was manifestly too late for postponement but considerable anxiety was felt, particularly for the small craft convoys making up against the sea. The wind mercifully started to ease from 2330 onwards, by H hour it was slight, and by morning had ceased, leaving only a tiresome swell and surf on the western beaches.\n\n#### Attainment of Surprise.\n\n23. This little blow had various effects but the most noteworthy was its contribution to our unexpected success in gaining complete surprise. The very efficient cover plan and the deceptive routeing of the convoys both played their parts. In addition the vigilance of the enemy was undoubtedly relaxed owing to the unfavourable phase of the moon to which we had been so unwillingly subjected. Finally came this wind which indeed came dangerously close at one time to making some, if not all, of the landings impracticable. These last two, to us, apparently unfavourable factors had actually the effect of making the weary Italians, who had been alert for many nights, turn thankfully in their beds saying \"tonight at any rate they can't come!\"\n\nBut they came.\n\n#### The Landings.\n\n24. In consequence of the wind not all assault waves reached the beach at H hour, but none was seriously late. Some of the L.C.T. convoys were very late, the most being that for BARK EAST13 which was six hours late, having furthest to go against the wind. One L.C.T. was swamped and capsized. The performance of the small craft of both nations in this period was most creditable. They made valiant efforts to keep their rendezvous and in large measure were successful.\n\n25. The assaults were landed in all sectors in the right place, nearly at the right time and with negligible opposition. In some areas some interference was encountered after daylight from coast defence and shore batteries, but in most cases they were readily silenced by ships' gunfire and the landings proceeded steadily with no appreciable interference other than the swell.\n\nThe Western Task Force, on their exposed western beaches, bore the brunt of opposition both by gunfire and surf, the latter particularly at CENT14 beaches which were most nearly a lee shore. Losses of craft by broaching in this area were considerable. That the surf was in no wise allowed to interfere with the smooth progress of the landing reflects highly on the determination, resource and sound training of the Western Task Force.\n\n26. After the landings the troops moved steadily inland on both fronts, apparently encountering but little opposition except inland of Gela in the DIME15 area of the Western Task Force, where the floating reserve (Kool Force) was ordered to be landed in support. A determined counter attack by the Hermann Goering Panzer Division started to develop in this area from 0900 on D day and had some success, reaching almost to the beaches on the evening of D + 1. Naval gunfire played a prominent and praiseworthy part in stopping and turning this attack, being notably effective against tanks. By 2230 on D + 1 the situation had been restored and no further serious threat to the security of our bridge-heads developed. Syracuse was entered by our troops at 2100 D day and the port swept and open by 0830 D + 1.\n\n#### Air Action during the Assault.\n\n27. The degree of air opposition encountered in the assault and later could by no means be described as serious; but caused some casualties among shipping and had some nuisance value.\n\nIn this respect the Western Task Force was less fortunate than the Eastern Task Force and was somewhat bothered, particularly by fighter bomber aircraft coming low over the hills from inland in such a manner as to evade detection by radar.\n\n28. The provision of S.E.16 fighter cover in the assault areas prior to the capture of adequate Sicilian airfields, presented a difficult problem to the Air Command, with only the limited airfield facilities of Malta, Gozo and Pantellaria lying within reasonable fighter range. The number of fighter sorties necessary to maintain even squadron strength in both assault areas was prodigious.\n\nThe Air Command had to strike a balance in the allotment of their resources between the value of defensive patrols and offensive action at the enemy airfields \u2013 both having the same object \u2013 the security of the assault from enemy air interference.\n\nIt was pointed out in my operation order that much of the air's effort would be unseen by the naval forces, and the strength of fighters to be expected was outlined.\n\n29. By results I consider that the air appreciation was proved sound. To one who had fought through the Mediterranean campaign from the beginning it appeared almost magical that great fleets of ships could remain anchored on the enemy's coast, within 40 miles of his main aerodromes, with only such slight losses from air attack as were incurred.\n\nThe navies (and consequently the armies) owed a great debt to the air forces for the effectiveness of the protection afforded them throughout the operation. Nevertheless, there was palpably room for improvement in the close air cover of the assault areas, and, in particular, in the effectiveness of the liaison between the Naval Force Commanders and the fighter forces upon which they had to rely. This improvement was in fact effected in the next major amphibious operation which was undertaken in this theatre.\n\n#### Routeing of Troop-carrying Aircraft.\n\n30. The routeing of aircraft carrying airborne troops to the attack was, from the beginning, recognised as presenting an awkward problem. Allowance was made in the naval approach plan, in conference with Air Plans, for a gap between assault convoys north of Malta through which the troop-carrying aircraft could approach and return without flying over convoys. These routes were promulgated in my operation orders.\n\nIn fact these attacks were delivered without interference between naval and air forces involved; but it was not until D - 3 that the airborne troops' plans became firm and that troop-carrier command were able finally to confirm the suitability of routes passing through the corridor laid down so long before.\n\nThese late decisions were in large measure due to the late crystallisation of the military tactical plan already referred to in paragraphs 5 to 7 above.\n\n31. Later, airborne troop missions were flown on the night 10th\/11th July to the Gela area and on the night 13th\/14th July to the Catania area.\n\nIn the first instance, an ingress corridor over a deserted portion of coast between the two task forces was allotted and promulgated by signal. The aircraft were to fly inland by this corridor and withdraw passing to the north and west of Licata, well clear of the Western Task Force. In fact, owing to heavy ground A.A. fire and possibly due to bad navigation, large numbers of aircraft forsook the route and flew over the Western Task Force assault areas concurrently with an enemy air attack. Considerable losses resulted.\n\nIn the second instance, decision to carry out the operation was taken too late to enable routeing to be certainly promulgated to all ships. The airborne troops' representative at H.Q. was apprised of this danger at the time. This late decision in combination with the unexpectedly late sailing of a convoy from Augusta led to a number of aircraft being shot down by merchant vessel gunfire. In this instance too, enemy aircraft were present to complicate the issue.\n\n32. These incidents led to an enquiry being held by Allied Force Headquarters with a view to eliminating such incidents in future. I concur in the recommendations of committee which are forwarded separately.\n\nThough not easy, the routeing of troop-carrier aircraft prior to the main assault, while ships are moving in pre-arranged tracks and in perfect timing, presents a clear cut problem readily susceptible to solution by careful planning as was shown on the night of D - 1\/D day in \"Husky\".\n\nThe major problem arises in the routeing of aircraft to make drops to fulfil military tactical requirements arising after the main assaults, when the situation has become fluid, convoys are being cleared as they unload, and signal communications are inevitably congested. It was under these conditions that the incidents quoted above occurred.\n\n#### Naval Forces other than Assault Forces.\n\n33. The work of the main covering force, the hinge pin of the operation, was dull and unspectacular as must ever be the case against a passive enemy. Force \"H\" was faced with the prospect of steady patrolling in waters within easy reach of the enemy's air bases, in conditions of moonlight and weather peculiarly suited to air attack and with a growing U-boat threat.\n\nIt was not until July 17th (D + 7) that the reduced congestion of Malta and my appreciation of enemy intentions combined to allow this force to be withdrawn into harbour at Malta. In the interval the INDOMITABLE had, not unexpectedly, been torpedoed and severely damaged. Force \"H\" achieved its object.\n\n34. The effect of the diversionary operations, \"Fracture\"17 by Force \"Z\" and \"Arsenal\"18 by Force \"Q\" and coastal forces, cannot be accurately assessed. It is presumed that they contributed to the confusion of the enemy. Both were satisfactorily carried out in precisely the manner ordered.\n\n35. The operations of Force \"Q\" patrolling nightly northward of the landings, were as necessary as they were unspectacular, and lacked incident. The torpedoing of CLEOPATRA by a U-boat, and the sinking of a U-boat by ILEX and ECHO were merely incidents of passage unconnected with the operational function of this force.\n\n36. The operations of coastal forces, and, at a later stage, of the American P.T. boats19 in the Straits of Messina were most gallant and determined. They nightly faced an unpleasant volume of gunfire and inflicted losses on the enemy.\n\n37. The anti U-boat operations, both air and surface, which were instituted as soon as a U-boat concentration on the east coast of Sicily became apparent, did not succeed in making any kills. But the U-boat activity achieved little, and that this was the case was probably in no small measure due to the active measures which were taken to discourage their presence.\n\nThe U-boat kills which were made were fortuitous, notably the capture of BRONZO by the 13th Minesweeping Flotilla off Syracuse, and LAFOREY's rapid revenge for the torpedoing of NEWFOUNDLAND off Catania.\n\n#### March of Events subsequent to the Assaults.\n\n38. An outstanding feature of the operation was the rapidity of progress of the left wing U.S. 7th Army once they were firmly ashore. The whole of these operations both before and after the capture of Palermo was a model of amphibious tactics by the Western Task Force.\n\nIn particular, after the capture of Palermo on the 22nd July (D + 12) U.S. generalship showed that it had nothing to learn of the value of sea power and Task Force 86 under Rear-Admiral Davidson, U.S.N. that it had nothing to learn of the rapid planning and execution of outflanking operations.\n\nThe three \"end runs\" executed in the north coast of Sicily saved days of costly fighting.\n\n39. Progress on the east coast was less spectacular and more costly. Augusta was entered by the army on the evening of 12th July (D + 2), after a rather exasperating day in which our destroyers alternately entered the harbour triumphantly and were evicted by enemy shellfire to which they could not reply owing to inability to distinguish our own troops; but the situation did not really become cleared up and the port rendered safe for democracy until the morning of the 13th when the Port Party was finally installed and a valuable protected anchorage made available for our use.\n\nTwo small commando operations from two L.S.I. (H)20 contributed to the capture of this port. From this time onward, however, no use was made by the 8th Army of amphibious opportunities. The small L.S.I.s were kept standing by for the purpose at the call of Rear-Admiral McGrigor (Flag Officer Sicily) and landing craft were available on call: but the only occasion on which they were used was on 16th August, 1943, after the capture of Catania, when a commando landing was made, but fell short of the flank of the retreating enemy.\n\n40. There were doubtless sound military reasons for making no use of this, what to me appeared, priceless asset of sea power and flexibility of manoeuvre: but it is worth consideration for future occasions whether much time and costly fighting could not be saved by even minor flank attacks which must necessarily be unsettling to the enemy. It must be always for the General to decide. The Navy can only provide the means and advice on the practicability from the naval angle of the projected operation. It may be that had I pressed my views more strongly more could have been done.\n\n41. Much use was made of naval gunfire to support the seaward flank of the 8th Army. Reports showed that such support was satisfactory and effective. Only on one occasion was heavy ship gunfire employed, when WARSPITE carried out a brief bombardment of Catania on the evening of the 17th July.\n\n#### The End of the Operation.\n\n42. The operation concluded with the entry of Messina on the 17th August, the U.S. 7th Army, thanks to their amphibious tactics and some prodigious road engineering feats, beating the British 8th Army by a short head for the prize.\n\n#### Conclusion.\n\n43. These remarks contain criticism where, in my view, criticism is due. Where possible the criticism is constructive and designed to avoid a repetition of such mistakes as were made. It is a cause for congratulation of all concerned that the criticisms are so few and the triumph so great.\n\n44. I count myself indeed fortunate that, in the planning and execution of this, the greatest seaborne operation so far known in history, I met with a co-operation so complete and cordial as was accorded me by my colleagues General Alexander and Air Chief Marshal Tedder, and their subordinates.\n\n45. Of the Navies, I can only say that I never wish to command better, and I count it a great honour that, through the person of Vice-Admiral Hewitt, I was privileged to command so large and efficient a force of the United States Navy. Both the Western Task Force, under Admiral Hewitt, and the Eastern Task Force, under Admiral Ramsay, performed their unaccustomed tasks in a manner befitting the highest tradition of any fighting service.\n\n(Signed) A.B. CUNNINGHAM,  \n _Admiral of the Fleet._  \n _General Dwight D. Eisenhower,_  \n _Supreme Commander,  \nAllied Expeditionary Force.  \nAdmiralty,_  \n _S.W._ 1 _.  \n1st October,_ 1943.\n\nI have the honour to forward herewith the report of proceedings of the Eastern Naval Task Force during the initial phase of operations for the capture of the Island of Sicily, known as Operation \"Husky\". These operations were wholly successful, but considering the large force involved and the time allowed for preparation, any other result could only have been most unexpected and disappointing.\n\n2. By reason of the weakness of the Italian opposition, the success of the assaults in \"Husky\" cannot be considered as a reliable guide to what may be attempted or achieved elsewhere. Nevertheless, valuable experience was gained which will be of inestimable assistance in future operations, notably in regard to maintenance through the beaches, handling and serviceability of landing ships and craft, opening of captured ports and in the use of naval armaments in support of the army in subsequent operations along the coast.\n\n3. Casualties to shipping and amongst landing craft were considerably less than had been anticipated and allowed for. This was gratifying and is considered to be due to:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) the very high degree of air superiority achieved;\n> \n> ( _b_ ) the efficiency of the A\/S21 organisation;\n> \n> ( _c_ ) the unexpected attainment of a considerable degree of tactical surprise. That tactical surprise was effected is considered to have resulted from a combination of circumstances, such for example as the adoption of a waxing moon period for the assaults, the lack of enemy air reconnaissance on D - 1 day and a prolonged period of \"alert\" preceding D day, all of which, together with the unexpected high wind which got up p.m. on D - l, lulled the enemy coast defences into a false sense of security.\n\n4. The performance of landing ships and craft was uniformly good and, in the majority of cases, creditable seamanship was displayed by those in charge of them, having regard to their necessarily restricted training and lack of previous experience. The advantage enjoyed by the personnel of the flotillas which were sent to the Middle East in advance of the operation was very marked and much credit is due to Rear-Admiral T.H. Troubridge, D.S.O. (Rear-Admiral (G)) for the excellent training which he gave them.\n\n5. _Period of Preparation and Planning._ \u2013 The conditions that would result from the large distances between the various headquarters had been foreseen, and, as expected, planning by telegram inevitably led to misunderstandings and a large number of amendments to the operation orders in the last few days. Due to the unavoidable delay in getting the operation orders to the various Task Group Commanders, considerable complications arose by the inclusion in some of their orders of matter which was properly the concern of higher authorities. This again increased the number of amendments necessary, and presented great difficulties to the smaller craft who received a mass of orders and amendments a few days before the operation.\n\n6. _The Plan._ \u2013 There are two outstanding points about the plan which call for remark. The first has to do with the operational and the other with the administrative aspect. In my opinion the primary consideration is the operational aspect. The army must first examine the implications of the land campaign necessary to achieve the object in view. After this the administrative authorities must assess the administrative implications. In the early stages of planning for \"Husky\" too little importance and attention was paid to the operational aspect whilst too much was paid to the administrative, with the result that the outline plan given to the Commanders of the Eastern Task Force was operationally unacceptable. This situation was further complicated by the pre-occupation of the Army and Air Commanders with current operations and the wide dispersal of all planning authorities which resulted in a prolonged period of negotiation and delay.\n\nIn the end military necessity dictated the acceptance of administrative risks and the choice of a sound operational plan. It is to be hoped that plans for future operations will be based on operational requirements and not to suit the administrative appreciations, which incidentally always appear ultra-conservative in probabilities.\n\nBy the time the final orders were issued I felt entirely satisfied that the best plan available to us had been adopted, and my hopes that the weight of our attacks on a narrow front would overwhelm the enemy were, in the event, justified.\n\n7. _Mounting of the Operation in the Middle East. \u2013_ From the moment of my arrival in Cairo on 2nd March, 1943, every possible assistance was afforded myself and my staff in the mounting and preparation for \"Husky\" by the Commander-in-Chief, Levant, Admiral Sir Henry Harwood, K.C.B., O.B.E., and his successors, Admirals Sir Ralph Leatham, K.C.B., and Sir John H.D. Cunningham, K.C.B., M.V.O., and the other naval authorities and departments in the Middle East. All the resources of the Levant Station, personnel, material and training, were made available and too great credit cannot be given to that Command for its share in the successful operations which followed.\n\nTraining in the Middle East was satisfactory. The rehearsals were carried out in the Gulf of Aqaba from 10th to 17th June but were necessarily limited in scope, as only four M.T. ships and four L.C.T. were able to be present, no L.C.I.(L)22 were available, and a limit had to be placed on the number of beachings that could be made by operational assault craft.\n\n8. _Move to Malta. \u2013_ With my staff I took passage to Malta in H.M.S. ORION, arriving late on 2nd July. It had always been foreseen that there would be a large amount for my staff to do on arrival at Malta in the few days available previous to the operation, _e.g.,_ the allocation of landing craft by numbers to flotillas and task groups, and the briefing of the large number of landing craft and smaller warships based there. The forethought given to these matters by Vice-Admiral Malta enabled the work to be undertaken expeditiously and with his full understanding. I cannot speak too highly of the assistance given by Vice-Admiral A.J. Power, C.B., C.V.O., and his staff throughout the period that I was in Malta. His organisation enabled the heavy and intricate programme of loading, sailing and refuelling, etc., to proceed without a hitch, and all my requirements were readily and efficiently met.\n\n9. _Narrative of the Operation._ \u2013 A composite narrative for the Task Force is attached. More detailed narratives for each sector are included in the Task Group Commanders' reports.\n\nThe Eastern Naval Task Force came under my operational control at 1200 on D - 1, 9th July, and I was afloat on that and the following day with my flag flying in H.M.S. ANTWERP. Weather conditions were fair during the forenoon, and although the wind had risen slightly by noon, at which time I was in company with the four main ship convoys, south of Malta, I was not seriously concerned. The L.C.T. convoys from Tripoli and Tunisia had previously been spoken off Malta earlier in the day, and they and the ship convoys were all in their appointed positions. During the afternoon and evening the wind increased steadily from the north-west to a strength of at least 6 and by 1800 a nasty sea was running.\n\nThe effect of these conditions on the landing craft and at the beaches caused me some anxiety but postponement did not seriously enter into my mind. My reasoning was based on long acquaintance with Mediterranean weather conditions which led me to expect that the wind would go down suddenly before morning, together with the knowledge that all but one of my landings were to be made on a weather shore where conditions would not be too bad. It may be stated here that the wind and sea did start to drop soon after midnight and daylight saw the beginning of a perfect day with a clear blue sky and steadily decreasing swell. Except at BARK WEST,23 where Force \"V\"24 had to compete with a slight sea and swell, conditions at the beaches were perfect. It must be remembered, however, that the L.S.I, reached their release positions at 0030, before the wind and sea had abated to any extent, and the conditions in which the L.C.A.25 were lowered with the first flight and when L.C.I.(L) came alongside to embark their troops were very unpleasant. The more credit is due to them for the fact that the initial landings were made as near to H hour as was the case.\n\nI did not myself see any landing craft during the night, but all reports show that their performance together with that of the H.D.M.L.,26 etc., was very satisfactory taking into account the prevailing weather.\n\n10. The L.C.T convoy for BARK EAST, having been held up by the weather and having eventually made BARK SOUTH,27 arrived close on six hours late, that for ACID28 two hours late, and that for BARK SOUTH about two hours late, but the L.C.T. for BARK WEST, which had been given a shorter route than originally intended, passing east of Gozo, arrived only thirty minutes late. This latter convoy had the worst of the blow, and their prompt arrival reflected high credit on Lieutenant-Commander K.A. Sellar, R.N., who led them.\n\n11. In general the marking submarines were in their correct positions and navigational aids were working and were picked up by the convoys on approaching their release positions. The ships at the release positions were not apparently detected by the shore defences, and the only difficulties experienced in lowering and forming up landing craft were those imposed by the weather. It is clear that the allowance of two and a half hours from the arrival at the release position to H hour was in no way excessive as the majority of the assaults were a few minutes late.\n\n12. The defences were taken generally by surprise when the assaulting formations landed and there was little organised resistance on the beaches. It is understood that a proportion of the coast defences were not, in fact, manned on that night; those that were manned were, in the majority of cases, not stoutly fought.\n\n13. At first light there was a certain amount of shelling from shore batteries, but these were effectively dealt with by supporting monitors, destroyers and gun boats. The effectiveness of the supporting fire from our naval forces was a feature of the operation, and many tributes have been paid it, both by the army and by enemy prisoners.\n\n14. Due to the late arrival of the L.C.T. convoys the only L.C.T. to beach before daylight were those at BARK SOUTH. Although these did so successfully, and on a shore that was generally rocky, insufficient experience was gained in the operation as a whole to show how far the beaching of L.C.T. in large numbers in darkness is a practical proposition. The problem of landing the supporting arms immediately behind the assault infantry cannot yet be considered to be solved, and it is recommended that comprehensive trials should be undertaken as early as possible to examine this matter. If difficulties are experienced, it is believed that a dark assault should be timed to be about one hour before first light, unless the army are prepared to rely on naval supporting fire for a longer period until first light.\n\n15. It was unfortunate that the L.C.R.29 were not able to soften the beach defences, but their subsequent performance suggests that they are well fitted for this role. L.C.G. (L)30 engaged direct targets effectively at short range, and the moral effect of both the L.C.R. and the L.C.G. (L) firing from close inshore is reported to have been considerable.\n\n16. The slow convoys arrived in accordance with the plan and in every case ships had moved to an inshore anchorage by 0800\/10th July. No mines were found inshore.\n\n17. Unloading of the M.T. ships was commenced without delay, and proceeded satisfactorily, despite bad exits and soft sand in the ACID sector and false beaches and soft sand at BARK WEST. It had always been known that BARK WEST beach was unlikely to be suitable as a maintenance beach, but it is clear that it was nevertheless correct to assault on it close on the flank of BARK SOUTH. It was generally considered by Task Group Commanders that the strength of the Docks Operating personnel in the M.T. ships was insufficient, and this was borne out in \"Husky\". It is probably correct to say that the bottleneck in maintenance through the beaches was the insufficiency of the Docks Operating Companies to work the ships continuously. Casualties to landing craft due to enemy action were very small, but as in \"Torch\",31 a few L.C.T. and L.C.M.32 were put out of action due to bad seamanship displayed by their half trained crews.\n\n18. Both the L.S.T. (2)33 and the L.C.I. (L) proved invaluable in their respective roles, and it is considered that the speed with which both vehicles and personnel were landed was one of the principal factors of the operation from the naval point of view. Although at times the rate at which stores were unloaded appeared to be disappointing, the totals unloaded for the beaches were, in fact, greater than the planned figures. On 21st July 4,400 tons of stores were discharged at BARK SOUTH. This was of course an exceptionally good beach, and by that time the organisation there had been perfected and three beach groups were assisting, but the previous estimates for beach maintenance would seem to need revision. It appears that neither BARK SOUTH nor BARK EAST were worked to capacity during \"Husky\". The salient feature of this period was the success of the L.S.T. (2), L.C.I. (L) and the D.U.K.W.34 of which the latter were making their first appearance in European waters: they fulfilled our highest expectations.\n\n19. In general, it is considered that the beach organisations worked satisfactorily, although Naval Commander Force \"V\" reported that his S.N.O.L.35 organisations were slow in settling down. The shortage of transport ashore to clear the beach dumps was commented on by Task Group Commanders, and was aggravated by the very quick forward advance of the army. This is not likely, however, to obtain in future operations undertaken against a more determined enemy.\n\n20. The immunity from air attack was as surprising as it was satisfactory and considerably greater than I had been led to expect. Our ships were not attacked until 1015\/10th July, when a raid was made on the ships at ACID. On subsequent days there were intermittent air attacks, principally on the east coast, and an increasing number at night. It was fortunate that more damage was not done by these attacks; only three M.T. ships and one hospital ship were sunk by them. The hospital ship TALAMBA was deliberately attacked and sunk and the ABA and DORSETSHIRE were also attacked whilst lying over five miles to seaward fully illuminated. It is regretted that the orders regarding the conduct of hospital ships were not sufficiently clear; it had always been my intention that if hospital ships had to remain off the beaches at night they should remain darkened and in the fleet anchorage, and that normally full illumination would only be switched on when five miles clear of the beaches and on passage to or from the assault area. It is clear that the illumination of hospital ships stopped offshore provides the enemy with a temptation to attack that is too great to resist and, in consequence, after the TALAMBA incident hospital ships were kept in the anchorages all night without lights. This procedure is recommended for future occasions.\n\n21. Syracuse was occupied at 2100\/10th July, the port party entered during the forenoon of 11th July and the D + 3 personnel convoy arrived there according to plan on 13th July: unloading all twelve ships and sailing them again at 1800 the same day was a notable achievement. Attempts were made to enter Augusta which was reported as having been evacuated at 0500 on 12th July but on her way to do so ESKIMOwith Naval Commander Force \"A\" on board was damaged in an air attack. Later in the day other ships of Force \"A\" again entered Augusta, and I myself went in in the evening in BROCKLESBY with Naval Commander Force \"A\". At this time the enemy on the outskirts of the town commenced to shell our ships intermittently with field guns and we had to clear out. I strongly support the recommendation of Naval Commander Force \"A\" that the foremost elements of the army should have some means of notifying their positions to supporting warships, as on this occasion we saw a large amount of M.T. which we thought belonged to the Eighth Army but which in fact belonged to the enemy. In consequence we missed an excellent and easy target.\n\n22. In accordance with my instructions Naval Commander Force \"V\" took over the BARK sectors on 13th July in order that Naval Commander Force \"B\" could proceed to Syracuse to take over the duties of Flag Officer Sicily. On visiting that port on 15th July I found a certain amount of confusion existing in the naval organisation which was absorbing the attention of Rear-Admiral McGrigor, to the detriment of the performance of his functions as Flag Officer Sicily. As I was anxious that he should proceed to and carry out these functions in Augusta without further delay, and as I deemed it advisable that a naval officer of standing should be temporarily present in Syracuse to supervise the Naval Officer-in-Charge and put matters right, I directed Naval Commander Force \"A\" to proceed there forthwith and Flag Officer Sicily to carry on to Augusta.\n\n23. A larger number of L.S.T. and major landing craft was found to be serviceable on D - 1 than had been anticipated, and as a result it was possible to commence loading the first flight of the ferry service before ships and craft which had been engaged in the assaults had returned. The Eighth Army plan was to clear the high priority vehicles and stores from Malta before working craft in any numbers from Sousse and Tripoli, and in the first seven days 56 L.S.T., 36 L.C.T. and 33 L.C.I. (L) cleared loaded from Malta. Some initial difficulty was experienced over the control of the Ferry Service, as the Military Movements organisation set up in Malta did not appear adequate to meet the demands made upon it, but after a shaky start things went much better, and the planned programme was finally completed earlier than anticipated.\n\n24. It was decided, both to reduce signalling and to avoid delays to sailings, that the short passage between Malta and Sicily should be made by L.S.T. and major landing craft engaged in the ferry service without making any sailing signals. The organisation of a convoy was often only completed immediately before it sailed, and I am satisfied that this apparently casual method was fully justified in order to continue the build-up of the army as fast as possible. As far as I know there was only one mishap; WALLACE engaged an L.C.I. (L) on the night of 12th\/13th July, but happily only one rating was wounded. It would not have been possible to continue to sail these landing craft convoys in this manner, unescorted or only lightly escorted as they were, had the weather not remained calm after D day, and had there not been an increasing period of moonlight. Although the first quarter of the moon at first sight appeared unfavourable for landing operations from the naval aspect, in the event it proved greatly to our advantage against a weak enemy and with our possession of great air superiority.\n\n25. Major landing craft seemed to keep running very well during the first few days of the operation, but my flag was struck at about the time when I imagine that defects were beginning to accumulate. It must always remain a difficult decision in future operations as to when to withdraw a proportion of landing craft for essential maintenance as the need for this must be balanced against the vital requirement of following up the initial blow as expeditiously as possible.\n\n26. It is greatly regretted that a number of our troop-carrying aircraft were shot down by our ships off the east coast on 13th July. The question of the rules for the engagement of aircraft off the beaches was always a vexed one during planning, and the orders were twice altered by agreement with the R.A.F. As finally framed, ships were free to open fire at night at aircraft whose approach indicated hostile intent, and it was stated that if friendly aircraft had to fly over our convoys they would do so above 6,000 feet. All troop-carrying aircraft were routed in lanes to avoid our convoys on the night of D - 1\/D, but for the second airborne attack on D + 3, they flew low over the Gulf of Noto. It is understood that Mediterranean Air Command had obtained the agreement of Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean to this some hours earlier, and warning signals were at once sent by the latter to all ships and forces concerned. It is not certain that they did in fact reach all the merchantmen, and by unfortunate chance a small number of enemy aircraft was in the vicinity at the time our aircraft were approaching. As might be expected, firing which started spasmodically soon became general, and it is hard to blame ships for engaging low-flying aircraft which appeared to be menacing them during an air raid. It is considered that in only very exceptional circumstances should ships be deprived of their right to open fire at low-flying aircraft approaching them. The solution must be always to route transport aircraft clear of our shipping.\n\n27. I cannot close this letter without paying tribute to the magnificent work throughout all stages of \"Husky\" of my Task Group Commanders, Rear-Admirals R.R. McGrigor, C.B., Sir Philip L. Vian, K.B.E., D.S.O., and T.H. Troubridge, D.S.O. \u2013 as well as that of Captain Lord Ashbourne. I could not have been more efficiently and loyally supported by them nor by my staff under Commodore C.E. Douglas-Pennant, D.S.C.\n\n28. Although the enemy did not make a determined attempt to prevent our assaults, conditions were not always easy, and it is considered that in general a very high standard of seamanship and devotion to duty was shown by officers and men of the Eastern Naval Task Force.\n\n(Signed) B.H. RAMSAY,  \n _Vice-Admiral,  \nNaval Commander,  \nEastern Task Force.  \nCommander-in-Chief, Mediterranean._\n\n## NARRATIVE OF THE OPERATION\n\nD - L DAY.\n\n_Friday, 9th July, 1943._\n\nNaval Commander Eastern Task Force assumed operational control of all his ships and craft at noon. Leaving Malta in his Headquarters ship, H.M.S. ANTWERP, at 0630, he proceeded to the southward to sight first the L.C.T. groups approaching from Sousse and Tripoli, carrying the supporting arms for the assault, and later the fast and slow assault convoys from the Middle East and United Kingdom, all of which were in their assigned positions and proceeding according to plan. The forces and landing craft starting from, or staging through, Malta sailed as arranged throughout the day to join their respective group or convoy. H.M.S. ANTWERP returned to Calafrana in the evening to land the Chief of Combined Operations, and sailed again after dark for the scene of the landings south of Syracuse.\n\n_Weather._ \u2013 The weather which in the early morning was good deteriorated throughout the day until in the evening the wind was force 6 from the north-westward. A short steep sea resulted which, while it did not interfere with the timing of the ship convoys, had the effect of slowing down the craft convoys and driving them off their course to the eastward. The state of the weather caused a certain amount of anxiety regarding the suitability of conditions off the beaches for carrying out the assault, but the question of suggesting a postponement did not come to be seriously considered.\n\n_Enemy reports. \u2013_ No reports of enemy aircraft were received during the day.\n\nD DAY.\n\n_Saturday, 10th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ After midnight the wind commenced to decrease in strength and the dawn ushered in a perfect blue Mediterranean day.\n\n#### The Assaults.\n\nThe detailed accounts of the various assaults are given in the reports of the respective Task Group Commanders, etc., and only a general outline will be found in this narrative.\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nThe fast assault convoy (K.M.F. 18) under Naval Commander Force \"V\" anchored about half-an-hour late, in a position subsequently found to be two miles to the eastward of the planned release position.\n\n(i) SUGAR Sector ____________________________\n\nConsiderable swell was still running in this sector, but the first assault flight were quickly and successfully lowered, and moved off not more than ten minutes behind schedule. The second flight were at once lowered and were got away only fifteen minutes late ( _i.e,_ 0155). The two flights beached on their correct beaches five and eighteen minutes late respectively. A runnel with nine feet of water inside a bank off the beaches, of which warning had been received while on passage from U.K., was encountered but all craft were carried over it by the surf.\n\nThe loading of serials36 was put under way immediately the other craft had departed, but was slow on account of the swell.\n\nShortly after 0330 success signals were observed and about 0415 a signal was received that the shore was ready to take serials.\n\nThe Royal Marine Commandos also successfully landed and reported about 0330. The batteries which formed their objective proved to be dummies, and they suffered only a few casualties.\n\nThese landings were made without surprise being lost and there was little opposition at the beaches; in fact it was not until the first flight was leaving the shore that machine-gunfire was opened.\n\nThe first L.C.A. reported back to their parent ship about 0430. Naval casualties amounted to two wounded.\n\n(ii) ROGER Sector _____________________________\n\nHaving regard to the runnel mentioned above an alternative plan was devised and ordered whereby the troops would embark in L.C.T. instead of L.C.A. at the release position and then be launched in D.U.K.W. on reaching the runnel.\n\nThe L.C.T. duly arrived and loaded from S.S. MARNIX VAN SAINT ALDEGONDE, but none reached H.M.S. GLENGYLE and on instructions from the Naval Commander Force \"A\" she loaded her L.C.A. as originally planned. This necessitated the reorganisation of her troops and it was not until nearly 0230 that her craft were ready for lowering and it was 0315 before the first flight got away owing to the second flight from S.S. DERBYSHIRE persisting in an attempt to form up at the same time. The beach was found without difficulty with the aid of the Folbot37 from the marking submarine.\n\nThe first flight from H.M.S. GLENGYLE beached about 0500; the second flight from S.S. DERBYSHIRE at 0520; and the remainder from S.S. MARNIX at 0545.\n\nThe first flight from H.M.S. GLENGYLE was met by a little machine-gun opposition, which was effectively dealt with by L.C.S.38 from S.S. MARNIX. There were no casualties to craft personnel.\n\nROGER GREEN I and II beaches were used for the assault as in the light of conflicting information they appeared to be the best. In the event all the ROGER beaches were found to be shallow with constantly changing sandbanks, except ROGER RED which, though very small and rocky, was shown by a survey to be the most suitable for all types of landing craft. There was also an appreciable and abnormal tidal effect and many L.C.M. were stranded and could not be re-floated for some time. H.M.S. BOXER, THRUSTER and BRUISER were unable to beach within a reasonable distance from the shore and had to be unloaded by L.C.T.\n\n_Slow assault convoy arrives. \u2013_ The slow assault convoy K.M.S. 18 arrived on time at the release position and brought up in the appointed anchorage.\n\n_Inner anchorage occupied \u2013_ Shortly before daylight, Naval Commander Force \"V\" in H.M.S. HILARY led into the intermediate anchorage after the approach channel had been swept. A searching sweep indicated that the inner anchorage was free of mines and at 0900 shipping was entered into the bay.\n\nBy midday both S.N.O.L. (R) and S.N.O.L. (S) had moved ashore. A reasonable rate of unloading was continuously maintained and at 1630 the L.S.I. (L) and L.S.P.39 had completed disembarkation and sailed for Malta.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nIn spite of the weather which made station keeping by L.C.I. (L) very difficult, the assault convoy for BARK SOUTH was only fifteen minutes late when it anchored. L.C.A. were got promptly away from the L.S.I. (M), but the swell made it difficult for L.CI. (L), both in coming alongside and in embarking their troops.\n\nHowever, at 0115 the signal for the assault party to proceed was given, and the craft moved off with the exception of some L.C.I. (L) which had not completed loading; these followed later direct to the beaches.\n\nThe landings on RED beaches were made to time though two to three hundred yards to the westward of the correct position in the case of RED III. The GREEN beaches were found correctly but owing to the weather more time than anticipated was required for the passage and the landings were forty minutes late.\n\nOpposition was everywhere slight, surprise being complete or almost so. At the GREEN landings some casualties were suffered in L.C.I. from machine-gun fire and in the RED sector an L.C.A. received several direct hits from a mortar.\n\nThe L.C.T. convoy were late but proceeded direct to the waiting position arriving there at 0330. The majority had beached by first light.\n\nAll RED and GREEN beaches were found to be smaller than expected, and there was some congestion, particularly when the Reserve Brigade went in at first light. Notwithstanding this all L.C.I. and L.C.T. had beached and discharged by about 0745.\n\nBetween 0800 and 0900 reconnaissance of AMBER beach by land and water proved, as anticipated by the military, that this beach was only lightly defended. The only opposition was one burst of machine-gun fire, immediately silenced by a broadside from EGGESFORD.\n\nBy midday AMBER beach was in use, with L.C.I. beaching there in formation. A rocky promontory at the eastern end was found suitable for L.S.T. and needing only a little work to make it into an excellent hard. Elsewhere a false beach with three feet of water inshore caused some inconvenience and necessitated the use of D.U.K.W. and a pontoon.\n\nThe three L.S.I. (M) were sailed for Sousse at 1400 followed at 2100 by the first convoy of empty L.S.T. for Malta. Empty L.C.I. (L) had been proceeding to Malta in groups as, and when, ready since 0900. H.M.S. ROYAL ULSTERMAN was retained by S.N.O.L.(Q) as his headquarters.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\nWhen approaching Sicily it was found that the southerly set was stronger than had been anticipated but allowance was made for this and the convoy stopped in the correct position at 0030\/10th July. All landing craft were lowered on arrival.\n\nAll flights touched down at the correct time, and the sea inshore being calm, all landings were made without difficulty. Surprise was lost fifty yards from the shore and light machine-gun fire and sniping were encountered by most on the beach. L.C.S. and L.C.F.40 replied with effect and only slight military, but no naval, casualties were suffered. Only at RED beach was any serious opposition met and this was disposed of by troops landed on SCRAMBLE RED. Throughout the assault only one landing craft was lost \u2013 an L.C.P.41 burnt out after being hit in the petrol tank by a shell splinter.\n\nAlthough the beaches had been cleared, no progress could be made in the landing of supporting arms until nearly 0700 when the first L.C.T. arrived via BARK SOUTH, having been delayed and diverted by the weather.\n\nAt 0520 the coastal battery north of Pachino began a barrage on a line about 200 yards off the beaches without doing serious damage and in less than an hour-and-a-half was virtually neutralised by the Dutch gunboats SOEMBA and FLORES.\n\nAt 0615 the slow assault convoy arrived at the release position and a searching sweep by M.M.S. (L.L.)42 and fleet sweepers having revealed no mines, at 0640 all ships were ordered to the anchorage. It was reached by the leading ships about 0740. The ferry service then started and all personnel were ashore by noon with army baggage and light stores soon after.\n\nBy 1400 S.N.O.L. (N) had transferred to H.M.S. ALYNBANK, and K.M.S. KEREN and the personnel ships sailed for Malta.\n\n### D. ACID SOUTH and ACID NORTH.\n\nThe marking submarine was in the correct position and no difficulty was experienced in picking up her transmissions and the screened signal lamp. Swell caused some difficulty in embarking troops in L.C.I. (L), and wind and sea made some formations late in getting underway.\n\nThe assault waves touched down up to thirty minutes late, but with one exception the correct beaches were all found.\n\nAlthough the wind had considerably decreased the big ships were quickly set down to leeward: _i.e.,_ the south-eastward: and the follow-up flights had considerably more than the planned distance to cover.\n\nThere was little organised resistance to the landings and after a short period of heavy machine-gun fire the defenders withdrew. A few casualties were caused by mines on one beach before it was cleared. Success signals were received from all beaches by 0500 and ships were then ordered to close the shore without waiting for the anchorage to be swept for mines.\n\nFrom first light onwards there was considerable shelling from batteries inshore, but these were silenced by supporting destroyers and gunboats by 0800.\n\nThe arrival of L.C.T. with supporting arms was rather disorganised, and none beached before daylight. Two of the beaches at ACID NORTH intended for use by L.C.T. were found to be composed of large boulders instead of the shingle indicated by the air photographs, a fact which did not make easier the task of beaching the craft and discharging them. The slow assault convoy arrived an hour-and-a-half late, but all had taken up their anchor berths by 0700.\n\nThe first large personnel ship completed discharging by 0900 and all, with one exception, had disembarked personnel and baggage and hoisted their craft by 1415. With four exceptions they were on passage to Malta at 1500.\n\nThe rate of discharge of L.C.T. was slow, but the unloading of the slow convoy proceeded satisfactorily in spite of being unable to discharge L.S.T. and L.C.T. at most of the beaches without pontoon bridging and difficulties with wheeled vehicles due to heavy shingle and soft sand.\n\n#### Gun Support.\n\nThe following details of gun support are available:-\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nSince the assaults met little opposition, fire from the destroyers in support was confined to a few rounds only and L.C.S. were able to furnish all the support needed on the beaches.\n\nBetween 0415 and 0542, when the battery was silenced, H.M.S. BLANKNEY at a range of 6,000 yards fired 80 rounds at P.4 battery in ROGER sector. At 0740 another 37 rounds were fired at the same battery, fire ceasing when our troops were seen in the vicinity.\n\nH.M.S. ROBERTS carried out three shoots in the course of the day:\n\n> (i) at 0510. Impromptu from anchor at a range of 15,000 yards against the Casa Guiliano battery of five 149 mm. guns which had fired about a dozen rounds haphazard at landing craft without scoring a hit. After ten rounds from H.M.S. ROBERTS the battery was silenced.\n> \n> (ii) 0540, another four rounds from 15,000 yards for the second time silenced the same battery which had again opened ineffective fire at craft on and close to the beach.\n> \n> (iii) 1556, at the request of the army, fourteen rounds were fired at the southern outskirts of Spaccaforno and the area was observed to be well covered by the fall of shot.\n\nH.M.S. BRISSENDEN also carried out several shoots:\n\n> (i) at 0645, at a range of 3,800 yards, six smoke shell to thicken the screen laid by L.C.S. on SUGAR RED beach. Result was good.\n> \n> (ii) 1550 to 1600 at anchor, range 11,000 yards, with H.M.S. ROBERTS, at southern outskirts of Spaccaforno, 90 rounds in salvos seen to be spread with effect over the area.\n> \n> (iii) 1825, on call from Forward Observation Officer 84 rounds fired at infantry at Casa Basile. Result very effective.\n\nH.M.S. PUCKERIDGE.\n\n> (i) 0515, fire opened impromptu at flashes from four guns of 149 mm. of the Casa Chiusa battery which were firing irregularly and without success at landing craft. From anchor, range 9,200-8,800 yards, eight rounds. Result \u2013 battery ceased fire and was captured by troops soon after.\n> \n> (ii) 0532, at gun flashes from Casa Guiliano battery when it opened fire again after H.M.S. ROBERTS' first shoot. Range 8,000 yards, eight rounds. Result \u2013 shot seen to fall in target area, and battery ceased fire.\n> \n> (iii) 0600, the last mentioned battery again opened fire and H.M.S. PUCKERIDGE was ordered in to eliminate it. At ranges 6,000-4,200 yards, twenty rounds were fired under way and the battery which had constituted almost the only opposition to the landing was finally silenced.\n\nThree of the four L.C.G. (L) in Force \"V\" engaged direct targets during the assault, and fired ten rounds H.E. full charge each. An ammunition dump was blown up by L.C.G. (L) 9 with her seventh round at 500 yards range.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\n(i) Between 0308 and 0420, three L.C.T. (R)43 carried out pre-arranged shoots on flank targets at the beaches.\n\n(ii) After daylight H.M.S. WHADDON and EGGESFORD gave close support and three L.C.G. also fired a few rounds. H.M.S. LAFOREY also joined in the silencing of machine-guns at Portopalo Bay.\n\n(iii) Later in the day ships of the Bombarding Squadron (H.M.S. NEWFOUNDLAND, ORION, LAFOREY, LOYAL, LOOKOUT) direct shoots at areas five miles inland including Rosolini and Spaccaforno.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\nL.C.S. and L.C.F. replied with effect to the machine-gun fire and sniping encountered by the assault craft on beaching.\n\nH.N.M.S. SOEMBA and FLORES engaged a battery 2,000 yards north of Pachino at 0533, which with five guns of 100 mm. had been firing at the rate of one round per gun per minute a defensive barrage on a line about 200 yards off the beaches. The two ships underway and keeping station on dan buoys, at ranges of 7,000 and 7,800 yards respectively, fired in periods until 0645 when the battery was virtually neutralised.\n\n### D. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nBombardments were carried out as follows:-\n\n> (i) By H.M.S. MAURITIUS.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 0600, fire was opened on a coast defence battery which had been worrying How and JIG beaches. After thirty-six rounds had been fired no further shelling occurred from this direction although great difficulty was experienced in locating the target.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 0840, in response to a call, a defended area was bombarded for five minutes, the shells appearing, from visual observation, to hit the required area.\n> \n> (ii) By H.M.S. ESKIMO.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 0545 at a range of 10,000 yards, five salvos were fired at a battery concealed among trees north-east of Avola which had been dropping shells on How sector. The battery ceased fire.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 0610, at another battery shelling How beaches. The battery quickly ceased fire but opened up again soon after. The bombardment was resumed at 0715 and after the sixth salvo there was an explosion and fire at the position of the battery from which nothing further was heard.\n> \n> (iii) By H.M.S. TETCOTT.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 0510, opened fire at a battery which had been shelling JIG beaches, and drew its fire which was very inaccurate.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 0559, changed target to another battery giving trouble at the beaches, but as H.M.S. MAURITIUS opened fire at about the same time, reverted to first target so as not to confuse her, the first battery having again come into action. The battery ceased fire as a result.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) at 0641, opened fire at a third battery of three guns, which ceased fire.\n> \n> (iv) By H.M.S. TARTAR.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 0410, fire was opened at two searchlights in the vicinity of Avola, which were extinguished.\n> \n> (v) By H.M.S. EREBUS.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 1415, fire was opened on an infantry defended post with six pill boxes. Target reported destroyed after twelve rounds at 12,600 yards had all been spotted and corrected upon the target, including two direct hits and seven within one hundred yards of the centre of the target.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 1945 at a range of 18,700 yards, six rounds fired at another infantry defended post. Five direct hits and target reported by Forward Observation Officer as destroyed.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\nPrior to the landings enemy air activity against the expedition was non-existent and it was only slight throughout D day. Some details were as follows:-\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nShortly after 2200, an attack was made on the anchorage in the course of which a stick of bombs fell close between H.M.S. HAMBLEDON and H.M.S. WALLACE. Flares dropped by the aircraft were effective but the anchorage was heavily protected by smoke and no damage was sustained.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nThere were indications of air activity, but no bombs were dropped. One low-flying aircraft was shot down after dark.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\n(i) At 0550 two Me.109 made a cannon-fire attack on RED beach; one stoker of an L.C.S. was wounded.\n\n(ii) From 2010 to midnight there were intermittent attacks on the ships and H.M.S. ALYNBANK was near missed by a dive attack, two ratings being killed.\n\nD. ACID NORTH and SOUTH.\n\nWhile waiting to cover the later flights two L.C.S. (M) were machine-gunned by an aircraft and some minor casualties were suffered; the aircraft was seriously damaged. Then between 0630 and 0700 fighter bombers appeared overhead but no bombs were dropped. Next, at 1015 about ten Ju.88 and some F.W.190 dropped bombs in the vicinity of shipping. During the afternoon two L.C.T. were damaged by near misses and in further intermittent attacks, including an attack by forty aircraft at 1630, near misses on S.S. BERGENSFIORD and L.S.T. 407 were the only incidents of note.\n\nNight attacks began soon after 2100 and a considerable number of bombs scored no direct hits until 2200, when the hospital ship TALAMBA, lying illuminated five miles to seaward of GEORGE sector, was sunk in a deliberate attack. Another hospital ship, ABA, was attacked at the same time, but escaped damage.\n\nD + 1 DAY.\n\n_Sunday, 11th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Weather and sea conditions continued to improve at all sectors, though some wind and surf persisted at BARK WEST and ACID.\n\n_Situation at beaches._\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nThe beaches assaulted were unsatisfactory for maintenance owing to flat gradients, the sandbars already mentioned, and poor exits. SUGAR RED beach I was opened and proved satisfactory for L.C.M. and vehicles and guns were unloaded here throughout the day, while L.S.T. and L.C.T. discharged on to ROGER RED. Unloading as a whole was slow, some of the delays being attributable to the inexperience of the men handling the Vehicle Landing Ramp, its liability to \"snake\" and the length of time required for adjustment when an L.S.T. came up to it.\n\nH.M.S. BOXER, THRUSTER and BRUISER having completed, sailed with three M.T. ships for Malta, leaving twelve ships of the slow assault convoy to complete discharging.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nUnloading of L.S.T. continued satisfactorily throughout the day and by nightfall nearly all of the first flight was unloaded and twenty had sailed for Malta with H.M.S. ROYAL ULSTERMAN, S.N.O.L. (Q) having landed and established himself and party ashore at AMBER beach. The General Officer Commanding 30 Corps had also disembarked during the afternoon and set up his headquarters ashore. At 1900 H.M.S. LARGS sailed for BARK EAST and the A\/S patrol off BARK SOUTH was discontinued, the destroyers thus released reinforcing the patrol at BARK EAST.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\nUnloading at this sector was delayed as a result of the time required for discharging L.C.T. with 51 Division stores which had been transferred from BARK SOUTH owing to the poor beaches in the latter area. In addition, L.S.T. 9, also from BARK SOUTH, grounded on Isola Grande.\n\n### D. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nThe only outstanding incident was the successful launching of D.U.K.W. from L.S.T. over the ramp while the L.S.T. were underway. It was found that this method of discharge presented no difficulty in fine weather. Good progress was made with unloading M.T. and stores, the flow to the beaches increasing steadily and much of the arrears due to delays in discharging L.C.T. the previous day was made up.\n\n_Large L.S.I. sail from Malta. \u2013_ Convoy M.K.F. 18 consisting of eleven large L.S.I. sailed from Malta westbound and soon after midday twelve similar ships left eastbound in M.E.F. 36.\n\n_Malta shuttle service begins. \u2013_ The first empty landing ships and craft arrived back at Malta from Sicily and the shuttle service commenced. The first empty M.T. ships were also sailed from the beaches.\n\n_Gun Support._\n\nSupporting fire was provided by ships at various points as required from time to time. In particular:\n\n> (i) between 0030 and 0250, at the request of 1st Canadian Division, H.M.S. ROBERTS fired from anchor four rounds in each of three prearranged shoots from 12,400 yards at high ground in the Pozzallo area. H.M.S. BLANKNEY and BLENCATHRA had earlier in the night carried out harassing fire on the same area. The object of these shoots, which was achieved, was to force the enemy to retire before the Division advanced at 0300.\n> \n> (ii) between 1130 and 1205, simultaneously with a shoot by H.M.S. DELHI on Spaccaforno and by H.M.S. BRISSENDEN on Pozzallo, H.M.S. ROBERTS on request from 1st Canadian Division carried out a prearranged shoot on an area N.E. and S.W. of Rosolini in which the enemy were concentrating. At a range of 18,000 yards, 30 rounds were fired from anchor, the area being swept three times. All enemy troops who came under this fire were demoralised and surrendered promptly.\n> \n> (iii) H.M.S. BRISSENDEN, under way, fired 40 rounds at a gun emplacement and 120 rounds at a building and area in the vicinity of Pozzallo. At the conclusion of the shoot a white flag was hoisted on the gun emplacement.\n> \n> (iv) H.M.S. ORION carried out a bombardment of Medica at the rear of BARK WEST.\n> \n> (v) H.M.S. UGANDA engaged a hostile battery at the southern end of Augusta Bay.\n> \n> (vi) H.M.S. UGANDA and MAURITIUS bombarded the enemy's line of retreat in the vicinity of Augusta.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\nThere was rather more activity by enemy aircraft and it was more widespread than on D day. Some particulars follow:-\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nSporadic attacks during the night D day\/D + l day caused no damage to ships but were responsible for a few casualties.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nNo loss or damage was suffered, though there were several \"Red\" warnings.\n\n### C. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nSeveral sharp raids took place and at 1235, S.S. BAARN at anchor off JIG sector was near missed by a Ju.88 and cased petrol in No. 1 hold set on fire. The fire became uncontrollable and in view of the risk of a serious ammunition explosion she was later sunk. Another M.T. ship JOSEPH C. CANNON off How received a direct hit at about 1900, but although the ship's bottom was penetrated no fire resulted as the hold was nearly empty and she was eventually able to proceed to Malta. Raids after dark were ineffective.\n\n_Syracuse occupied. \u2013_ The army entered Syracuse at 2100 on 10th July, and at 0600\/11th July, fleet sweepers and B.Y.M.S.,44 escorted by H.M.S. NUBIAN and H.M.S. TARTAR, proceeded to sweep the approach channel into the port. No mines were swept; there was no opposition, and at 0830 H.M.S. WHITEHAVEN passed through the gate. Naval Commander Force \"A\" entered in H.M.S. CROMARTY shortly after, and the majority of the port party landed at the same time. The boom and gate were intact, though in poor condition in spite of the existence of spare gear on the spot. The town was almost deserted. There was no damage to port installations apart from that caused by our own aircraft on the night of the beach assaults. About 2130, Naval Commander Force \"A\" advised that all personnel ships of the convoys due on D + 3 day should proceed to Syracuse to discharge.\n\n_Pozzallo occupied. \u2013_ Following the bombardment by H.M.S. BRISSENDEN mentioned above, the white flag was hoisted and H.M.S. BRISSENDEN closed the town of Pozzallo.\n\nThe Bombardment Liaison Officer and an armed party landed and accepted the surrender at 1315, returning on board with 98 prisoners. The port was found to be useless for unloading either vessels or craft.\n\n_A.A. cruisers transferred. \u2013_ To strengthen the defence of the ACID anchorages which had so far borne the greater part of the enemy's air attacks, H.M.S. DELHI, hitherto at BARK WEST, was transferred to the orders of Naval Commander Force \"A\" from noon.\n\nH.M.S. COLOMBO from Force \"V\" was transferred to the Western Task Force to reinforce the protection of Gela anchorage where enemy aircraft were also troublesome.\n\nD + 2 DAY.\n\n_Monday, 12th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Weather continued fine, and on the whole less inconvenience was experienced from swell at the anchorages and beaches, though it still retarded the rate of discharge at the western end of the area.\n\n_Situation at beaches._\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\n\"G\" Naval Commando moved from SUGAR sector to BARK SOUTH and \"N\" Commando took over SUGAR sector in addition to ROGER.\n\nM.T. continued to come in on SUGAR RED I beach and a number of L.C.T. beached at SUGAR RED II. The exits from these beaches were only moderate, and the roads behind bad, while approximately one vehicle in three was \"drowned\" getting ashore. Accordingly it was decided that S.N.O.L. (S) should transfer to BARK SOUTH (QUEEN sector) and receive the follow-up convoy, while S.N.O.L. (R) remained to complete the discharge of the assault convoy over ROGER sector. Stores began to come in at about midday, and an urgent call for petrol in the evening was met by unloading from L.C.T. throughout the night.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH and EAST.\n\nAt 0600 the first follow-up convoy of L.S.T. arrived at BARK SOUTH and commenced to beach and unload during the forenoon. All the original L.S.T. and L.C.T. completed unloading by the afternoon. The rocky ledge at the eastern end of AMBER beach had been levelled and improved by this time to an extent which enabled five L.S.T. to be discharged at a time.\n\nTwo M.T. ships from BARK WEST arrived at BARK SOUTH and commenced to discharge by means of D.U.K.W.\n\nNaval Commander Force \"B\" decided that as soon as the M.T. ships of the assault convoy were cleared BARK EAST beaches should be kept open mainly for 51 Division stores in L.C.T. which were becoming congested at BARK SOUTH and that S.S. DIOMED, the only follow-up ship destined for BARK EAST, should be diverted to BARK SOUTH.\n\nLate in the evening the two Category \"A\" ships of the assault convoy completed unloading (the third had been sunk en route).\n\n### C. (i) ACID SOUTH.\n\nDischarge was completed of the four Class \"A\" M.T. ships of the assault convoy and the stevedores thus released were transferred to the Class \"B\" ships.\n\n(ii) ACID NORTH ___________________________________\n\nAt 1900 an additional beach, called BLUE, was opened at the northern end of the sector and proved satisfactory for both L.C.T. and L.C.M. though inadequate approaches and shortage of labour precluded its use for landing stores.\n\n#### Gun Support.\n\nSupporting fire was provided by ships as and when required and opportunity offered.\n\nH.M.S. MAURITIUS had a busy day and carried out shoots as follows:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) from 0830 to 0900, in response to an urgent call for support, Mellili was effectively engaged.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 0930, a coast battery was engaged and gave no further trouble.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) at 1115, in response to an immediate call, a battery north of Priolo which was holding up the army's advance was effectively engaged. After a short bombardment the Forward Observation Officer reported the target destroyed.\n> \n> ( _d_ ) at 1205, fire, reported effective from direct observation, was again opened on Mellili.\n> \n> ( _e_ ) at 1251, a strong point near Augusta was bombarded at the request of the army.\n> \n> ( _f_ ) at 1340, Mellili was again bombarded, direct observation indicating that the fire was effective.\n> \n> ( _g_ ) at 1403, the target was another defended post and the Forward Observation Officer reported the shoot as particularly satisfactory.\n> \n> ( _h_ ) at 1500, an accurate and successful shoot on a defended area near Augusta.\n> \n> ( _i_ ) from 1532 to 1541, direct fire in the Augusta area.\n> \n> ( _j_ ) from 1834 to 1843, a successful shoot at a coast defence battery.\n> \n> ( _k_ ) at 2006, an effective shoot on Augusta defences in support of a commando landing from H.M.S. ULSTER MONARCH.\n\nH.M.S. TETCOTT, in support of the commando landing from H.M.S. ULSTER MONARCH,\n\n> ( _a_ ) at 1930, engaged and silenced a light high velocity gun on the ridge overlooking Augusta.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at about the same time, effectively bombarded at a range of three cables with 4-inch pom-pom and Oerlikon a cement works near the shore from which machine-gun fire was observed.\n\nH.M.S. EREBUS was also well occupied during the day carrying out the following shoots:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) from 0542 to 0602, coast defence batteries, range 1,800 yards, rounds 27. Target area covered.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) from 0628 to 0634, anti-aircraft battery, range 2,650 yards, rounds 10. Target area covered.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) from 0653 to 0658, coast defence battery, range 3,000 yards, rounds 6. Target area covered, probable ammunition dump blown up.\n> \n> ( _d_ ) from 0744 to 0747, coast defence battery, range 14,800 yards, rounds 6. Target area covered, and barracks observed hit.\n> \n> ( _e_ ) from 0749 to 0756, coast defence battery, range 3,000 yards, rounds 8. Target area covered and explosion observed.\n> \n> ( _f_ ) from 1018 to 1029, coast defence batteries, range 11,000 yards, rounds 13. Target area covered and explosion observed.\n> \n> ( _g_ ) from 1031 to 1033, same coast defence batteries, range 10,000 yards, rounds 7. Target area covered and on closing to two miles, guns in first target observed apparently intact but building immediately behind damaged. Guns of second target badly damaged.\n> \n> ( _h_ ) from 1050 to 1058, H.A. battery, range 12,600 yards, rounds 10. Indirect shoot, no spotting.\n> \n> ( _i_ ) from 1132 to 1142, town of Mellili, range 18,300 yards, rounds 12, of which 8 observed to fall in target area.\n> \n> ( _j_ ) from 1338 to 1400, town of Mellili, range 18,000 yards, rounds 32. Whole area of town covered.\n\nH.M.S. ORION and UGANDA also carried out bombardments in the vicinity of Mellili and Augusta in the course of the day.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\nOnce again the northern end of the area experienced the heaviest attacks during a day when activity was on much the same scab as the previous day. Details:-\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nThere was slight activity at dawn, and one aircraft was shot down by a night fighter controlled by the radar set in L.C.T. 305.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nA raid warning in the early hours left BARK SOUTH untouched. On this occasion M.L.s45 put up a very effective smoke screen. After nightfall, further warnings, with aircraft passing overhead, still produced no bombs.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\nThe hospital ship DORSETSHIRE had arrived the previous afternoon and before nightfall had been sent to sea by S.N.O.L. (N) so as to be well clear of the assault area and illuminated during the night. Nevertheless, at 0500\/12th July, she was attacked and sustained some structural damage and casualties from near misses. Though the attacks on the anchorage were of some weight no other damage was caused.\n\nFollowing the experience of TALAMBA and DORSETSHIRE the latter and AMRA were for the night of 12th\/13th July darkened and anchored close to the convoy so as to have the benefit of the anti-aircraft and smoke protection of the anchorage.\n\n### D. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nAt 0500, H.M.S. ESKIMO, when about three miles to the southward of Cape Murro di Porco on her way with Naval Commander Force \"A\" to investigate the situation at Augusta, was attacked by several aircraft and hit in Nos. 5 and 6 oil fuel tanks. The ship stopped and was ordered to Malta in tow of H.M.S. TARTAR; they arrived at 1700 without further incident.\n\nAt dawn an attack developed off JIG sector and a near miss at the fore end of S.S. OCEAN PEACE caused a fire in the cased petrol in No. 1 hold. The fire could not be controlled and the ship had to be sunk to prevent further disaster. The usual raids after dark on anchorage and beaches were again ineffective, causing only a few casualties ashore. A good smoke screen was put up before the raids began.\n\n_Augusta entered. \u2013_ Late the previous night there had been a report that Augusta was being evacuated by the enemy and in execution of orders from Naval Commander Eastern Task Force, sweepers proceeded to sweep the channel at first light. They were not molested by coast defence batteries, which were under occasional fire from H.M.S. EREBUS to keep them quiet, but a field gun opened fire on the B.Y.M.S. (L.L.) when on their last leg out.\n\nAt 1045, H.M.S. EXMOOR, flying the flag of Naval Commander Force \"A\" \u2013 he had transferred from H.M.S. ESKIMO after she had been bombed \u2013 proceeded into the harbour. The gate was open and the boom vessel abandoned, and there was no sign of life until a field gun, or possibly a tank, concealed behind trees, began shelling the ship at short range. The fire was accurate, and as no target could be distinguished EXMOOR was ordered out. No counter shoot could be conducted owing to the proximity of our own troops.\n\n_N.C.E.T.F. enters Augusta. \u2013_ H.M.S. EXMOOR with the Greek Hunt class destroyer KANARIS in company re-entered the port at 1600 followed later by H.M.S. BROCKLESBY flying the flag of Naval Commander Eastern Task Force. Again the ships had to withdraw because of fire from high velocity guns of 3 to 4-inch calibre to which no adequate reply could be made owing to uncertainty in regard to the exact whereabouts of our own troops. Much transport was seen in motion ashore, but could not be engaged as it was not known whether they were friend or foe \u2013 they were in fact enemy.\n\nLate in the evening one of the brigades of 5 Division penetrated into the town, and the naval port party arrived from Malta. The army's hold was, however, precarious, and later the S.B. Squadron, S.A.S. Regiment46 was successfully landed by H.M.S. ULSTER MONARCH as a reinforcement. In consequence of this uncertainty and a statement by the Brigadier that he might have to retire from the town, the Naval Officer-in-Charge temporarily withdrew his party except for some key ratings.\n\n_H.M.S. ROBERTS to Acid North. \u2013_ H.M.S.ROBERTS from Force \"V\" was ordered to move to ACID NORTH ready to be called forward either to join Force \"K\" or to supplement the anti-aircraft defences of captured ports as and when required. In the meantime she was placed under the orders of Naval Commander Force \"A\".\n\n_U-boats. \u2013_ Although it was estimated that some eighteen Italian U-boats were at sea in the area of operations of the Eastern and Western Task Forces there had so far been no contact with any. This day, however, several were encountered.\n\nH.M.S. OAKLEY claimed a \"probably sunk\" in the vicinity of Sousse, and the Greek Hunt class destroyer PINDOS was unsuccessfully attacked two miles east of Cape Passero at 0445. The latter U-boat was counter-attacked, and one pattern of depth charges dropped, but though A\/S vessels hunted until noon no further contact was obtained.\n\n_BRONZO captured. \u2013_ While the 14th Minesweeping Flotilla were engaged in screening the cruisers bombarding Augusta, H.M.S. SEAHAM sighted a periscope shortly before 1300 and closed at full speed with the intention of ramming. The U-boat surfaced and fire was opened on it with all possible weapons and hits were observed on the conning tower with the 3-inch. The U-boat replied, but surrendered after a sharp engagement, which had lasted about half-an-hour. The U-boat was the Italian BRONZO, and she was towed by H.M.S. SEAHAM to Syracuse. Twenty prisoners were taken out of a crew of forty, the remainder including the Commanding Officer having been killed by gunfire or drowned when abandoning ship.\n\n_H.M.S. BLANKNEY and BRISSENDEN in collision. \u2013_ While on A\/S patrol off BARK WEST, H.M.S. BLANKNEY and H.M.S. BRISSENDEN came into collision. Both sustained damage and were detached to Malta for repairs, BRISSENDEN proceeding there p.m. 12th July and BLANKNEY p.m. 13th July.\n\nD + 3 DAY.\n\n_Tuesday, 13th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ The weather remained fine, and the calm sea permitted the passage to Sicily from Malta of lighters and harbour craft for use in the captured ports.\n\nN.C.F.V. takes over from N.C.F.B. \u2013 _In pursuance of orders given by Naval Commander Eastern Task Force when in Sicily the previous day, Naval Commander Force \"V\" at 0400 took over the BARK areas from Naval Commander Force \"B\" who proceeded to Syracuse to assume duty as Flag Officer Sicily._\n\nSituation at beaches.\n\n### A. BARK SOUTH.\n\nS.N.O.L. (Q) left for Sousse during the forenoon and S.N.O.L. (S) from BARK WEST took over the sector.\n\nThe follow-up convoys, K.M.F. and K.M.S. 19, consisting of three personnel, fourteen M.T. ships and two petrol carriers arrived at BARK SOUTH at 0700. Unloading of M.T. by L.C.T. and of stores by a fleet of about fifty D.U.K.W. began at once. By 1630 the personnel ships, using L.C.I. (L) and L.C.M., had discharged and by 1930 sailed for Malta, in addition to four M.T. ships of the slow assault convoy for Tripoli. This left eight ships of the slow assault convoy and the newcomers remaining at the beaches.\n\n### B. BARK EAST and WEST.\n\nNaval Commander Force \"V\" decided in the forenoon to continue his predecessor's policy of using BARK EAST only for L.C.T. when the assault convoy M.T. ships had been cleared. This entailed all ships, as opposed to craft, leaving BARK EAST p.m. and resulted in the S.N.O.L. ship H.M.S. ALYNBANK being withdrawn. The latter was in any case particularly needed to increase the anti-aircraft protection at BARK SOUTH.\n\nIn the afternoon, however, there was a partial reversal of this plan when, with a view to avoiding the increased concentration at BARK SOUTH which would result from the decision to close BARK WEST, the Naval Commander Force \" V\" ordered three nearly empty M.T. ships from BARK WEST to BARK EAST the following day. The one ship of the follow-up convoy for BARK EAST which had been diverted, was also sent back there.\n\nThe decision to close BARK WEST was reached because BARK SOUTH was in every way superior. L.S.T. and L.C.T. could beach at the eastern end without using a ramp, and L.C.M. could land stores almost dry shod at the western end which was backed by a good maintenance area.\n\nIn consequence of these changes S.N.O.L. (S) transferred to BARK SOUTH while S.N.O.L. (R) remained at BARK WEST and S.N.O.L. (N) moved ashore and set up his headquarters in a house on Isola Piccolo.\n\nThe two Category \"A\" ships of the slow assault convoy at BARK EAST sailed a.m. under escort to join the ACID portion of a convoy for Tripoli, and the three Category \"B\" ships cleared by the evening.\n\n### C. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nThe follow-up convoys M.W.F. and M.W.S. 37 arrived. The fast section entered Syracuse at 0945 and at once began to discharge. Such good progress was made that by 1800 all twelve ships were empty and away from the port. The slow section of thirty ships anchored off the beaches at 0900. Thirteen ships of the slow assault convoy having previously been cleared from the anchorage sailed immediately with the escort of M.W.S. 37. Of the new arrivals ten were ordered to enter Syracuse at first light the following day.\n\n#### Gun Support.\n\nGun support units continued their activities as required.\n\nThe following are some particulars:-\n\n> H.M.S. MAURITIUS.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) from 0900 to 0930, an apparently effective shoot, using direct observation, at Carlentini.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) a few minutes later, at a battery at Campolato which had opened fire on the ship. One hit observed and battery ceased firing.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) at 1032 and from 1144 to 1240, spasmodic engagement of gun opposition ashore. Results probably not satisfactory, observation by Forward Observation Officer difficult and possibly an incorrect map reference received.\n> \n> ( _d_ ) at 1720, against a defended post near Catania. Result reported satisfactory by Forward Observation Officer.\n> \n> ( _e_ ) from 1753 to 1800, target Lentini.\n> \n> H.M.S. TETCOTT.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at about 2300, opened fire on a defended area south of Catania in support of commando landing from H.M.S. PRINS ALBERT at Murazzo Point. Enemy guns not completely silenced. Target engaged again after midnight with the result that the enemy guns ceased fire.\n> \n> H.M.S. EREBUS.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) at 0938. Shore batteries near Carlentini, range 2,500 yards, rounds 10.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) at 1105. Catania Airfield, range 30,000 yards, rounds 10. Indirect fire.\n> \n> ( _c_ ) at 2140. Catania Airfield, rounds 20.\n> \n> Results unobserved but a fire seen when bombardment complete.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\nThe only air attacks this day were in the ACID area. There were continuous though ineffective raids during the night 12th\/13th July, as well as the usual dawn attack. The most serious incident occurred a little before noon when two fighter bombers scored hits on S.S. THOMAS PICKERING in the after hold. The ship, which had only arrived earlier in the morning, became a total loss.\n\nShortly before midnight intermittent attacks with bombs and torpedoes on the empty personnel ships from Syracuse caused some confusion but no damage or casualties.\n\n_Augusta. \u2013_ The naval port party returned during the forenoon. The town was found deserted with considerable damage at the northern end but none at the southern end. There was no power and a shortage of water.\n\nThe conditions in the harbour varied in one part and another. Only the northern entrance was open, but there was a four hundred foot quay with twenty-two feet of water alongside and ample berthing for all types of landing ship. The Carlo del Molo harbour and jetties were, however, found to be completely obstructed. The floating dock was undamaged and, in addition to one large oil carrier and three small petrol carriers, lighters were available though without means of towage.\n\n_Commando landing. \u2013_ After dark H.M.S. PRINS ALBERT successfully landed No. 3 Commando with little loss near Murazzo Point, north of Augusta. H.M.S. TETCOTT, escorting, effectively engaged a battery which opposed the landing and also sank one of three E-boats47 which attacked.\n\n_Local Defence Forces. \u2013_ In view of the progress made and in anticipation of the capture of Catania, Naval Commander Eastern Task Force re-allocated local defence forces as follows:-\n\n> 1. | Syracuse.  \n> 13th Trawler Group (A\/S),  \n> 153rd B.Y.M.S. Flotilla,  \n> 6 H.D.M.L. from Force \"A\".  \n> ---|---  \n> |   \n> 2. | Augusta.  \n> 8th Trawler Group (A\/S, M\/S48),  \n> 105th M.M.S. Flotilla,  \n> |   \n> 4 | H.D.M.L. from Force \"B\".  \n> |   \n> 3. | Catania.  \n> 4th Trawler Group (A\/S, M\/S),  \n> 4 H.D.M.L. from Force \"A\",  \n> 2 H.D.M.L. from Force \"B\".  \n> |   \n> 4. | Group \"P\".  \n> Hunt class destroyers, CROMARTY, POOLE, BOSTON, SEAHAM and 22nd M.L. Flotilla to be based on Augusta when Catania occupied.  \n> |   \n> 5. | 20th M.G.B. Flotilla and 32nd M.T.B. Flotilla to be based on Augusta as ordered by Commander-in-Chief.\n\n_Inshore Squadron for army support. \u2013_ In accord with instructions from the Commander-in-Chief, Naval Commander Eastern Task Force also placed under the orders of Flag Officer Sicily for service in the inshore squadron in support of the army the following: H.M.S. EREBUS, ROBERTS, D.S. FLORES, SOEMBA, H.M.S. CROMARTY, POOLE, ROMNEY, SEAHAM, the 22nd M.L. Flotilla and temporarily two Hunts to be detailed by Naval Commander Force \"A\". It was stated that three L.C.R., three L.C.G. and four L.C.F. would also be available from Malta if required. The latter were requested forthwith by Flag Officer Sicily.\n\nS.N.O.L. prepare to leave. \u2013 _At the end of the day proposals were submitted by S.N.O.L. (N) and (Q), with which Naval Commander Force \"V\" concurred, that they should withdraw from the Island on the 15th July with their staffs, leaving the Beach Commando and Deputy S.N.O.L. at BARK EAST and a nucleus beach party at BARK SOUTH. Naval Commander Eastern Task Force also concurred with this._\n\nU-boats. \u2013 _Further successes were recorded against U-boats at no great distance from the operational area of the Eastern Task Force._\n\n_M.T.B. operating under the orders of the Commander-in-Chief encountered two U-boats southbound in position 38\u00b010' N.15\u00b027' E. and sank one with a torpedo. The U-boat was not identified._\n\n_H.M.S. ECHO and H.M.S. ILEX, two of Force \"H\" destroyer screen, sank the Italian NEREIDE in position 37\u00b0 36' N. 16\u00b0 17' E., taking twenty-five prisoners. This boat was only twenty-four hours out from its base._\n\nD + 4 DAY.\n\n_Wednesday, 14th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Weather was unchanged at very fine.\n\nSituation at beaches.\n\n### A. BARK WEST.\n\nAll unloading was stopped over these beaches. The M.T. ships were divided between BARK SOUTH and EAST with their superior facilities and there was an improvement in the rate of unloading. All ships were clear of BARK WEST by 2030 and H.M.S. HILARY, headquarters ship Force \"V\", anchored at BARK SOUTH.\n\nSix more ships of the slow assault convoy were sailed at midday.\n\n### B. BARK SOUTH.\n\nS.N.O.L. (S) set up his headquarters in a house above Punta Portopalo with Deputy S.N.O.L. and a V\/S49 station in the centre of the stores beach.\n\nL.S.T. were employed in addition to L.C.T. in transferring vehicles from the M.T. ships, as more transport was urgently needed at the front.\n\n### C. BARK EAST.\n\nThe three Category \"B\" ships of the assault convoy sailed at 1400 to BARK SOUTH to join convoy. This left only one M.T. ship in the anchorage.\n\n### D. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nThe remaining ships of the slow assault convoy were sailed for Tripoli at 0630.\n\nJIG sector closed down and all M.T. ships and landing craft proceeded to Syracuse. GEORGE and HOW sectors were progressing well though the stevedores were very tired owing to the frequent night air raids. To alleviate this they had been sent to sleep ashore.\n\n_N.C.F.A. turns over to F.O.S.Y. \u2013_ Naval Commander Force \"A\" turned over all operations from Syracuse northwards to Flag Officer Sicily who was by now at Syracuse in H.M.S. LARGS. In the evening, having finished at ACID, he proposed turning over to S.N.O.L. (H) with a view to proceeding to Malta the following day in H.M.S. BULOLO.\n\n_KM._ 19 _Y ordered forward. \u2013_ By noon the situation was such that the Commander-in-Chief ordered forward convoys K.M.F. and K.M.S. 19Y, _i.e.,_ those parts of the follow-up convoys from the United Kingdom which had been held at Algiers until required.\n\n_H.M.S. CARLISLE to Augusta. \u2013_ About midday Naval Commander Eastern Task Force ordered H.M.S. CARLISLE to be sent to Augusta as soon as Flag Officer Sicily thought fit, to provide long range air warning. Flag Officer Sicily had, in fact, released her the previous day as he had expected Syracuse to be empty that night except for H.M.S. LARGS and L.S.T. He was of the opinion, however, that she should return to Syracuse on 14th when M.T. ships were due, as the A.A. defences were still below minimum and somewhat extempore.\n\n_Gun support. \u2013_ Ships continued to give supporting fire to the army as required but, apart from a bombardment of Lentini by H.M.S. MAURITIUS lasting from 0702 to 0730, there were no shoots of particular note.\n\n_Enemy Air Activity._\n\nThe night 13th\/14th July was almost free of air raids and the customary dawn attack at ACID was less intense than on previous days. While on patrol at BARK SOUTH after dark H.M.S. MENDIP and H.M.S. WALLACE were bombed. The full moon and many flares dropped by the enemy made evasion difficult for the destroyers, which apparently were taken as substitute targets, since the merchantmen in the anchorage were quite invisible in the smoke screen put up. Several sticks of bombs fell within one to two cables of the destroyers but no damage or casualties were caused. There was much activity and many flares were dropped at about 2100 but no incidents occurred.\n\nAt BARK EAST in the evening smoke cover was also used most effectively, the ships being well backed up from the shore. After the smoke had become effective three M.T. ships and two hospital carriers made the anchorage safely. One circling torpedo was reported, but failed to find a target and neither at BARK EAST or at ACID were any ships damaged by bombs.\n\nAt Syracuse there were no daylight raids, and three night raids by single aircraft were ineffective.\n\nGreat confidence was inspired among the ships by the successes of night fighters, and A\/S screening vessels also took toll of low-flying aircraft.\n\n_Own aircraft engaged by ships._ \u2013 As a result of our own aircraft being engaged by our ships, in particular low-flying transport aircraft on the night 13th\/14th July, the Commander-in-Chief issued orders that fire was to be withheld unless aircraft were clearly identified as hostile, and that the strictest fire discipline was essential.\n\n_A\/S measures. \u2013_ Implementing the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean's policy of employing every possible A\/S vessel in active offensive measures against the known concentration of U-boats in the operational area, Group \"W\" of four Hunts was detached from Force \"B\" to devote all its time to systematic hunting.\n\nD + 5 DAY.\n\n_Thursday, 15th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ There was no change in the weather which remained fine and calm.\n\nSituation at beaches.\n\n### A. BARK SOUTH.\n\nL.C.M. arrived from BARK WEST where there was nothing more for them to do, and the number of D.U.K.W. available was increased to about 160. By this time a number of L.C.M. were suffering from defects (though many continued to run satisfactorily on one engine), as the beach repair party were still at BARK WEST salvaging damaged craft.\n\nBy the end of a good day little M.T. remained to be discharged and two ships were sailed.\n\n### B. BARK EAST.\n\nAfter a considerable quantity of stores had been discharged from the ships which had come round from BARK WEST they were sailed at 1800 to join a Tripoli convoy from ACID. Two further M.T. ships arrived during the evening from BARK SOUTH having discharged their vehicles there.\n\n### C. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nSeven ships of the D + 3 day convoy completed discharge and sailed in convoy at about1600.\n\nH.M.S. BULOLO with Naval Commander Force \"A\" left at 1800 and S.N.O.L. (H) took charge of the area.\n\n_Ports. \u2013_ The situation at Syracuse was not satisfactory, and it was decided by Naval Commander Eastern Task Force that Naval Commander Force \"A\" should take over there to permit Flag Officer Sicily to proceed to Augusta where he was urgently required. Accordingly the staff of Force \"A\" were placed at the disposal of N.O.I.C. Syracuse to help straighten matters out.\n\nAt Augusta the harbour and approach channel were both swept for mines during the day with negative result. A start was made with the establishment of coastal forces and landing craft bases.\n\n_N.C.E.T.F. visits ports. \u2013_ Naval Commander Eastern Task Force visited Syracuse and Augusta in H.M.S. LAFOREY during the day.\n\n_Gun support. \u2013_ The normal supporting fire was carried out when, and where, required by the army. The only incident of note was damage inflicted by H.M.S. ROBERTS upon herself while engaged in a bombardment. This included one 4-inch mounting put out of action and an Oerlikon wrecked.\n\n_Air activity. \u2013_ Air activity was restricted to night raids in the north which resulted in nothing worse than some near misses. Heavy barrage from shore defences and extensive use of smoke probably prevented any attempt at precision bombing.\n\n_D.S. SOEMBA and FLORES to Augusta. \u2013_ By order of Flag Officer Sicily the Dutch gun-boats SOEMBA and FLORES sailed from BASK EAST for Augusta.\n\nD + 6 DAY.\n\n_Friday, 16th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Fine weather still prevailed over the whole area of operations.\n\nBeaches.\n\n### A. BARK SOUTH.\n\nDischarge of stores continued satisfactorily all day. The pontoon with three mobile cranes on it was used for discharging stores from L.C.T. and Scammels to off-load crates from beached L.C.M. Part of the beach repair parties having come round from BARK WEST, a repair park for craft was established on one section of the beach.\n\n### B. BARK EAST.\n\nGood progress was made with the unloading of the three M.T. ships in the anchorage and L.C.T. with stores for 51 Division continued to arrive from BARK SOUTH for unloading. Four ships of the 14th Minesweeping Flotilla carried out a searching sweep in the approch to the anchorage.\n\n### C. ACID SOUTH and NORTH.\n\nThe last Class \"A\" ship of the D + 3 day convoy sailed to join a convoy from Syracuse.\n\n_F.O.S.Y. to Augusta \u2013_ Flag Officer Sicily in H.M.S. LARGS transferred from Syracuse to Augusta.\n\n_K.M.S._ 19 _B and C forward. \u2013_ It was decided that K.M.S. convoys 19B and C, which had been held at Malta, should be sailed for Sicily the following morning. This was to relieve congestion at Malta and permit economic use to be made of escorts.\n\n_Gun support. \u2013_ Supporting fire was given to the army as required, but there was again no shoot worthy of particular note.\n\n_Enemy air activity. \u2013_ Only at the northern end of the area of operations was there any particular incident. Raids on a reduced scale were experienced during the night 15th\/16th July at Syracuse and near misses resulted in some damage to H.M.S. BOSTON and a few minor casualties in that ship and H.M.S. POOLE. Aircraft mining was also reported south of Syracuse by H.M.S. ROOKWOOD.\n\nD + 7 DAY.\n\n_Saturday, 17th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ There was no change in the weather which remained consistently favourable.\n\nBeaches.\n\n### A. BARK SOUTH.\n\nUnloading continued satisfactorily and four M.T. ships and two cased petrol carriers were cleared and sailed, leaving eight ships in the anchorage.\n\n### B. BARK EAST.\n\nIt was decided by Naval Commander Force \"V\" that after the completion of discharge of the three ships then present, BARK EAST beaches were to be closed. S.N.O.L. (N) was relieved in the evening by Commander R.W.D. Thompson, R.N. and Captain (D), 21st Flotilla assumed responsibility for the safety of the ships in the anchorage.\n\nWhen S.N.O.L. (N) left, all landing craft in the sector with the exception of two L.C.M. and one L.C.T. were still in good running order.\n\n_Augusta. \u2013_ The presence of two E-boats in the searched channel during the night 16th\/17th July caused minelaying to be suspected. Convoy movements were held up until 0930 when the port was re-opened after a 100 per cent. sweep of the channel over a width of two cables on either side of the centre line had been completed without disclosing a mine of any type.\n\nThe E-boats were also reported by a patrol trawler to have fired torpedoes and H.M.S. MAURITIUS at anchor in the harbour observed two flashes resembling torpedo explosions outside. No damage was done.\n\n_Syracuse. \u2013_ H.M.S. BULOLO sailed from Syracuse for Malta at 2000 with Naval Commander Force \"A\" on board, the situation being, by then, satisfactory with a new N.O.I.C., Captain A.N. Grey, R.N. temporarily in charge. It had previously been agreed between Naval Commander Force \"A\" and Flag Officer Sicily that a prolongation of the stay of H.M.S. BULOLO would eventually lead to confusion owing to divided control, and that the shore organisation would settle down more quickly when there was no doubt as to who was in charge.\n\n#### Gun Support.\n\nThe Inshore Squadron once more gave its support to the army in their operations along the coast, but no call was made upon the bombardment cruisers.\n\nIn the evening between 1842 and 1902, H.M.S. WARSPITE bombarded Catania, firing 57 rounds of 15-inch at ranges opening at 15,000 yards and finishing at 11,200 yards. At the same time the accompanying destroyers engaged shore batteries of about 4-inch calibre to the northward of Guardia. The batteries engaged the destroyers intermittently and with little accuracy.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\nEnemy aircraft were little in evidence and there was only one incident of moment. In the early hours of the morning, H.M.S. QUEEN EMMA with Royal Marine Commandos on board was near missed at Augusta, and a number of casualties were suffered among both the ship's company and the Commandos. In all about 18 were killed and about 70 wounded. In addition to superficial damage the ship sustained many holes in her sides and superstructure as well as fractures in fire main and piping systems.\n\nH.M.S. WARSPTTE saw enemy fighters once, and some unidentified aircraft on another occasion, but no attack developed.\n\n_U-boats. \u2013_ H.M.S. WARSPITE recorded that there were two doubtful reports of the presence of U-boats in her vicinity, but no contact was obtained, and no attack apparently made.\n\nD + 8 DAY.\n\n_Sunday, 18th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Favourable weather conditions still prevailed.\n\nBeaches and Ports.\n\n_Unloading was steadily becoming a matter of routine, and at 0700 S.N.O.L. (N) with his staff sailed for Malta in H.M.S. BRECON._\n\n_At BARK SOUTH as a result of some re-organisation and re-allocation of craft the daily total was again increased._\n\n_At Syracuse, operations were hindered by a serious petrol fire at the Molo San Antonio, the fuelling point connected with the bulk installation inland, and all efforts failed to extinguish the fire which continually broke out afresh. As a result, two alongside berths in the harbour were rendered untenable and the bulk storage immobilised._\n\n_At ACID NORTH, a period of twelve hours this day, Royal Engineers constructed at BLUE beach a causeway sixty feet wide with a depth of 3 feet 6 inches at the seaward end._\n\n_Three ships of the KM. 19 Y convoy arrived._\n\n_In the course of the normal patrols off the ports there were no incidents._\n\nGun support. \u2013 _Support was given to the right flank of the army by L.C.G., gunboats and destroyers, and during the forenoon H.M.S. MAURITIUS and NEWFOUNDLAND bombarded Catania._\n\nEnemy air activity. \u2013 _This was on a small scale and the night 17th\/18th July saw only one raid on Augusta. Two small fires were started ashore but no damage was suffered by port or ships._\n\nU-boats. _\u2013 A combined sweep east of Augusta was carried out during the night 17th\/18th July by destroyers and A.S.V. aircraft. 50 Two U-boats were located by aircraft in positions 37\u00b0 26' N., 16\u00b0 22' E. and 37\u00b0 09' N., 15\u00b0 42' E. respectively. The first was attacked with depth charges, and the aircraft claimed to have inflicted severe damage. The enemy was last seen on a course 047\u00b0 still on the surface, but the supporting destroyers failed to find it. The second U-boat also escaped._\n\nD + 9 DAY.\n\n_Monday, 19th July._\n\n_Weather. \u2013_ Continued fine weather was experienced at all sectors.\n\nBeaches and ports. \u2013 _At BARK SOUTH further re-arrangement resulted in the daily total of personnel, stores and vehicles which landed being still further increased._\n\nN.C.E.T.F. hauls down his flag. \u2013 _Naval Commander Eastern Task Force proceeded from Malta to Sicily for a final inspection during the day. At noon his appointment lapsed, his task being regarded as completed, and his flag was struck. The duties hitherto performed by him were assumed between them by the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, Vice-Admiral Malta and Flag Officer Sicily._\n\nERRATUM.\n\nSupplement to The London Gazette of Friday, 8th October, 1948.  \nNaval Operations in the Aegean between the 7th September, 1943, and 28th November, 1943.\n\nIn paragraph 21, after \"BEAUFORT\" _delete \"_ (Lieutenant-Commander Sir Standish O'G. Roche, Bt., D.S.O.)\"  \nand _substitute_ \"(Lieutenant J. R. L. Moore, R.N.)\".\n\nFootnotes\n\n_1_ _Force \"H\" \u2013 a British naval force under the command of Vice-Admiral A.U. Willis, C.B., D.S.O., which was employed as a covering force for this operation_.\n\n_2_ _Only the report and narrative of operations of the Naval Commander, Eastern Task Force are reproduced here_.\n\n_3_ _\"Husky\" was the code name for this operation._\n\n_4_ _The Western Task Force was an American Task Force under the command of ViceAdmiral H.K. Hewitt, U.S.N. The publication of the report of the Naval Commander Western Task Force is a matter for the United States Navy Department, and this report is therefore not included here._\n\n_5_ _H hour \u2013 the time at which it is planned that the first wave of landing craft should \"touch down\" on the beach for the assault._\n\n_6_ _Force \"B\" \u2013 a British Task Force under the command of Rear-Admiral R.R. McGrigor, C.B._\n\n_7_ _Force \"A\" \u2013 a British Task Force under the command of Rear-Admiral T.H. Troubridge, D.S.O._\n\n_8_ _L.S.T. \u2013 Landing Ship, Tank._\n\n_9_ _L.C.T. \u2013 Landing Craft, Tank._\n\n_10_ _Besides the accommodation and communications difficulties mentioned, time did not permit of the Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief changing the elaborate arrangements for controlling the air operations from Marsa._\n\n_11_ _Some of the British assault force was sailed from Egypt and the First Canadian Division from the Clyde. Part of the American assault force was mounted in the U.S.A., making only a short call at Algiers and Oran on passage to the assault beaches._\n\n_12_ _Definitions in the Beaufort scale of windforce-_  \n _Force 4 \u2013 moderate breeze (11-15 m.p.h. at sea level);_  \n_Force 6 \u2013 strong breeze (21-26 m.p.h. at sea level);_  \n_Force 7 \u2013 high wind (27-33 m.p.h. at sea level)._\n\n_13_ _BARK EAST \u2013 one of the British assault beaches (see Plan)._\n\n_14_ _CENT and DIME \u2013 American assault beaches, west of the Eastern Task Force assault area. DIME beaches were in the vicinity of Gela; CENT beaches were southeast of Gela, at places between DIME and Cape Scalambri._\n\n_15_ _(Seefoot note 14)._\n\n_16_ _S.E. \u2013 single engined._\n\n_17_ _Operation \"Fracture\" \u2013 a bombardment of Favignana (an island off the western point of Sicily) and convoy feints towards the west of Sicily._\n\n_18_ _Operation \"Arsenal\" \u2013 a bombardment of Catania (east coast of Sicily)._\n\n_19_ _P.T. boats \u2013 the counterpart of British Motor Torpedo Boats._\n\n_20_ _L.S.I. (H) \u2013 a type of Landing Ship, Infantry._\n\n_21_ _A\/S \u2013 anti-submarine._\n\n_22_ _L.C.I. (L) \u2013 Landing Craft, Infantry (Large)._\n\n_23_ _BARK WEST \u2013 one of the British assault beaches (see Plan)._\n\n_24_ _Force \"V\" \u2013 a British Task Force under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Philip L. Vian, K.B.E._\n\n_25_ _L.C.A. \u2013 Landing Craft, Assault._\n\n_26_ _H.D.M.L. \u2013 Harbour Defence Motor Launch._\n\n_27_ _BARK SOUTH \u2013 One of the British assault beaches (see Plan)._\n\n_28_ _ACID \u2013 a sector in BARK EAST (see Plan)._\n\n_29_ _L.C.R. \u2013 Landing Craft, Rocket._\n\n_30_ _L.C.G. (L) \u2013 Landing Craft, Gun (Large)._\n\n_31_ _\"Torch\" \u2013 the code name for the landings in North Africa._\n\n_32_ _L.C.M. \u2013 Landing Craft, Mechanised._\n\n_33_ _L.S.T. (2) \u2013 a type of Landing Ship, Tank._\n\n_34_ _D.U.K.W. \u2013 an amphibious vehicle._\n\n_35_ _S.N.O.L. \u2013 Senior Naval Officer Landing._\n\n_36_ _Serials \u2013 convoys of ships or groups of landing craft when employed on regular ferry service between ports or from ship to shore, were organised as a \"series\" and each passage or trip was given a \"serial\" number._\n\n_37_ _Folbot \u2013 a collapsible rubber boat._\n\n_38_ _L.C.S. \u2013 Landing Craft, Support._\n\n_39_ _L.S.P. \u2013 Landing Ship, Personnel._\n\n_40_ _L.C.F. \u2013 Landing Craft, Flak._\n\n_41_ _L.C.P. \u2013 Landing Craft, Personnel._\n\n_42_ _M.M.S. (L.L.) \u2013 motor minesweepers._\n\n_43_ _L.C.T. (R) \u2013 Landing Craft, Tank (Rocket)._\n\n_44_ _B.Y.M.S. \u2013 British Yacht Minesweeper._\n\n_45_ _M.L.s Motor Launches._\n\n_46_ _S.B. Squadron, S.A.S. Regiment \u2013 Special Boat Squadron, Special Air Service Regiment._\n\n_47_ _E-boats \u2013 motor torpedo boats._\n\n_48_ _M\/S \u2013 minesweeping._\n\n_49_ _V\/S \u2013 visual signalling._\n\n_50_ _A.S.V. aircraft \u2013 aircraft fitted with radar equipment._\n\n**The invasion of Sicily, Operation _Husky_ , underway on Saturday, 10 July 1943; this picture shows Axis prisoners of war marching along the beach to waiting ships being watched by Royal Marine Commandos. A Landing Craft Infantry (Large) and two Landing Craft Tanks, can be seen on the beach in the background. The large scale amphibious and airborne operation was followed by six weeks of land fighting. (ww2images)**\n\n**The Allied invasion of Italy gets underway. This image shows British troops and vehicles from 128 Brigade, 46th Division being unloaded from LST 383 onto the beaches at Salerno, 9 September 1943. The main invasion force landed around Salerno on the western coast in Operation _Avalanche_ , while two supporting operations took place in Calabria (Operation _Baytown_ ) and Taranto (Operation _Slapstick_ ).(ww2images)**\n\n**Part of the Allied invasion force pictured heading towards the Italian coast as part of Operation _Shingle_ , the Allied amphibious landings at Anzio which began on 22 January 1944. (Historic Military Press)**\n\n**Tanks of an American armoured regiment are pictured disembarking from a Landing Ship, Tank\u2013LST 77 \u2013 in Anzio Harbour as the US Fifth Army's VI Corps builds up its forces in Italy. In due course, LST 77, originally part of the US Navy, was decommissioned (on 24 December 1944) and commissioned in the Royal Navy. (US National Archives)**\n\n**A vertical photographic-reconnaissance photograph taken over the docks at La Spezia, Italy, showing destroyed sheds, storehouses and workshops in an area of the naval dockyard north-east of Bassin I (lower centre), as a result of the raid by aircraft of Bomber Command on the night of 18\/19 April 1943. (Historic Military Press)**\n\n**Axis prisoners of war are pictured being guarded by British and American soldiers on 19 September 1943, as the push inland from the Salerno beachhead begins \u2013 the hills and mountains in the distance would be the scene of bitter fighting in the days and weeks to come. (Historic Military Press)**\n\n**British troops go ashore at Salerno. (Historic Military Press)**\n\n**A German _Fallschirmj\u00e4ger_ , or paratrooper, observing the lower ground from the heights of Monte Cassino, Italy, during February 1944 \u2013 an image which illustrates the scale of the challenge that Allied troops faced. (Bundesarchiv, Bild 146-1974-006-62\/Czirnich\/C C-BY-SA)**\n\n**A photograph of a 240mm howitzer of 'B' Battery, 697th Field Artillery Battalion, US Fifth Army, taken just before it fires into German-held territory around Monte Cassino, Italy, on 30 January 1944.**\n\n**German vehicles destroyed during an Allied air attack north of Cassino, Italy, in 1944. The halftrack artillery tractor carries the identification plate WH1028 348. (US National Archives)**\n\n**Bombs lie on an Allied airfield in Italy ready to be loaded into RAF Consolidated B-24 Liberators during January 1944. (US National Archives)**\n\n**The aftermath of one of the most successful German attacks on Allied shipping of the Second World War. During the raid on Bari Harbour on 2 December 1943, 105 Junkers Ju 88s of _Luftflotte2_ , achieving complete surprise, bombed shipping and personnel operating in support of the Allied campaign in Italy, sinking twenty-seven cargo and transport ships and a schooner in Bari harbour. (The James Luto Collection)**\n\n**Another view of the devastation at Bari during the _Luftwaffe_ attack on 2 December 1943. Not for nothing has the raid been called, with some justification, \"The Second Pearl Harbor\". One of the merchant vessels destroyed \u2013 the U.S. Liberty Ship _John Harvey_ \u2013had been carrying a quantity of mustard gas bombs which exploded with devastating consequences. (The James Luto Collection)**\n\n**British gunners are pictured preparing to fire on enemy positions during the fighting in and around the Serchio Valley in late 1944. The Allied intention was to dislodge German troops from a number of well-defended, but important, positions. (Historic Military Press)**\n\n**A Consolidated B-24 Liberator of No.205 Group flies over the target area during a daylight attack on the port of Monfalcone, Italy. Smoke from exploding bombs can be seen rising from the shipbuilding and repair yards and other installations in the harbour.**\n\n**US troops in action during the Battle of Garfagnana, 26\u201328 December 1944. Known to the Germans as Operation _Unternehmen Wintergewitter_ (\"Winter Storm\") and nicknamed the \"Christmas Offensive\", this was an Axis offensive on the western sector of the Gothic Line in the north Tuscan Apennines, near Massa and Lucca. (US National Archives)**\n\n##\n\n## ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET SIR ANDREW B. CUNNINGHAM'S DESPATCH ON THE LANDINGS IN THE GULF OF SALERNO\n\n9 SEPTEMBER 1943\n\n_TUESDAY, 2 MAY, 1950_\n\n### OPERATIONS IN CONNECTION WITH THE LANDINGS IN THE GULF OF SALERNO ON 9TH SEPTEMBER, 1943.\n\n#### Admiralty foreword:-\n\nThe Naval forces taking part in Operation \"Avalanche\" were under the general control of the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean.\n\nThe Naval Task Force for the operation was under the immediate command of Vice-Admiral H.K. Hewitt, U.S.N., who was known as the Commander Western Naval Task Force. This Force was charged with the escort to and the landing of the Fifth Army at Salerno and with the subsequent support of this Army until it was firmly established on shore.\n\nThe Western Naval Task Force included the Northern Attack Force (Force \"N\") composed of British and American Ships and Craft and under the command of Commodore G.N. Oliver, R.N., and the Southern Attack Force (Force \"S\") composed of U.S. Ships and Craft and under the command of Rear-Admiral John L. Hall, Jr., U.S.N.\n\nThe Naval Covering Force (Force \"H\") was under the command of Vice-Admiral Sir Algernon Willis, while the Naval Air Support Force (Force \"V\") was under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Philip Vian.\n\nThe report of the Commander Western Naval Task Force on this operation will be published by the U.S. Navy Department in due course.\n\n_The following Despatch was submitted to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty on the_ 8 _th March,_ 1945, _by Admiral of the Fleet Sir ANDREW B. CUNNINGHAM, K.T., G.C.B., D.S.O._\n\nOffice of the Commander-in Chief,  \nMediterranean Station,  \nAllied Force Headquarters.  \n _8_ th March, _1945._\n\nI have the honour to forward the report of the Naval Commander Western Task Force on the Operations in connection with the landings in the Gulf of Salerno on 9th September, 19431.\n\n2. Owing to the unavoidable delay in forwarding the report of the Naval Commander Western Task Force due to more urgent demands on the time and facilities of his staff, it is not my intention to do more than comment on the salient features of this operation, the more so since many of the lessons learnt have been incorporated in other operations which have been carried out subsequently in this and other theatres. Except insofar as is stated in the succeeding paragraphs, I fully concur with the suggestions and recommendations of the Force Commander, whose report is very full and covers every aspect of the operation.\n\n#### Planning.\n\n3. My detailed remarks on the planning of Operation \"Avalanche\" are contained in Appendix I.\n\n4. Having decided that the mainland of Italy was to be invaded on the West coast, it was clear that the seizure and development of the port of Naples was of paramount importance, since no other port in Western Italy could maintain the Military forces which it was intended to deploy.\n\n5. The choice for the actual point of attack lay between the Gulf of Gaeta and the Gulf of Salerno. The former had the advantage of having an open plain as its immediate hinterland and it was clear that a successful landing in this area might lead to the early capture of Naples. On the other hand, its beaches were, at the best, indifferent and were beyond the reach of adequate single seater fighter cover based on Sicily. The first of these disadvantages might have been overcome, the second was insurmountable. Therefore, despite the fact that on 27th July information was received that H.M.S. UNICORN, acting in the capacity of a light Fleet Carrier, and four Escort Carriers could be made available from outside my Command, it was decided that the landings must take place in the Gulf of Salerno. Here the beaches were superior to those of the Gulf of Gaeta but the area immediately inland could be covered by artillery fire from the adjacent hills. Further, the roads to Naples led through narrow defiles, which could be easily defended. These disadvantages had, however, to be accepted.\n\n6. Once again, as in Operation \"Husky\"2 the choice of D-Day was largely governed by the period of moon required for the employment of paratroops. The date finally selected for this operation was thus not entirely favourable from the Naval point of view, and the assault forces had to accept a disadvantageous light for the approach. In the event, airborne troops were not employed for the assault.\n\n#### Preparation, Training and Mounting.\n\n7. Due to the short time available between the final conquest of Sicily and mounting of Operation \"Avalanche\", there was little time available for rehearsal. In fact, as is stressed by the Naval Commander Western Task Force, it was necessary to overhaul the landing craft at first priority. Every possible repair facility in North Africa was pressed into service and the fact that more craft than had at first seemed likely were overhauled in time to take part in the operation enabled a faster build-up to be achieved than had been expected, and reflects great credit on the repair staffs concerned.\n\n8. In this connection, however, I cannot concur entirely with the remarks of the Naval Commander Western Task Force in Part IV, Section I, paragraph 18 of his report, in which he states that \"Naval Planning for Operation 'Avalanche' was affected by the late receipt of orders from higher authority and changes in the composition of the Naval Task Forces brought about by unforeseen releases of Landing Craft from Operations 'Husky' and 'Bay town'3.\" The increases in the numbers of Landing Craft assigned were largely due to the great efforts of the maintenance personnel. Further changes in the numbers and types of Landing Craft available were caused by the omission of the Naval Commander Western Task Force to provide six L.S.T.s, as required by my Operation Orders, to lift Air Force stores from Milazzo in Northern Sicily to the assault area. To take the place of these L.S.T.s a number of L.C.T.s were diverted from the Messina\/Reggio ferry service at considerable expense to the Eighth Army build-up. This is referred to more fully in paragraph 21 of this report.\n\n9. During the loading stages an unfortunate incident took place at Tripoli, due to the loading without proper authority of some smoke containers into an L.C.T. already containing ammunition. Spontaneous combustion of the smoke led to the explosion of the ammunition which put out of action four L.C.T.S which could ill be spared. This incident serves to stress the necessity for careful supervision of the loading of assault convoys.\n\n#### Italian Armistice.\n\n10. The fact that an Armistice had been signed between the Allies and the Italians was broadcast by the B.B.C. on the evening of D-1. It had been fully realised that this announcement might well engender an unjustified sense of security in the minds of those taking part in the assault. Accordingly, the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean and the Task Force Commanders sent signals warning all ships taking part in the operation that strong opposition from German forces must still be expected. There can, nevertheless, be no doubt that many took no heed of these warnings and viewed the proceedings with a sense of complacency which was not substantiated in the event.\n\n#### Intelligence.\n\n11. In general, the intelligence proved reliable and it is satisfactory to note that both beach intelligence and intelligence on fixed Coastal Defence installations were found to be accurate; the only additional defences encountered over and above those estimated being of the mobile type. That the security of the operation was not all to be desired was due to a variety of reasons, the chief of which were:-\n\n> ( _a_ ) The logical selection of the beaches (from the enemy's point of view) for the reasons given in paragraph 5.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) The Armistice.\n\nIt is interesting to note, however, that although the assaulting forces were sighted by air reconnaissance on the 7th September, it was not until 0230 on 9th September that Alarm Number 3 (\"Landing imminent or in progress\") was instituted by the Germans.\n\n#### Assault.\n\n12. The assaults, with a few minor exceptions, went according to plan. The forces arrived at the correct lowering points at the times laid down in the orders. The distances of these lowering points for the deep draught L.S.I. (L)s \u2013 9 and 10 miles from the shore \u2013 was forced upon the Task Force Commanders by an expected minefield along the 100 fathom line. This expectation was fulfilled.\n\n13. One Brigade of 56 Infantry Division was landed to the South of its allotted beach and became mixed with the other Brigade which had spread North of its sector, thereby causing considerable confusion for some hours.\n\nThe Scout Boat marking UNCLE GREEN beach was too far to the South, thus causing a gap in the 46th Division landing, which left an enemy strongpoint unneutralised. This strongpoint subsequently caused considerable trouble to the Division.\n\n14. The landing of the Rangers4 at Maiori was without opposition, but the Commando landing on Vietri was opposed by the gunfire of the shore batteries. Both these landings, however, were able to make considerable progress and to secure the left flank with the X Corps landing.\n\n15. The organisation for clearing Landing Craft and Boats of Military stores on arrival at the beaches left much to be desired. In a large number of cases boats' crews had to clear their boats themselves, with consequent delay in returning for further loads. Further, in the stress of events in the early stages after the assault, arrangements for the transfer of stores from the beaches to disposal areas further inland were inadequate. Consequently there was much congestion on the foreshore: but, by D+2 and onwards, 3,000 tons per day were being discharged over the British beaches.\n\n#### Naval Forces other than Assault Forces.\n\n16. The existence of the main cover force, Force \"H\", was rendered unnecessary by the Italian Armistice, and two Divisions of the Battle Squadron were employed to cover the passage to Malta of such units of the Italian Fleet as succeeded in making good their escape (Operation \"Gibbon\"). In addition, four Cruisers were diverted to Bizerta on D-2 to load elements of the First British Airborne Division for discharge at Taranto (Operation \"Slapstick\"), a course of action rendered possible by the Italian Armistice.\n\n17. The chief object of Force \"H\", therefore, became to provide fighter cover over the Escort Carrier force (Force \"V\").\n\n#### Air Activities.\n\n18. Fighter cover over the beaches was provided by Naval fighters from Force \"V\", and by land based fighter aircraft of the 12th Air Support Command. Fighter cover over Force \"V\" was provided by the Fleet Carriers of Force \"H\".\n\n19. The high accident rate suffered by the Escort Carriers, which was at the time attributed almost entirely to the lack of natural wind, must, in the light of more recent experience in Operation \"Dragoon\"5, be considered largely due to insufficient deck landing practice immediately prior to the operation. Wind speeds experienced during Operation \"Dragoon\" were very similar to those prevailing throughout Operation \"Avalanche\", but in spite of the fact that during the former operation the Carrier forces operated for six days and the fatigue of the pilots thereby increased considerably in the later stages, the number of deck accidents was relatively smaller.\n\n20. The plan assumed that Monte Corvino airfield would be captured on D-Day and put into operation for shore based fighters on D+l. The Escort Carriers were, therefore, only intended to operate for two days. There was, however, considerable delay in capturing Monte Corvino airfield and even after capture it was under constant artillery fire from the neighbouring hills. It was, therefore, necessary to construct an air strip near Paestum nearer to the coast, and for Force \"V\" to operate at sea for 3\u00bd days after which it was withdrawn to Palermo. Before doing so 26 aircraft were flown ashore to operate at Paestum.\n\n21. Had the Military progress proceeded according to plan considerable embarrassment would have been caused by the late arrival of Air Force material for the preparation of Monte Corvino airfield. This was caused by the non-arrival at Milazzo of six L.S.T.s destined to ferry these stores to the assault area.\n\n#### Enemy Air Activity.\n\n22. Enemy air activity was not on a heavy scale and on the average only ten red alerts per day were experienced. Indeed, so light was the scale of attack that the fighters of Force \"V\" had few combat opportunities. This operation was notable, however, as being the first occasion on which several new types of missiles were used by the German Air Force. These new bombs caused considerable losses and damage.\n\n#### Events Subsequent to the Assault.\n\n23. On the whole, the Fifth Army was unable to establish itself ashore as quickly as had been planned. This was due in part to the fact that it had been anticipated that the coast defences would be manned by Italians, whereas in fact the Germans had taken over these defences a few days prior to the assault.\n\n24. The port of Salerno was opened early on D+2 but by 1900 the following day the port was again under enemy gunfire and at 1500 on D+4 it was necessary to withdraw the port party for the time being.\n\n25. Thus, despite the initial successes which attended the landings, by D+4 the Military situation had become unfavourable. The German Command had rallied quickly from the disorganisation caused by the liquidation of their erstwhile brothers-in-arms and had concentrated sufficient armoured forces with supporting infantry to drive a wedge into the Fifth Army defences and at one point had almost penetrated to the beaches,\n\n26. By the following day, the situation had further deteriorated, all unloading ceased, and the Naval Commander Western Task Force requested me to provide heavier Naval support fire. Accordingly, H.M.S. VALIANT and H.M.S. WARSPITE were ordered to proceed to the \"Avalanche\" area, so as to arrive as soon as possible after first light on D+6. In addition, three cruisers from Force \"V\", EURYALUS, SCYLLA and CHARYBDIS, were ordered to proceed at their utmost speed to Tripoli to embark further Military reinforcements. Throughout D+7 Naval gunfire of all calibres shelled enemy formations and strongpoints and by 1400 on D+8 the situation was restored. It was while returning from these gun support duties that H.M.S. WARSPITE received two direct hits and one near miss from radio-controlled glider bombs. H.M.S. WARSPITE subsequently reached Malta in tow without further damage.\n\n27. There can be little doubt that the psychological effect upon our troops of seeing these heavy ships bombarding close inshore played a large part in relieving a situation which at one time showed every indication of becoming extremely grave.\n\n#### The End of the Operation.\n\n28. The Military situation, stabilised on D+6, 15th September, gradually improved; indications of a general German withdrawal were seen on D+7. On 19th September, Eboli and, on 20th, Campagna and several other towns in the vicinity were captured. Five days later the port of Salerno was reopened, followed quickly by the capture of Castellammare on 28th and of Torre Annunziata the next day. Naples was entered on 1st October and with its capture, Operation \"Avalanche\" drew to a close. The port of Naples had been carefully and methodically wrecked by the withdrawing enemy, but even so, two days later five Liberty ship berths, six coaster berths and eight holding berths were cleared. By the 6th October discharge over the Salerno beaches was almost completed, the port of Naples was functioning slowly, and on that day Operation \"Avalanche\" was officially deemed to have been completed.\n\n#### Lessons Learnt.\n\n29. Owing to the considerable period which has elapsed since Operation \"Avalanche\" was carried out and the fact that the experience gained therein has been embodied in other operations, it is redundant to remark at length upon the lessons learnt. Owing to the short period which had elapsed between Operations \"Husky\" and \"Avalanche\", but few of the difficulties brought to light in the first operation were remedied in time for the second. My remarks on Operation \"Husky\" still hold good, but to some extent these mistakes have now been rectified and it is not intended to elaborate upon them further.\n\n#### Conclusions.\n\n30. Operation \"Avalanche\" was the most ambitious amphibious operation so far launched. That it succeeded after many vicissitudes reflects great credit on Vice-Admiral Hewitt, U.S.N., his subordinate Commanders, and all those who served under them. That there were extremely anxious moments cannot be denied. The enemy employed new types of weapons and defended his positions with a ferocity which we have now come to regard as normal, but at the time it provided a severe test to our Military Commanders. I am proud to say that throughout the operation, the Navies never faltered and carried out their tasks in accordance with the highest traditions of their Services. Whilst full acknowledgment must be made of the devastating though necessarily intermittent bombing by the Allied Air Forces, it was Naval gunfire, incessant in effect, that held the ring when there was danger of the enemy breaking through to the beaches and when the overall position looked so gloomy. More cannot be said.\n\n(Signed) ANDREW CUNNINGHAM,  \n _Admiral of the Fleet,_  \n_Late Commander-in-Chief,_  \n_Mediterranean._\n\n## APPENDIX I\n\n## PLANNING\n\nOn completion of the Sicilian Campaign there were many and changing factors involved in the decision as to the location of the main assault on the Italian coast. Not until August 19th was it decided that the planning and mounting of Operation \"Avalanche\" should be given first priority. Plans involving landings in the Gulf of Gioija6 (Operation \"Buttress\"), in the Gulf of Taranto and on the Italian coast North of Brindisi (Operations \"Musket\" and \"Goblet\"), were all examined and progressed to a certain extent. Operation \"Buttress\" was in fact fully planned and detailed orders were issued to the ships concerned. This uncertainty led to an immense amount of work for my planning staff and for the British Naval Commanders involved, all of whom had two or more problems to examine.\n\n2. It was the intention that the \"Buttress\" Force would become the Northern Assault Force for \"Avalanche\" and that an American force would provide the \"Avalanche\" Southern Assault Force. By this means it was hoped that it would be practicable to switch from Operation \"Buttress\" to Operation \"Avalanche\" without upsetting the detailed planning to any marked extent. For a variety of reasons this combination proved not to be so simple as had been imagined, the chief difficulty being that \"Buttress\" involved the use of only one port, namely Vibo Valencia, whereas in \"Avalanche\" the plan had to allow for the eventual capture and development of Salerno, Castellammare, Torre Annunziata and Naples.\n\n3. As a result of the several plans under consideration, planning for Operation \"Avalanche\" was conducted almost simultaneously on the levels of the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, the Western Task Force Commander, who had no other operation to plan, and the subordinate Task Force Commanders, one of whom, Commodore G.N. Oliver, R.N. (the Northern Assault Force Commander), was planning in detail for both \"Buttress\" and \"Avalanche\" concurrently.\n\n4. Naval planning memoranda were issued as for previous operations in this theatre to disseminate the building of the plan to the subordinate Commanders. It is no exaggeration to say that without this system these subordinate Commanders could never have produced their own orders in time for the operation, as planning was taking place on all levels simultaneously, as stated in the preceding paragraph.\n\n5. Further difficulty was experienced through the frequent changes of plan introduced by the Fifth Army, many of which took place at a very late date. The Commander Western Naval Task Force comments strongly on this point in his report.\n\n6. The sailing and routeing of the assault convoys called for careful timing and accurate navigation, as many of the convoy tracks had perforce to cross each other, due to the fact that the troops embarked in convoys sailing from Oran were required for the Southern Sector of the assault beaches. A special channel was swept through the minefields between Sicily and Tunisia to allow the assault forces to pass West of Sicily.\n\n7. The decision by Commanding General Fifth Army to advance H-Hour by 30 minutes was not taken until 24th August and was one which involved a considerable number of alterations to the convoy sailing and routeing programmes, all of which had to be signalled, as by that time the Operation Orders were in course of distribution.\n\nFootnotes\n\n_1_ _See Admiralty foreword._\n\n_2_ _Operation \"Husky\" \u2013 the landing in Sicily._\n\n_3_ _Operation \"Baytown\" \u2013 the assault across the Straits of Messina, 3rd September, 1943._\n\n_4_ _Rangers \u2013 the American counterpart of British Commandos._\n\n_5_ _Operation \"Dragoon\" \u2013 the landing on the South coast of France in August, 1944._\n\n_6_ _Gulf of Gioija \u2013 on the North-West coast of Calabria._\n\n##\n\n## FIELD-MARSHAL LORD ALEXANDER'S DESPATCH ON THE CAMPAIGN IN ITALY\n\n3 SEPTEMBER 1943 TO 12 DECEMBER 1944\n\n_The War Office, June, 1950._\n\n### THE ALLIED ARMIES IN ITALY FROM 3RD SEPTEMBER, 1943, TO 12TH DECEMBER, 1944.\n\n### PREFACE BY THE WAR OFFICE.\n\nThis Despatch was written by Field-Marshal Lord Alexander in his capacity as former Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Armies in Italy. It therefore concentrates primarily upon the development of the land campaign and the conduct of the land battles. The wider aspects of the Italian Campaign are dealt with in reports by the Supreme Allied Commander (Field-Marshal Lord Wilson) which have already been published. It was during this period that the very close integration of the Naval, Military and Air Forces of the Allied Nations, which had been built up during the North African Campaigns, was firmly consolidated, so that the Italian Campaign was essentially a combined operation. The very intimate relationship between the three Services was undoubtedly one of the governing factors in securing victory.\n\n_The following Despatch was submitted to the Secretary of State for War on_ 19 _th April,_ 1947, by _HIS EXCELLENCY FIELD-MARSHAL THE VISCOUNT ALEXANDER OF TUNIS, K.G., G.C.B., G.C.M.G.,_ C.S.I., _D.S.O., M.C., former General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Fifteenth Army Group._\n\nI have the honour to submit my Despatch on the Allied Armies in Italy during the period from 3rd September, 1943, to 12th December, 1944.\n\n> The Despatch is divided into the following four parts:\n> \n> Part I - Preliminary Planning and the Assault.\n> \n> Part II - The Winter Campaign.\n> \n> Part III - The Capture of Rome and the Advance to the Arno.\n> \n> Part IV - The Gothic Line Battles.\n\n_The War Office, June, 1950._\n\n## PART I.\n\n## PRELIMINARY PLANNING AND THE ASSAULT.\n\n#### Strategic Basis of the Campaign.\n\nThe invasion of Italy followed closely in time on the conquest of Sicily and may be therefore treated, both historically and strategically, as a sequel to it; but when regarded from the point of view of the Grand Strategy of the war there is a great cleavage between the two operations. The conquest of Sicily marks the closing stage of that period of strategy which began with the invasion of North Africa in November, 1942, or which might, on a longer view, be considered as beginning when the first British armoured cars crossed the frontier wire into Cyrenaica on 11th June, 1940, the morrow of Mussolini's declaration of war. The invasion of Italy was part of the next period in European strategy which was destined to culminate in the invasion of the West and the destruction of the German armies. When the last German fled across the Straits of Messina the first aim of Allied strategy had been achieved: to clear the enemy from Africa and to open the Mediterranean to the shipping of the United Nations without fear of interruption; in the next phase the Mediterranean theatre would no longer receive the first priority of resources and its operations would become preparatory and subsidiary to the great invasion based on the United Kingdom. It was now called on to break up the victorious team of armies trained in its hard school and to surrender to the West the picked divisions which were to form the spearhead of the assault on the beaches of Normandy.\n\nThe nature of the break between the Sicilian and Italian operations is clear from the contrast between the directives for them issued by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. The Casablanca conference treated the invasion of Sicily as a continuation of the clearance of North Africa and looked no further ahead; its orders were clear-cut and definite. The \"Trident\" conference which met in Washington, in May 1943 took a wider view. On 26th May, the Combined Chiefs of Staff informed the Supreme Allied Commander1 in the Mediterranean of their decision that the major attack on Europe would be made from the United Kingdom, probably in the early summer of 1944. He was therefore instructed to plan such operations in exploitation of the conquest of Sicily as would be best calculated to eliminate Italy from the war and to contain the maximum number of German divisions; which of the operations should be adopted and thereafter mounted would be decided by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Here were no geographical objectives pointed out but two _desiderata,_ one political and the other, the containing of the maximum number of German divisions, from its very nature indefinable. It is essential that this directive be constantly borne in mind, for it continued to rule all strategy in Italy up to the final surrender of the German armies in the field, and the campaign can only be rightly understood if this is firmly grasped. The campaign in Italy was a great holding attack. The two parts of the directive aim at the same purpose: the diversion of German strength to a theatre as far removed as possible from the vital point, the Channel coast. To eliminate Italy would mean the loss to the Axis of fifty-nine divisions amounting to some two million men2; they were admittedly not good troops but they were useful as garrisons in occupied territory. To replace these, and at the same time to provide the troops which would have to be sent to hold the line in Italy, would represent a formidable commitment for Germany at a time when she was faced once more with war on two fronts. The comparison with the contribution of the Peninsular War to the downfall of Napoleon is hackneyed but fully justified.\n\nIn order to carry out the tasks assigned by this directive the Supreme Allied Commander was allotted all the ground forces available in the Mediterranean theatre except for four American and three British divisions, which were to be held available for return to the United Kingdom by 1st November,3 and two British divisions held in readiness to fulfil our commitments to Turkey. These forces were estimated at the equivalent of nineteen British and British-equipped divisions, four American and four French, but of these many were under strength in men and material and others were not fully trained. Other divisions, again, had to be retained for internal security duties in the Middle East and for garrisons of the principal ports of North Africa, while the threat of a German attack through Spain, though already remote by now compared with 1942, could not be entirely disregarded. Our air strength, though slightly reduced, particularly in heavy bombers, would remain adequate for the support of operations4. On the sea we were now not likely to meet the Italian fleet and fully confident of our ability to defeat it if met. More serious was the intention to withdraw almost all the landing craft from the theatre for use in the west; this programme did not take effect until later but it represented a severe curtailment of our amphibious mobility.\n\nA further contrast between the campaigns in Sicily and in Italy is provided by the nature of the planning which proceeded them. For Sicily we had had a period of almost six months to study in detail a problem which was not, in its essentials, a complicated one. For the operations in exploitation of success in Sicily we were in the first place not given any definite geographical objectives and the problem of deciding between the available alternatives was complicated by a number of unknown factors which would only be resolved by the outcome of the preceding campaign. It was realised from the first that the decision between the various courses of action which would then be open to us would have to be deferred to a later date and might have to be taken rapidly. Our aim in planning was therefore extreme flexibility and I think it is fair to say that few operations of war of this magnitude have been so distinguished by the speed with which they were mounted and the shortness of the time between the decision to undertake the invasion and its launching. This speed was made possible by the flexibility of strategy permitted by the nature of amphibious operations and the geographical configuration of the theatre, and it was encouraged by the challenge of a constantly changing military and political situation. A certain amount of preliminary planning began as soon as the plan for Sicily was firmly established. This was done in the first place at Allied Force Headquarters, since my own staff were fully engaged on the Sicilian operation. I shall therefore pass over this preliminary period as briefly as possible, but in order to understand the background to the operations carried out under my command it is necessary to give some account of the way in which the problem of an invasion of the Italian mainland was first approached and the basic reasons for the strategy which was eventually adopted.\n\n#### General Considerations Governing Operations against Italy.\n\nTo carry out the terms of the directive from the Combined Chiefs of Staff one course of action had obviously pre-eminent advantages. Italian troops could be found and fought at any point of the deeply indented northern coastline of the Mediterranean from Thrace to the Pyrenees, or in the many off-lying islands, but to eliminate Italy from the war an attack on the mother country offered clearly the best solution. We were already committed to the conquest of Sicily, for reasons, as I have explained, of African and Mediterranean strategy, but it was the opinion of the Intelligence Staff at Allied Force Headquarters that not even the complete loss of the island would bring Italy to sue for terms. Nor was it likely, in the prevailing state of mind in Italy, that the loss of Sardinia in addition would produce that effect. To eliminate Italy from the war we should have to land on the mainland of the peninsula. We should have to do so in any case as soon as the Italians capitulated, whether or not we had made it our main theatre of effort, for we should want to occupy the country as quickly as possible and begin to put its resources to use against the Germans. That being the case, our weakness in available formations rendered it advisable not to split our efforts but to concentrate on one geographical objective.\n\nIt was my opinion, therefore, that an invasion of the peninsula was by far the best means of carrying out the first part of the directive and I decided, after considerable study, that it would also offer the best chances of achieving the second object of our strategy, to contain as many German forces as possible. First of all the elimination of Italy, for which an invasion of the peninsula was essential, would of itself, as I have already pointed out, throw a heavy additional strain on Germany. In the summer of 1943 Italy was still performing important garrison duties for the Axis in the Mediterranean theatre; she had seven divisions in Southern France, extending as far west as Marseilles, and no less than thirty-two in the Balkans, together with many non-divisional anti-aircraft and coast defence units in both theatres. If the Germans could no longer count on these forces they would have to replace them at once with German troops: they could not leave south-eastern France ungarrisoned with the Allies loose in the Mediterranean in overwhelming superiority on the sea and in the air; resistance movements in the Balkans would also get completely out of hand unless they took over the areas vacated by the Italians. It was, in fact, not unreasonable to hope that in the Balkans at least, where they far outnumbered the Germans, the Italians might attempt to resist; the resistance was not likely to be prolonged but it would help in diverting German troops. However, apart from these automatic results of Italian capitulation, we should be in a position, by invading the peninsula, to force the Germans to a more damaging diversion of effort than the mere increase in occupational commitments, which could be entrusted to lower category formations, including foreigners and satellites. They would have to put into the field a strong force of good quality troops or see Italy lost by default and the Anglo-American armies appearing on the southern frontier of the Reich. That southern frontier is strong enough by nature, but to abandon Italy, especially the industrial area north of the Apennines, would add a serious loss of war potential to a disastrous loss of prestige. Perhaps even more serious for the Germans would be to allow us to make use of the airfields of Italy from which our strategic Air Forces could develop attacks against hitherto immune targets in Southern and South-eastern Germany, in Hungary and against the vital Ploesti oilfields. For all these reasons I felt sure that the Germans would not stint troops for the defence of Italy and that nowhere else should we be able to draw in and contain so many.\n\nThere was, of course, the objection that a campaign in Italy would canalise the whole effort of Great Britain and the United States for 1943 into a comparatively narrow peninsula. The objection, though based on ignorance of our resources and misappreciation of the general strategy of the war, appears superficially sound but omits any consideration of what alternatives were open; as Mr. Churchill said on a later occasion: \"We have to fight the Germans somewhere, we can't merely sit and watch the Russians.\" It would serve no useful purpose to keep the forces available in the Mediterranean in idleness, and plans had already been prepared to make the largest contribution in men and amphibious means which could be transferred in the time available to the Western assault. To say that Italy was a secondary theatre is not a valid objection; it is the nature and function of a holding force to attack secondary objectives while the main force is preparing to attack the main objective. It would be a valid objection, if it could be proved, that the Allies employed unduly large forces in attacking a secondary objective: in fact, as I shall show, our forces in Italy never at any time enjoyed any but the slenderest margin of superiority over the Germans, and usually not even that, and, above all, the invasion of the West was never deprived of any resources in men or materials by the needs of the operations in Italy. The Italian campaign fulfilled its function in the strategic scheme of the war against Germany, and I am convinced that no other possible strategy would have fulfilled that function so well.5\n\nIt was clear, therefore, that an invasion of the mainland of Italy was the most advantageous course to pursue in the exploitation of success in Sicily. It was also clear, gazing at the relief map of Southern Italy, that it would be an operation of great difficulty. We must get up that long leg as quickly as possible and preferably start as far north as possible, but the limits were laid down by the availability of air cover. I had had experiences in Burma of fighting against an enemy with control of the air which I was not anxious to repeat, and the loss of \"Prince of Wales\" and \"Repulse\" off Malaya was a reminder of what could happen, in those circumstances, even to great warships, let alone convoys of merchant ships and landing craft. The experiences of the United States Navy in operations against comparatively isolated Japanese-held islands in the Pacific under cover of aircraft from large groups of carriers were not applicable to the situation facing me in the Mediterranean, and in any case I was assured by Admiral Cunningham6 that there was no chance of getting such a force of carriers. My air cover would have to come from land-based fighters and, taking the Spitfire with 90 gallon long-range tanks as the standard, this gave me a circle of operations of a hundred and eighty miles. Assuming that we could construct sufficient airfields in the north-eastern corner of Sicily, in the area of Milazzo and Messina, where there was at the moment only one small landing strip, this would mean that the area within which an assault landing was possible would be bounded by an arc of a circle drawn across the peninsula from west to east through the island of Capri, just north of Salerno, north of Potenza in Lucania and cutting the shore of the Gulf of Taranto some fifteen miles short of Taranto itself. The prospects within this area were not inviting. The provinces of Calabria and Lucania are the poorest and most undeveloped in Italy and yield to none in the complexity and difficulty of their mountain structure. In the whole area so circumscribed, there were no major strategic targets the possession of which would be worth the effort of a full-scale assault and whose loss would induce the Italians to sue for terms. There were two great prizes just outside the range of fighter cover; the naval base of Taranto to the east and the port and city of Naples to the north; but a direct assault on either of these heavily defended places would be sufficiently hazardous even with the fullest scale of air support and quite impossible without it.\n\nCalabria was obviously the first objective to be considered. It was the nearest to Sicily, for one thing, and the Navy was bound to be anxious to have the Straits opened as soon as possible by clearing the opposite shore. Our forces would be operating from a firm base and, if the attack were made directly across the Straits of Messina on to the ports of Reggio and San Giovanni, the always hazardous venture of an amphibious operation would be reduced almost to the proportions of a river crossing, with full support from the artillery deployed on the Sicilian shore. If this were considered too modest an operation it could be supported by landings further up the Toe of Italy which could be given the fullest air support and which would quickly allow a junction with the force which had crossed the Straits. Calabria therefore offered a safe but not spectacular investment for the profits of Sicily. The main disadvantage was that the nature of the ground would permit the enemy to block any northward advance with the employment of minimum forces. The country is mountainous and the road-net undeveloped; and there are three isthmuses: Gioia - Locri, Francavilla - Squillace, and Scalea - Castrovillari - Villapiana, the narrowest of which is eighteen miles from sea to sea and the widest only thirty-seven. The _massifs_ of Aspromonte and the Sila, both rising to six thousand feet in height, would assist the defence and the summer season would be drawing to its close before Sicily could be secured and the first landings in Calabria mounted. There was a danger of the strategic effort of 1943 finding itself stuck for the winter in a _cul-de-sac_ among inhospitable mountains in the most barren and least important part of the Italian peninsula.\n\nIt was clear to me, therefore, when the first stage of planning was reached in May, that it was desirable to carry the war to the mainland at the earliest possible moment. It was also clear that a decision would have to be taken whether the landing was to be made in an area where success would be comparatively easy but unproductive or in an area at the extreme end of our range where the risk would be greater but vital objectives within closer reach. These decisions need not and could not be taken yet; much would depend on the progress of operations in Sicily, which were planned to open in July. Only then could vital questions be answered: what would be the value of Italian troops fighting in defence of their native soil, what would be the German reaction to the increased threat to Italy, what was the value of our own amphibious technique and what resources would remain to the Allies, in manpower and landing craft, after a successful invasion of Sicily.\n\nIn the meantime there was another possible operation to be considered, against Sardinia and Corsica. This had already been studied as an alternative to Sicily and, though rejected in this role, still offered certain advantages. To put it on the lowest terms: if, after the conquest of Sicily, the enemy were found to be so strongly posted on the mainland that invasion would be impracticable, an operation to capture Sardinia and Corsica would at least mean that we retained the initiative and, since there was little risk of failure, would score another encouraging success. Our shipping in the Mediterranean would also benefit from the elimination of German air bases in the islands. From a superficial glance at the map it might seem that the islands could act as stepping stones for an attack on the South of France, as an alternative to an advance up the Italian peninsula. In fact, however, they offered poor bases for such a strategy and the attrition of our dwindling stock of landing craft would mean that the eventual assault could only be on a small scale. Moreover we were not anxious to attract any more German forces into France but rather away from it, into Italy and the Balkans. Admittedly it would be useful, when the invasion of Northern France began, to be in a position to make, or at least threaten, a diversionary attack on the French Mediterranean coast. We calculated, however, rightly as the event showed, that a successful invasion of Italy would not only draw German forces away from France but also give us Sardinia and Corsica with little trouble. If we locked up our whole force in the islands without invading Italy (and we could certainly not do both) it would mean a long period of inactivity until the early summer of 1944 when a threat from Corsica could begin to play its part in the grand strategy of the invasion of Western Europe. This would be to give the Germans a welcome breathing space and forgo the chance of inflicting casualties on them. To sum up: an operation against Sardinia and Corsica, though clearly feasible, would be inconsistent with the directive laid down for Mediterranean strategy. If the loss of Sicily had not caused the elimination of Italy from the war it was unlikely that the loss of Sardinia in addition would do so, and the number of German divisions contained would be small.\n\n#### First Stages of Planning.\n\nDetailed planning may be said to have begun with a memorandum produced by Allied Force Headquarters on 3rd June, 1943. It was recognised that, in view of the considerations brought out above, there were two operations which were likely: against Calabria and, as an alternative, Sardinia. For Calabria it might be possible to rely on Eighth Army, assaulting across the Straits of Messina, but that would depend on what shape it was in after the Sicilian campaign. It would be better to have fresh forces available for exploitation, if at all possible, and our two spare Corps Headquarters, of 5 and 10 Corps, could plan the operation, since Eighth Army was not in a position to do so. It was therefore proposed to study two operations, both to be mounted from North Africa: against Reggio by 10 Corps (Operation BUTTRESS) and against Cotrone7 by 5 Corps (Operation GOBLET). These two headquarters came under my command on 5th June, together with one armoured and four infantry divisions.8 The Cotrone landing was intended to hasten the capture of the airfields in that area, the only useful ones in Calabria, and would take place about a month after the original landing. Target dates were 1st September and 1st October respectively. The operation against Sardinia (Operation BRIMSTONE), only to be undertaken if success on the mainland appeared unlikely, was entrusted to the United States Fifth Army under General Mark W. Clark. He was ordered on 10th June to prepare a plan for this operation, employing VI United States Corps of two infantry divisions and the British 5 Corps, composed as for the Cotrone landing. General Giraud9 on 15th June was asked, and agreed, to nominate a commander and staff to prepare a plan for the capture of Corsica (Operation FIREBRAND). I kept in touch with all this planning activity for operations which, if mounted, I should be required to command, but could do little more since this was now the critical period just before the Sicily invasion.\n\nA clearer conception of the detailed implications of future operations is set out in a memorandum from the Executive Planning Section of Allied Force Headquarters dated 30th June. This represents the stage to which Allied strategic thought and planning had been brought before the actual experience of the invasion of Sicily allowed modification in a more optimistic direction. The possibility of such a future modification is fully realised in the opening paragraph: experience alone would show the value of the Italian forces, the extent to which Germany was prepared to reinforce Italy and what Allied resources, particularly in landing craft, would still be available and when. In the circumstances appreciation of Allied capabilities could scarcely be over sanguine. Exploitation into Calabria was estimated as likely to be slow, since the first assaulting force was not expected to be within striking distance of Cotrone, only eighty air miles from the original landing point, by the end of the first month and a subsidiary landing was therefore planned to seize that port thirty days after the original landing. Even if these two operations should be successful the terrain and the weather were likely to offer severe difficulties to our advance, while the number of landing craft available would be so diminished as a result of them that further amphibious operations on a scale large enough to seize a major port such as Naples or Taranto would be impracticable. The maximum number of divisions we could maintain in Calabria was reckoned as six. There were, therefore, now two reasons for invading Sardinia: one, if it was decided that resistance on the mainland would be so strong as to make any landing impracticable, and the second if it was appreciated that, though a landing could be made, the result would be to lock up six divisions in the Toe of Italy without prospect of being able to exploit rapidly either towards Naples or Taranto. I was, however, most reluctant to be forced back into so unproductive a course.\n\nMore optimistic possibilities were, of course, considered, based on the possibility of an Italian \"collapse\", a term never specifically defined. It was the view of the Joint Intelligence Committee that, although Italian morale, both civilian and military, was then low and would sink still further as a result of the loss of Sicily, no complete collapse was likely until the Allied forces had landed on the mainland and had made a considerable advance northwards.10 However, it was necessary to be prepared for such an eventuality. If Italian resistance ceased, our aim was to move rapidly overland on Naples with the minimum force necessary to seize the airfields and port, to build up our forces to a strength of six divisions and forty-three squadrons of the Tactical Air Force and then to exploit to seize Rome. Subsequent operations could be either into North Italy or across the Adriatic. The timing envisaged on the \"most optimistic\" development, which gave us Naples by 1st October, hit on the right day with an accuracy rare in the forecasts of the best inspired oracles. On the timing considered more likely, that date would see us just assaulting Cotrone and, in the worst case, we should be just appearing off the coast of Sardinia.\n\n#### Effect on Planning of the Progress of Operations in Sicily.\n\nThe result of the first few days fighting in Sicily brought a breath of actuality into the process of planning, hitherto tentative and rather academic, and with it a full gale of optimism. Two of the questions which had dominated previous planning were answered: what was the value of the Italian forces on their own soil and what would remain of our own resources after the reduction of Sicily. Both answers were more favourable than we could have hoped. The Italian coastal divisions, whose value had never been rated very high, disintegrated almost without firing a shot and the field divisions, where they were met, were also driven like chaff before the wind. Mass surrenders were frequent. Moreover, the civilian population seemed well disposed and, when once we were firmly established, were prepared to welcome the Allies as liberators. On the other hand our casualties in men and equipment, and particularly in the all-important categories of landing craft and assault equipment generally, were much lighter than had been expected. We were, however, fully prepared to exploit this success and my staff worked out a plan to improvise an operation against Calabria. Assuming that Eighth Army continued to make such good progress up the east coast as it had in the first few days it would, within five days of the capture of Messina, pass a brigade from 13 Corps across the Straits, assisted by commandos and parachutists. 78 Division would then follow up into Reggio and 46 Division from North Africa would make an assault landing in the Gulf of Gioia. I agreed to this tentative plan and obtained the concurrence of Admiral Cunningham - in fact we even considered assaulting Calabria before the fall of Messina, using Catania as a port of departure - but the premises on which it was based failed to materialise. German reinforcements blocked the way to Catania and 78 Division, following the original plan, had to be thrown into the heavy fighting for Centuripe. However, the feeling of justified optimism and the positive gains represented by the lightness of the Allied casualty list still remained. It was possible to contemplate bolder strokes which promised more valuable results than the capture of the incidental objective of Sardinia or locking up the Allied forces for a winter in Calabria in circumstances reminiscent of the Allied situation at Salonica in the 1914-1918 War.\n\nIt was with these considerations in mind that I attended a conference at Carthage on 17th July with General Eisenhower, Admiral Cunningham and Air Marshal Tedder.11 We then decided that \"the mainland of Italy is the best area for exploitation with a view to achieving our object of forcing Italy out of the war and containing the maximum German forces.\" In order to retain complete freedom of action to avail ourselves of any possibilities which might offer themselves we agreed to prepare for the following eight courses of action:\n\n( _a_ ) A quick exploitation across the Straits by Eighth Army, assisted by one or more divisions from North Africa.\n\n( _b_ ) A full scale assault landing by 10 Corps to capture Reggio.\n\n( _c_ ) A quick exploitation from the \"Toe\" (Reggio) to the \"Ball\" (Cotrone).\n\n( _d_ ) A full scale assault landing by 5 Corps to capture Cotrone.\n\n( _e_ ) Repeated outflanking operations up the coast of Calabria by small amphibious forces.\n\n( _f_ ) A large-scale amphibious operation against Taranto by Fifth Army, to be known as Operation MUSKET, dependent on sufficient landing craft being available.\n\n( _g_ ) \"Introducing a reinforcing force into Naples after the port has been captured as a result of our land advance.\"\n\nIn this schedule of future courses ( _b_ ) was intended as an alternative to ( _a_ ) and ( _d_ ) as an alternative to ( _c_ ), if the overland drive had become held up before it reached the Cotrone area. Course ( _e_ ) reflected the healthier situation of our landing craft resources; it was expected that we should be able to unblock ourselves if halted by strong resistance and overcome the difficulties of the Calabrian terrain by swift \"seaborne hooks\" in brigade strength. So far, however, there was little change from previous conceptions of the progress of future operations except that the speed of the advance was appreciated as likely to be greater; but the last two courses for which preparations were now to be made were more ambitious.\n\nAn assault on Taranto had been considered earlier but rejected on what then seemed sufficient grounds. At the date proposed, 1st November, the weather was likely to be unsuitable for beach maintenance, we should have lost too many landing craft in the three previous assaults (i.e., Sicily, Reggio and Cotrone) and air cover would be impossible since Taranto would be out of range of the majority of our fighters operating from the airfields in north-eastern Sicily. These reasons were no longer cogent. No degree of success could change the November weather in this stormy part of Italy but it would ensure our being able to mount the assault earlier, and a provisional date of 1st October could now be contemplated with some confidence. More landing craft were now available as a result of our light losses in the landings in Sicily and we had considerable hopes that it might be unnecessary to carry out one or other of the assaults at Reggio and Cotrone, perhaps even both, with a consequent further saving in resources. As for air cover we now had hopes of a rapid advance to seize the airfields at Cotrone and in any case, if the Italian defences in Apulia were as feebly manned as in Sicily (and the German forces in the area were weak), a lesser scale of air support might be acceptable. The advantages of the operation were considerable. It would give us the possession of ports through which a large force could be built up and it would place us in a geographically protected area on the same side of the Apennines as Foggia, the capture of whose numerous airfields for the use of the Strategic Air Force was one of our first objectives in Italy. On 22nd July, therefore, Fifth Army was directed to prepare plans for an operation \"to seize and secure the Heel of Italy east of the line Taranto - Bari inclusive,\" with target date 1st October, to be carried out under my command. Planning for the assault on Sardinia had already been cancelled on the 20th and responsibility for this operation, together with that against Corsica, was handed over to the French. With this decision the western islands passed out of the strategic picture; in the event the Germans withdrew from both, with a precipitancy which they probably later regretted.\n\nThe last of the possible courses for which preparations were to be made provided for the introduction of a force into the port of Naples after it had been captured by an overland advance; this was given the codename GANGWAY. It had been contemplated already, but only as a possibility which would be open in the event of an Italian collapse. What we hoped, was that, with the Italian forces disintegrating and the Germans withdrawing to safer positions further north, a small mobile force, necessarily restricted to the minimum by difficulties of maintenance, might be able to push rapidly across the tangled mountains of Calabria, Lucania and Southern Campania to seize the port for the entry of Fifth Army. In the first optimistic days of the invasion of Sicily Fifth Army had been directed (on 15th July) to prepare plans for an unopposed landing in Naples. This directive was still in force, but priority had now been shifted to the operation against Taranto. Nevertheless, the great prize of the capture of Naples still glittered; it would give us control of an area capable of maintaining any Allied force which could be placed in Italy in 1943, it would establish our armies well on the road to Rome and it would oblige the Germans to withdraw not only from Calabria but probably from Apulia as well. But if the required conditions were unfulfilled there were weighty arguments against an assault landing in so well defended an area; in particular the lack of air cover and the time which must elapse before our troops advancing from Calabria could make contact. We were likely to capture Cotrone, from which we could cover operations against Taranto, sooner than Scalea, the first place from which we could cover Naples; exploitation overland from Cotrone to Taranto would be much easier than from Scalea to Naples; for the present the priority of the Taranto operations must stand.\n\n#### _Fall of Mussolini._\n\nOn 25th July Radio Roma announced the fall of Mussolini, the suppression of the Fascist party and the accession to power of Marshal Badoglio. Although we had often considered the possibility of this, the actual announcement came as a surprise, for the secret of the _coup d'\u00e9tat_ had been well kept, as was natural with so few persons involved in the plot. It was not a case of a popular rising nor even of a wave of popular discontent, for the Italian people in general was still sunk in its usual apathy; though, of course, claims to that effect were subsequently put out, mainly by Italian exiles in Switzerland. If there had in fact been any such occurrences we should have been less surprised, and so would the Germans, who were struck with consternation. We had a certain advantage over them, as we were aware of the discontent of some senior officers in the Italian services, and there had already been some cautious approaches by Italian commanders in the Balkans which showed a willingness to abandon a lost cause and a now unpopular alliance.\n\nThis dramatic news introduced a new factor into our delicately poised calculations, and one which clearly brought nearer the long hoped for collapse of Italy. That Badoglio had declared \"The war continues\" deceived nobody and proposals for a capitulation were confidently awaited. But the Allied side need not wait until Badoglio felt secure enough to move; the optimism of the early days of the Sicilian invasion, which had become dashed with more sober reflections as the deadlock before Catania continued, was reborn. At a conference at Carthage next day, 26th July, attended by General Eisenhower, Admiral Cunningham, Air Marshal Tedder and myself, we decided that greater risks might now legitimately be taken. Accordingly on 27th July General Clark, commanding the Fifth Army, was directed to prepare plans for seizing the port of Naples \"with a view to preparing a firm base for further offensive operations.\" The target date was to be 7th September and an outline plan was to be submitted by 7th August. The September date was the earliest we could possibly hope for. All our available troops were engaged in Sicily, where the two reserve divisions, American 9th and British 78th, had just been committed in order to speed up the completion of the campaign. We hoped to finish in Sicily by mid-August, after which the troops there engaged would be available, with the important exception of those earmarked for return to the United Kingdom. More decisive, for if a real opportunity had offered no doubt we could have scraped together some troops to take advantage of it, was the fact that we had no craft to move them as we were still dependent on craft for the maintenance of our forces in Sicily. It was calculated that the first week of September would be the earliest time by which sufficient would be available and serviceable. The moon would be at its most suitable between 7th and 10th September.\n\n#### _Plans for Assault Landing in the Naples Area._\n\nOperation AVALANCHE, as the Naples assault was called, was to be carried out by VI United States Corps, organised as for the invasion of Sardinia, and 10 British Corps.12 Theoretically each Corps consisted of one armoured, two infantry and one airborne division, but this was liable to revision in view of the difficulties of providing shipping and airlift; we knew, for instance, that we should only have air lift for at most one airborne division and would probably, as turned out, not be able to lift much more than three divisions in craft for the assault wave. There were difficulties about the British contingent. Since the plans for Calabria were still in force, and we could not yet say whether that was to be the main attack or only subsidiary, it was necessary for 10 Corps to be prepared, at short notice, to attack either Naples or Reggio, and only time could show which. The solution reached was to devise loading tables common to both plans and to ensure that 10 Corps' allotment of landing craft was not varied to meet the exigencies of one or the other.\n\nThe directive of 27th July specified the Gulf of Salerno as the site for the initial landings for the assault on Naples. This choice was much argued, both at the time and subsequently, and I think it as well to consider at some length the reasons for the decision, of whose correctness I am convinced. To sail straight into the Bay of Naples was impracticable. The sea approaches were strongly defended by minefields and net barrages and the whole area was heavily covered by permanent fortifications, including over forty coast defence guns; moreover, it was almost certain that, whatever else the Germans might do, they would hold Naples in strength to deny us so great a prize for as long as possible and to cover the withdrawal of their forces from the south. The choice therefore fell between landing north or south of Naples. The former course had many advantages and was originally favoured by General Clark. The plain of Campania, between the Volturno and Naples, is one of the few plains along the west coast of Italy not dominated by nearby mountains, a fact which would permit the rapid deployment of large forces and the full use of our armour, and a quick success there would cut the communications of all the German formations in the south, perhaps forcing them to evacuate Naples before they had had time to carry out extensive demolitions. The Germans also appear to have expected us to attack in this area rather than further south; they moved two divisions there immediately after the evacuation of Sicily whereas it was only shortly before our landing at Salerno that a division was brought across to there from Apulia. But there were two serious objections to the northern assault area; the beaches were unsuitable for landings, and in parts obstructed by off-lying sandbars, and it would be well beyond effective fighter cover. The first might possibly have been accepted but the second was decisive. The plans for the landing involved sufficient risks already, as the event was to show; without fighter cover it might well have been a disaster.13\n\nThe Salerno beaches are undoubtedly the best for an assault on the whole west coast of Italy. There is a continuous strip of beach twenty miles long running from Salerno southwards; sea approaches are good and offshore gradients vary between one in forty and one in eighty, allowing landing craft to come close inshore.14 The coastal defences in the area were not impressive and were almost exclusively fieldworks. From the air point of view a fine prize was within our grasp in the Montecorvino airfield, capable of taking four fighter squadrons, which lay less than three miles from the shore. Conditions for an assault, therefore, are ideal but the trouble begins inland from the beaches. The coastal plain is compressed by a line of mountains, rising abruptly at distances varying between two and ten miles from the coast, which would afford the enemy excellent observation and fire positions commanding the plain and a strong defensive position to which to withdraw if our bridgehead were expanded. Still more serious is the fact that, even if the landings should be completely successful, a formidable obstacle still bars the way to Naples: the rocky spur of the Monti Picentini which runs down into the Sorrento peninsula. Towering sheer above Salerno, this wall of bare mountain is pierced only by two passes, running through narrow gorges offering admirable defensive positions. For all these disadvantages, however, there was one decisive factor in the choice of Salerno: it was the furthest north and the nearest to Naples that we could strike without losing fighter cover.\n\nFor the present the proposed landing at Salerno took second priority to the gaining of a lodgement in Calabria, for General Montgomery15 considered he would need 10 Corps as well as 13 Corps for the latter operation. I was already of the opinion, however, that we could exploit into Calabria on a much cheaper scale, using only the troops from Sicily, for I felt certain that there would be no serious German resistance and that the Italians would do no better than in Sicily. This proposal was accepted at a further conference of Commanders-in-Chief on 1st August; we agreed that a lodgement in Calabria was necessary but hoped to be able to achieve it without using 10 Corps at all. In any case our strategy was flexible enough to allow us to switch 10 Corps to either objective and this was laid down in a directive issued after another Carthage conference on 9th August. The relevant paragraph directed: \"every effort will be made to seize a bridgehead in Calabria with the resources available after the allocation of the necessary landing craft to 10 Corps.\" I informed General Montgomery on 23rd August that he would almost certainly have to undertake the operation with his existing resources and without the assistance of an additional assault landing by 10 Corps. On 13th August 13 Corps Headquarters, with under command I Canadian Division and 5 Division, had already been withdrawn from operations in Sicily in order to prepare for the assault across the Straits.\n\n#### _Final Decisions on Invasion Plans._\n\nAt a Commanders-in-Chief conference at Carthage on 16th August the final decisions were taken on which the invasion of Italy was based. The campaign in Sicily was practically over and the Germans were being more successful than we had hoped in evacuating men and light equipment over the Straits. Evacuation was actually completed by dawn next day, 17th August. It was known that new German troops were pouring into Italy, mainly re-formed divisions from the old Sixth Army destroyed at Stalingrad. By the end of the month there were to be as many as eighteen German divisions in Italy, including five armoured divisions. We should not be able to get an equivalent number of divisions into the country until December. Nevertheless, the decision was taken to proceed at the earliest possible moment to a full-scale invasion on the lines of the boldest plan which had been considered. First 13 Corps were to land in Calabria; the date, to be as early as possible and probably between 1st and 4th September, was left to my subsequent decision. Secondly, the Salerno assault was to be launched with a target date of 9th September. This date could be postponed not more than forty-eight hours if necessary. Fifth Army came under my command on 17th August, just over three weeks before it was to assault the Salerno beaches.\n\nFifth Army's outline plan for the operation, which it had been ordered to prepare on 27th July, was presented on 15th August. Only slight modifications were necessary and the final Operation Order was issued on 26th August. The most important change was in the use of airborne troops. We only had sufficient aircraft for one division and 82 (United States) Airborne was nominated; in the event this too was removed from the order of battle in circumstances which will be described later and there was no airborne operation as part of the assault. The troops to be employed in the initial assault only amounted to three divisions with a floating reserve of one Regimental Combat Team. On the left the British 10 Corps, Lieutenant-General McCreery,16 with under command 46 and 56 Divisions, was to assault between Salerno and the Sele River, seize Salerno and the Montecorvino airfield and establish a firm beach-head, including the mountain passes north-west of Salerno. When firmly established it was to advance and capture the port of Naples and the airfields at Capodichino and Pomigliano. On D-day it was to be assisted by three American Ranger battalions and two British Commandos, attacking on its left flank, and on D plus 4 it was to be reinforced by 7 Armoured Division. On the right the United States VI Corps, General Dawley,17 was to assault, with 36 Division and one tank battalion, the beaches south of the River Sele, establish a firm beach-head and secure the Army right flank. The Army floating reserve consisted of one Regimental Combat Team of 45 Division under the divisional commander. As a follow-up, when shipping became available after the assault phase was over, the remainder of 45 Division was nominated, and subsequently 34 Division. In the original plan a Regimental Combat Team of 82 Airborne Division was to be dropped north of Naples in the valley of the River Volturno to seize the bridges at Triflisco, Capua and Cancello and prevent the arrival of enemy reinforcements from the north. This drop was subsequently cancelled, to the great detriment of the operations.\n\nIt will be seen that the forces available for the invasion of a hostile coast at the extreme limit of air cover and well out of touch with any supporting force were not large, though I need not say that they were the largest we could manage. Only three infantry divisions were to make the assault, with an armoured division to start disembarking on D plus 4, and subsequent reinforcement would be slow. The provision of landing craft was now our acutest problem. Many of those needed could not be withdrawn from Sicily before 19th August, after which they had to be hastily refitted at Bizerta, undergo such repairs as might be necessary, and sail to their loading ports; the many uncertain factors in the programme made it impossible to be sure how many would eventually be available. We were prepared to strip 13 Corps of its craft as soon as it had got itself established across the Straits, in fact we took some Landing Ships, Tank, away on D-day of that operation. Convoy problems were difficult for the Navy. VI Corps was to sail direct from Oran in a single convoy, but 10 Corps had to be loaded into many different types of ships and craft and sail from Tripoli and Bizerta in a series of convoys of various speeds and composition. All convoys were to pass west of Sicily and then proceed, on D minus I, on a northerly course, turning eastwards towards Salerno only after last light. A great part of the route would be along narrow lanes specially swept through the enemy minefields where, if opposed, alterations of course would be impossible and the force would have to fight its way through. Force \"H\", comprising four battleships, two aircraft carriers and 12th Cruiser Squadron, was to cover the assault convoy from attack by the Italian battle fleet in Spezia and Genoa while two battleships at Malta watched Taranto and were available to replace casualties. A support carrier group of one light fleet and four escort aircraft carriers was to provide additional fighter cover for the landing and was itself covered by aircraft from the fleet aircraft carriers of Force \"H\".18\n\nThe task of the Air Forces was twofold; first and most important to neutralise the enemy air effort and secondly to disorganise his power of movement. The opening stage in the air plan was designed to force him to evacuate his air bases in Southern and Central Italy and to disrupt the Italian communication system by attacks on key-points. From D minus 7 until the bridgehead had been firmly established a concentrated effort would be made against the Naples - Salerno area to render useless the airfields there and, as far as possible, to isolate the battlefield from enemy reinforcement. When this was deemed to be accomplished, and dependent upon the measure of success attained, close bomber support would become available for general operations. Fighter cover was to be provided by a continuous patrol from bases in Sicily,19 supplemented by the Seafires of the Carrier Support Group, until airfields or emergency air strips ashore were available. It was hoped that Montecorvino airfield could be captured on D-day and that seventy-five aircraft could be flown into it by D plus I.\n\nThe orders for the Calabrian landing (Operation BAYTOWN) were also issued on 16th August. It was a simple plan which was carried out without any but minor variations. The troops to be employed were only two infantry divisions, I Canadian and 5 British, reinforced by an armoured and an infantry brigade and various Commando units. The artillery support for the actual crossing, however, was almost as heavy as Eighth Army had ever had, including an Army Group Royal Artillery, 30 Corps artillery and four battalions of American mediums from Seventh Army assisted by naval supporting fire.20 In the air, the attack was to be supported by the Desert Air Force, with elements both of XII U.S. Air Support Command and of Tactical Bomber Force temporarily under its command.\n\n#### _Italians Open Negotiations for Surrender._\n\nThe military situation on 16th August was thus clearly defined. The final decisions as to the manner of the invasion of the Italian mainland in Calabria and at Salerno had been taken and the planning of the operation was in an advanced stage. On the next day we received the news that the political situation had once more undergone a sudden change. On 15th August a General Castellano, of the Italian Commando Supremo,21 presented himself at the British Embassy in Madrid; he was travelling under an assumed name as a civil servant and had no written credentials but he claimed to be an accredited representative of Marshal Badoglio and bearer of a message on the latter's behalf. The Marshal stated that when the Allies invaded Italy the Italian Government was prepared to order the immediate cessation of hostilities against the Allies and to join them forthwith, with all available forces, in the fight against Germany. This was the news we had been awaiting since 25th July, when Mussolini fell. The delay had been caused, not by any reluctance to accept the formula of \"unconditional surrender,\" but because Badoglio was anxious to establish himself firmly in power and also because this was the first good opportunity which had presented itself to get in touch with the Allies unknown to the Germans. The cover employed was that Castellano was going to Lisbon as one of the party sent to meet the Italian ambassador returning from Chile. However, the date was well chosen since Mr. Churchill and Mr. Roosevelt were at that moment conferring in Quebec, accompanied by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. They were able, therefore, immediately they were notified from Madrid of this new development, to direct General Eisenhower, in a signal received on 17th August, to send two representatives to Lisbon where a further meeting with Castellano had been arranged at the British Embassy. The two emissaries, Generals Smith and Strong, Chief of Staff and Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2,22 of Allied Force Headquarters, left on 18th August and returned to Algiers on the 20th.\n\nThe nature of the Italian capitulation and the reasons which led to it were not generally understood by the public at the time and have been widely misrepresented since. This is not the place for a discussion of the political aspects of the situation but I feel that in order to explain its effect on our military appreciation of the problems of the invasion of Italy and give the proper strategical background to our subsequent operations I should deal as briefly as possible with the motives behind the Italian offer. Italy in 1943 was in a very different position from Germany in 1945. Germany capitulated when the country had been almost completely occupied by the victorious Allies and when the prospect of resistance, even for a few days more, had been almost totally excluded by the complete disintegration of the armed forces and the disappearance of central control. This was not the case with Italy; she still had large armies in the field (her forces in the peninsula alone were numerically superior to anything the Allies could bring against them) and, although their morale was shaken and their quality inferior, there were sufficient German forces in the country to stiffen them. resistance was certainly still possible. The events of the next twenty-one months showed that the German forces alone were sufficient to impose a most serious delay on the Allied occupation of Italy and the experience of the Republican Fascist Government showed that an Italian Government could have continued to function and exercise authority over the greater part of Italy for a long time to come.\n\nNor was it true that capitulation was dictated by internal unrest and popular demand. There were, indeed, continuous reports during this period of disturbances in the industrial towns of Northern Italy, reports spread for the most part by exiled Italian politicians who had also claimed the credit of provoking the fall of Mussolini by similar disturbances; but these reports, like the earlier ones, were known to be greatly exaggerated. A reference once more to subsequent events will show the unimportance of this factor: no unrest among the civilian population played any significant role in diminishing the German capacity to resist in Italy;23 it cannot therefore have been the main factor in disposing the Royal Government to capitulate nor, if they had decided to fight on at the side of their German allies, would popular unrest have been any more of an embarrassment to them than it was to their Republican successors. The plain fact is that the Italian Government did not decide to capitulate because it saw itself incapable of offering further resistance, nor because of any change of heart or intellectual conviction of the justice of the Allied and Democratic cause; it decided, as Italian statesmen had decided in the past, that the time had come to \"spring to the aid of the victors\".\n\nIt was largely a General Staff decision. On a cool calculation, inspired by that \"sacro egoism\" recommended by Salandra in 1914, the chief military authorities had decided that the fortunes of war had turned at last against the Axis. A similar calculation, false as it turned out, had brought them into the war in June 1940. The moment then had been carefully chosen; now also they hoped that, by changing sides at this juncture, they would have just enough fighting to do to justify a claim, when the actual end of the war came, to a place among the victorious allies. It would involve sacrificing for the present their troops in the Balkans and South France but they hoped that their armies in Italy itself would remain reasonably intact. The calculation was acute in one sense, in that they clearly saw that resistance at the side of the Germans could still have been prolonged for some time; but there was one serious miscalculation which they undoubtedly regretted bitterly later on and but for which they would probably have postponed their offer of capitulation. Lacking a proper appreciation of the difficulties of amphibious warfare, and grossly misinformed by their Intelligence services of the strength and capabilities of the Allied forces in the Mediterranean theatre, the Commando Supremo assumed that we were able to put on shore, at any point of the Italian coastline we chose, a force of such a size that, with the assistance of the Italian troops in the country, the Germans would either be destroyed or driven from Italy in rout. The least they hoped was that the Germans would be forced to evacuate all Italy south of the Apennines, the later \"Gothic\" line. In that case the authority of the Royal Government would continue over the greater part of the country, the capital would be secured, the Italian Armed Forces, though reduced in size, would remain in being with the position of the Commando Supremo unimpaired, and Italy would be able to take her place among the United Nations.\n\nI have dwelt at some length on the military conceptions underlying the Italian offer because, unless they are thoroughly grasped, the progress of negotiations and subsequent operations will be misunderstood.24 They were clearly brought out at the meeting in Lisbon between Castellano and General Eisenhower's emissaries. The latter began by presenting the Allied Armistice terms; these had already been prepared on the news of the fall of Mussolini in anticipation of an approach by the Italians and the approval of the Allied Governments obtained on 1st August. They were short and straightforward, dealing only with military matters; the full terms were not yet presented but the Italian Government, in accepting the short terms, was to undertake to sign the more comprehensive instrument at a later date. Castellano's reaction was as might have been expected from the circumstances of the Italian decision; almost disregarding the question of surrender terms, which he said, indeed, he was not authorised to discuss, he declared that his purpose was to concert the means by which Italy would transfer her allegiance from the German to the Allied side.25 What he was interested in was our plans for the invasion of Italy, to see what help we could give to the Italian forces in resisting the Germans. He was told that there was no question of our revealing our intentions; not only was this an obvious measure of security in so dubious a situation but also, and more important, if the Commando Supremo had been apprised of the fact that the utmost we could do was to land three divisions no further north than Salerno they would undoubtedly have decided to postpone capitulation to a more propitious date. Castellano was therefore merely informed that, if the Italian Government accepted our terms, cessation of hostilities would take effect from a date and hour to be notified later; this would be five or six hours before the main Allied landings, which would be in considerable strength. At that time the Supreme Allied Commander would broadcast an announcement of the Armistice; the Italian Government must simultaneously make a similar announcement and order its forces and people to collaborate with the Allies and resist the Germans, its fleet and shipping to sail to Allied ports and its aircraft to fly to Allied bases, and ensure that all Allied prisoners in danger of falling into German hands should be released. Italian formations in the Balkans should be ordered to march down to the coast preparatory to evacuation.\n\nWith this Castellano had to be content; there was a considerable element of bluff in our attitude but it seemed likely that the bluff would be successful. It was clear throughout that his interest was centred, not on the distastefulness of surrender, but on apprehensions of what the Germans might do. One threat with which the latter had made great play was to employ gas against the Italian cities. For our part we did not allow ourselves to be carried away by the prospect of invading Italy with Italian assistance. I was sceptical as to the amount of assistance we should actually receive and determined not to attempt any rash operation, such as trying to land our three divisions out of range of air cover, in reliance on such assistance. This judgment, based on past experience, was justified in the sequel; I had expected a little more resistance to the Germans than was actually offered, but not much more. Any help, however, was welcome, for the German forces in Italy were growing at an alarming speed. At any rate the Italian Government was clearly in earnest, as it proved by the subsequent despatch to Lisbon of General Zanussi and General Carton de Wiart.26\n\nOur next direct contact with General Castellano was on 31st August at Cassibile in Sicily. I had moved my headquarters there on the 28th. The scene of a historic disaster in 413 B.C., which marked the downfall of the Athenian empire, it was now destined to be the scene of the signature of an Armistice which sealed the dissolution of the Italian empire and the disappearance of Italy from the ranks of the Great Powers. General Smith, representing General Eisenhower, Admiral Cunningham, Air Marshal Tedder and I were present, and General Clark also attended. It was clear that the Italian Government was prepared to accept any terms we offered but that it was obsessed by the fear that the Germans would be able, when the Armistice was announced, to seize control of the whole country in spite of any resistance their troops might offer. German troops continued to pour in; from Naples southwards there were the four divisions which had been evacuated from Sicily, reinforced by two armoured divisions which had not yet been engaged, but there were between ten and twelve divisions in the rest of Italy, including two well placed for a stroke against Rome. Castellano now said that his government could not accept our terms unless we revealed our intentions, so that they could judge whether we were coming in sufficient force. He pleaded with us at least to assure him that the landing would be made north of Rome and in strength not less than fifteen divisions: he even seemed to think that we could land a force of that size in the area of Leghorn.27 To show our hand was obviously impossible; the bluff must be played out to the end for we too were deeply concerned by the German reinforcement of Italy; but unless we could do something to counter this fear of the Germans all might yet be lost. An offer was therefore made that we would fly an airborne division into the Rome area, to land on airfields already seized by the Italians, which would co-operate with the five Italian divisions around the capital28 in holding it against the Germans until our invading force could effect a juncture. The risk was obvious; not only might we lose the division flown in (82 United States Airborne Division was nominated) but it would also mean that it would not be available for its very important r\u00f4le in the Salerno assault, the forces for which were already quite weak enough. We decided, however, that the risk must be taken and on 1st September General Eisenhower informed me of a message received from the President and the Prime Minister: \"We highly approve your decision to go on with AVALANCHE and to land an airborne division near Rome on the conditions indicated\".\n\nAn unexpected difficulty now arose because Castellano claimed he had no authority to sign the Armistice and must first consult his Government. He was told plainly that our terms, including the new offer, must be accepted or rejected by the night of 1st-2nd September and that, whatever their decision, we should proceed with our plan for carrying the war to the Italian mainland. I have wondered since whether we should have been able to make good those bold words if the Italian decision had been negative, but at the time I had no doubt they would accept. On the other hand the military situation had been changing to our disadvantage every day since the plan for Salerno had first been proposed, in view of the constant arrival of fresh German forces.29 However, the bluff was not called; within our specified time on 1st September the King and Badoglio agreed to our terms and at a quarter past five on 3rd September General Smith, on behalf and in the presence of General Eisenhower, and General Castellano, on behalf of Marshal Badoglio, signed the Military Terms of Surrender. The scene of the signature was a tent in an almond grove near Cassibile; thirteen hours before, to the thunder of six hundred guns in the Straits of Messina, the Eighth Army had begun the first invasion of the continent of Europe.\n\n#### _German Dispositions in Italy._\n\nBefore proceeding to an account of our operations in Italy I must complete the picture of the problems which faced us by detailing the enemy forces opposing us and the strategy which they had decided to adopt. On the latter point we were fairly well informed and had acquired an additional source of information in General Castellano who told us all the Germans had so far revealed to their allies. In order to give a true picture I must step back a little in time and fill in the background of the general German strategic position in 1943.\n\nAt the beginning of the year the German High Command saw themselves faced with the certainty of a serious defeat in South Russia and the high probability of complete disaster in Africa. The loss of Stalingrad would tear a great gap in the southern end of the Eastern Front; the loss of Tunisia would open all southern Europe to the attack of the Anglo-American forces in North Africa. For the moment the danger in the east was the greater. Tunisia was still holding out and was expected to continue to do so; indeed both Kesselring and Jodl have since stated that they had expected to be able to retain the bridgehead in Tunisia indefinitely; all the available reserves therefore, less those already allotted and _en route_ for Africa, must be sent to Russia. These reserves came, as always previously in times of stress on the Eastern Front, from France, which was still being used as the place where battered divisions were re-formed and new divisions activated. No less than nineteen divisions were despatched in January and February from France to Russia; they were successful, aided by the coming of spring, in stabilizing the front. But as the thaw on the steppes brought the long opposing battle lines to a standstill, 7 Armoured Division entered Tunis through the Bardo Gate and a German Commander-in-Chief wandered disconsolately down from the low hills of Cape Bon to surrender to an officer of 4 Indian Division. To the twenty divisions lost at Stalingrad there were now to be added over one hundred and thirty thousand men30 swallowed up in Tunisia, as a final item in the balance of losses already sustained in two years of fruitless campaigning in Africa.\n\nThe first German reaction was to reinforce the Balkans. By the end of May their forces there had risen from seven to thirteen divisions and by the end of August to nineteen; in particular a strong corps of four divisions, including a crack armoured division from France, was formed in the Peloponese. It was necessary, however, to give some attention to Italy. It might be felt that the Alps were sufficient protection to the Reich without a glacis to the south of them but there were disadvantages involved in the abandonment of Italy which rendered such a course intolerable except _in extremis._ The loss of an ally, involving the disappearance of the Rome - Berlin Axis from the political scene, the loss of useful auxiliary troops who were, numerically, playing the greater part in the garrisoning of the Balkans, the direct threat to the Balkans themselves from attack either across the Adriatic or across the relatively lower Julian Alps, the loss of airfields from which strategic attacks against Germany herself could be greatly augmented and directed against hitherto immune areas, and the loss of Italian industrial production, were dangers to be avoided at almost all costs. There were also two psychological factors which weighed strongly with Hitler, on whom the decision rested; the well-known reluctance, exhibited both previously and subsequently, to yield any ground without a fight, and, to some extent at least, loyalty to his old ally Mussolini. It was decided, therefore, that German troops should assist in the defence of Italy and that the Allies should be held as far south as possible.\n\nBy this time good progress had been made with the re-formation, in France, of the twenty divisions destroyed at Stalingrad, and other exhausted divisions from the Eastern Front were resting there. If the precedent of 1942 had been followed these re-formed divisions should have been employed once more in Russia; instead, any idea of a serious offensive in the east was renounced and they were to be made available for the defence of the southern front. There were no organisational difficulties in their employment in Italy for there were already in existence there the installations which had served for the transit of divisions bound for the war in Africa and Kesselring, the Commander-in-Chief, South (Oberbefehlshaber S\u00fcd),was already on the spot. The first necessity was to provide for the security of the islands; two divisions went to Sicily and one to Sardinia and an S.S. brigade to Corsica. More were to follow, when available, for the defence of the peninsula but at the Feltre conference on 19th July Hitler informed Mussolini that he could not spare more than twenty divisions and could not guarantee more than to hold northern Italy north of a line roughly from Pisa to Rimini. The first week of the Sicilian campaign had already shown the uselessness of the Italian Army.\n\nThe fall of Mussolini came as a great shock to the Germans, who had had no warning of its imminence. Orders were hurriedly issued to all German troops in Italy to avoid any behaviour which might appear provocative and many observers report how apprehensive and nervous all ranks appeared. For the moment there was no open cause for alarm since Badoglio had declared \"The war continues\" but it was perfectly clear that the Italians had lost confidence in an Axis victory. It was necessary, therefore, to provide for the safety, not only of the southern frontier of the Reich, but also of the German troops in Italy who might at any moment find themselves at the mercy of a hostile population and attacked in force by their erstwhile brothers in arms. The programme of reinforcement had already been laid down; it was necessary to speed it up and throughout July and August, while the German troops in Sicily were holding a line around Mount Etna and while they withdrew across the Straits of Messina into Calabria, new German forces continued to pour into Italy over the Brenner, out of France and over the north-eastern passes. The main concentration was in northern Italy, where Field-Marshal Rommel was appointed to command; he was also to be responsible for Slovenia and Northern Croatia, from which Italian troops were to be withdrawn.\n\nThe last occasion on which the Germans and Italians consulted together on their plans for the defence of Italy, as far as can be ascertained, was at Casalecchio near Bologna, on 15th August, a conference attended by Roatta, the Italian Chief of Staff, and three other Italian Generals on the one hand and by Rommel, Jodl and Rintelen on the other31. After some ugly bickering between Roatta and Jodl over the question of German troops being used for the \"protection\" of the Brenner route the two plans for the defence of the country were produced. The Italians wished for twelve German divisions of which nine were to be in Southern and Central Italy, one in Corsica, and only two in Northern Italy and Liguria; this figure excluded the four divisions from Sicily. This plan might reasonably appear to be based on the Italian desire to have the defence of the whole pensinsula provided for; but after the capitulation it was used by Hitler as the basis of a charge that Badoglio had schemed to draw the German forces far down into Italy, as far as possible from their bases, and dispersed in small groups which could be easily dealt with by the Italian troops in the same areas. The German plan for the disposition of their sixteen divisions (i.e. including the four from Sicily) put eight in Northern Italy under Rommel, two near Rome and six in Southern Italy; the latter two forces were to be under Kesselring. This plan was the one adopted in the event. Proposals for the employment of Kesselring's forces, as reported to us by General Castellano, were still fluid and would be based on the Germans' own strength when the invasion came and their appreciation of the Allies' strength. In principle they intended to defend the line of the Apennines from Massa Carrara to Pesaro, the later \"Gothic\" line, though if the Allies were to attack this in great strength they would withdraw to the Po. If, however, the Allies showed little strength the Germans would attempt to hold a line from Grosseto, through Monte Amiata to Perugia and thence to Ancona.32 Finally, if the circumstances and relative strengths were particularly favourable, an attempt would be made to stand south of Rome on the line Gaeta, Isernia, Vasto. This was a line which the Italians had already surveyed, and defences were already being prepared at certain points.33\n\nThere is no need to detail the various stages of the German reinforcement of Italy and I will pass on to the situation as it presented itself on 3rd September.34 For the immediate purpose dispositions in South Italy are the most important, and they were the best known at the time. Four divisions had been evacuated from Sicily; of these 29 Panzer Grenadier Division remained in Calabria, 15 Panzer Grenadier and Hermann Goering Divisions moved to the Naples area to refit and I Parachute Division, less certain elements, moved to Altamura in Apulia. In addition to these there were two newly formed armoured divisions south of Naples: 26 Panzer Division35 in Calabria, based on the isthmus of Catanzaro and 16 Panzer Division covering the Gulf of Salerno. In the general area of Rome there were 2 Parachute Division on the coast near Ostia and 3 Panzer Grenadier Division around Viterbo. These were Kesselring's eight divisions already mentioned; they were organised, under Headquarters Tenth Army (Colonel-General von Vietinghoff), into two corps: XIV Panzer Corps north and LXXVI Panzer Corps south. Directly under Kesselring was XI Flieger Corps (Air Corps); this had been moved from Avignon when the two parachute divisions, 1st and 2nd, came to Italy. It was responsible for the training and administration of all parachute units (and directly commanded 2 Parachute Division) and for the defence of the Rome area and the west coast between a point north of the Gulf of Gaeta and Kesselring's northern boundary.\n\nIn North Italy was Army Group 'B', Field-Marshal Rommel, with headquarters on Lake Garda, commanding all forces in Italy and Italian-occupied Slovenia north of a line from Grosseto to Rimini. By the beginning of September it totalled an equivalent of ten divisions (including one and a half divisions in Sardinia and Corsica which were technically under the local Italian commanders) of which two were armoured divisions. Reinforcement had been proceeding throughout August and at the same time an extensive development of lines of communication and administrative facilities had been rapidly pushed ahead, in particular the creation of a very large staging and maintenance area around Verona. There were four Corps Headquarters under the Army Group, the most important being LXXXVII Corps which, with four divisions, was responsible for the protection of Liguria and Tuscany.\n\nThe effect of these dispositions was, first of all, to ensure German control of Northern Italy. For the rest forces were disposed to meet an Allied invasion at the points considered most threatened: Calabria, Gaeta - Naples - Salerno, the Rome area and Genoa - Spezia. All these points were considered as possible Allied objectives with the degree of probability increasing towards the north. Any landing we made, except in Calabria, would be strongly opposed. The chief lesson the Germans claimed to have learned from Sicily was that it was vital to destroy the assaulting forces actually on the beaches and not to hold back defending forces for a deliberate counterattack. But an intention to resist a landing in the hope of a spectacular victory is quite consistent with a decision on general principles not to hold Southern and Central Italy if an invasion were successful. It was a decision rather at variance with ordinary German, and in particular Hitlerian psychology and appears to have been based on two misappreciations the usual over-estimate of Allied strength and too gloomy a judgment of the dangers which Italian treachery would involve. Although the Germans had no higher an opinion of their Axis partners than had the Allies they realised that Italian defection would at least leave many doors open for the invader and, in the worst case, Italian arms turned against them might lead to more serious disaster; they also expected, as we did to a certain extent, that the allegedly turbulent population of Northern Italy would present them with a grave security problem which would engage the attention of all the troops allotted to that area. There was also the danger of a complete breakdown of all facilities, such as transport and power, with an additional strain on German resources in consequence which might be more than they could stand unless control was limited to the Northern Italian area. This was a factor on which we also placed some hopes; it seemed reasonable to expect that the workers in these industries would, even if they took no other action, at least achieve a high degree of \"absenteeism\". It was natural, therefore, in the midst of such dangers and uncertainties, that the German High Command should decide to restrict its ambitions to what seemed within its powers and not wish to risk disaster by attempting too much.\n\nI must touch, in closing, on a question which was hotly debated both at the time and subsequently; whether the Germans expected us to land in the Naples area and, more particularly, at Salerno. It is essential to be clear what is meant by the question.36 Certainly the Germans expected us to land somewhere in Italy and almost certainly on the west coast. It is standard form for all armies to prepare appreciations to meet all possible cases and there was undoubtedly somewhere in Kesselring's headquarters an appreciation based on the assumption that we should launch an assault on Naples and one of the sub-headings undoubtedly considered a landing in the Gulf of Salerno. What we have to consider in order to arrive at a just conclusion is not all the possibilities that passed through the mind of the Commander-in-Chief but what actual physical steps he took; his dispositions will give the answer. As I have already pointed out, he had made dispositions to meet attacks in the Naples area, the Rome -Civitavecchia area and the Genoa - Spezia area. Turning to the first mentioned, the reasons, which I need not detail again, that urged Naples as an objective so strongly on us must have been obvious to the Germans as well. In the circumstances I consider it surprising that they should have allotted only three divisions, two of which had scarcely recovered from their severe losses in Sicily, to cover the whole stretch of a hundred and fifty miles of coast from Gaeta to Agropoli. That they knew of our intention to land actually in the Gulf of Salerno I do not believe, nor do I believe that they even considered it the most likely hypothesis. They had disposed two divisions to cover Naples and the beaches to the north, either side of the Volturno, and had only brought over the third, 16 Panzer Division, from Apulia to Salerno at the end of August. Actions speak louder even than wisdom after the event. I have already described the excellence of the Salerno beaches. Four battalions of infantry and a battalion of tanks, even adding in the divisional reconnaissance and engineer battalions, are a very slender force to defend over thirty miles of coast; although there were Italian troops also in the line Sicily had clearly demonstrated their uselessness and the Germans should have suspected, though the evidence is clear that they did not know, that Marshal Badoglio was about to follow the example of General Yorck in 1812.\n\n#### _Eighth Army Landings in Calabria._\n\nWhile the negotiations for the Armistice were in progress planning for 13 Corps' assault had proceeded rapidly under great pressure and overcoming continual crises. It was difficult to work strictly within the craft limitations imposed by the necessity of giving priority to the Salerno operation and there were times when there were considerable differences of opinion between the military and naval staffs. Every effort was made to mount the attack as early as possible; for some time it looked as though the night of 4th\/5th September would be the earliest, but we managed eventually to put it forward to 0430 hours on the 3rd. The attack was a complete success. Opposition was light and we met no Germans; by the morning of D-day Reggio had been captured and in the evening of the same day Bagnara was in our hands. The reinforcement and supply of our forces were exceeding expectations. Demolitions were the main factor delaying our advance and there was reason to hope that if these enemy tactics were continued, and providing Eighth Army pressed resolutely forward, it would not be as far out of supporting distance of Fifth Army's Salerno landings as had been feared. It must be emphasized, however, that the roads were few and inferior, the Army was on a light scale of transport and the further it advanced the more difficult would be its maintenance. I will deal with this point later, when I come to discuss the administrative crisis which developed late in September.\n\nAttention and interest could now be switched to the major operation impending on the 9th. In order to exercise proper control, I found it necessary to move back to Bizerta where I opened a small Tactical Headquarters on 7th September. This was dictated mainly by the necessities of the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, who wished to control naval operations from his command ship there, H.M.S. LARGS. It was also convenient for the air forces who were already established at La Marsa, where was also General Eisenhower's Command Post. It was vital to have the closest contact with the Naval and Air Forces during the difficult initial stages of an amphibious operation, but I planned to return to my Main Headquarters in Sicily as soon as possible.\n\n#### _Further Operations to Exploit Italian Surrender._\n\nWith our limited resources it was inevitable that we should have to pass over many opportunities for exploiting the situation brought about by the Italian surrender which in other circumstances would have looked most attractive. Certainly with Badoglio's signature in our pocket we looked out on a very different map of the Mediterranean from that to which we had long been accustomed and to the superficial observer we might seem to be faced with an embarrassing number of choices. Areas of vital strategic importance garrisoned by Italian troops would now go to the first claimant. The Dodecanese, for example, which ever since 1940 had so often been described as a ripe plum ready to fall into our hands, was now in fact ready to fall but the hands which would gather it would be German. Crete was not in the ripe fruit category as it was mainly garrisoned by Germans already but there would certainly be an interregnum in the Western Balkans which would offer tempting opportunities of easy gains at small initial expense. I was particularly reluctant to see Corfu go by default. But none of these subsidiary operations would bear close examination; however inexpensive they might appear in the early stages the subsequent cost was bound to be high and, above all, by dispersing strength to secondary objectives we should offend against the great principle of concentration. With an assault force of only three divisions a commander must choose carefully his course and, when chosen, persevere in his choice without dissipating his resources. \"War,\" said Wolfe, \"is an election of difficulties.\" I have given the reasons why we had decided on the mainland of Italy as our next objective and we had no troops to spare for any other objective, however attractive. Every available man who could be lifted in every available craft was already earmarked for the Salerno operation and there was no-one who did not from time to time fear that even this might prove too little. AVALANCHE had already been weakened by the withdrawal of 82 Airborne Division for the Rome operation; it would be impossible to weaken it any further.\n\nThere were, however, two other areas where action on the small scale possible for us could have useful and lasting results. Sardinia and Corsica had already been prepared for, as I have explained, and General Giraud's task was likely to be made much easier by the Italian surrender as there were four Italian divisions to one German in Sardinia and three to a German brigade in Corsica; encouraging odds since in these islands, if nowhere else in Italy, the Italians would be in direct touch with Allied sea-power. But over and above the forces the French could scrape together for the liberation of Corsica (and these could not have been used elsewhere) there was one Allied formation available, I British Airborne Division. It was available because there were only sufficient transport aircraft in the theatre to lift one division, and 82 American Airborne Division had been the one selected to support Fifth Army. There were, of course, no craft available for it either and it could not, therefore, make an assault landing; but if the Italians could ensure for it an unopposed landing at a suitable port it could be transported there in warships. We did have some warships available, for the cruisers and attached destroyers of the 12th Cruiser Squadron would now not be needed to help cover the Salerno assault convoys from surface attack by the Italian fleet.\n\nI decided, therefore, to use I Airborne Division to seize Taranto. We had always considered it essential to capture and bring into use as early as possible the southeastern ports in order to provide for Eighth Army's maintenance, which would eventually have to be shifted to the Adriatic coast to follow the Army's proposed axis of advance. It was not in any way a diversion of effort, for it would be pointless to put any more troops into Calabria, rather it was an acceleration of Eighth Army's build-up. The chances of success were high, since the Germans were known to have no more than the equivalent of a regiment of parachutists in the whole area southeast of Altamura. General Hopkinson,37 commanding I Airborne Division, was therefore summoned to my headquarters on 4th September and instructed to prepare to land part of his division at Taranto on the 9th with the tasks of securing the port, airfields and other installations and making contact with the Italians in the area of Brindisi. As soon as this was achieved, and when sufficient landing craft became available, it was proposed to bring in 78 Division from Sicily, followed by 8 Indian Division from Middle East. The codename for the operation - SLAPSTICK - an undignified term to denote the seizure of the main naval port of Southern Italy, at least illustrates happily the _ex tempore_ nature of the planning. At the same time the Cotrone operation (GOBLET) was cancelled and 5 Corps Headquarters became available. I therefore ordered General Allfrey,38 General Officer Commanding to prepare to move to the Heel of Italy with his Corps Headquarters to take over command of such troops as were already there (I Airborne and such of 78 Division as had landed) and 8 Indian Division when it arrived. His task was defined as to secure a base in the Heel of Italy covering the ports of Taranto and Brindisi, and if possible Bari, with a view to a subsequent advance on my orders. 5 Corps was to come under operational command of my headquarters from 5th September, but I planned to put it at a later date under command of Eighth Army, when the latter should have advanced sufficiently to make contact with it. The result of this decision was that our build upon the mainland of Italy, no longer restricted to the beaches of Salerno and the minor ports of Calabria, would be considerably accelerated and Fifth and Eighth Armies would each have an independent axis of supply, on the west and east coast respectively.\n\n#### _Situation on 8th September._\n\nThe plans for AVALANCHE were completed and the various convoys sailed on 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th September, but arrangements for the acceptance of the Italian surrender and the descent of 82 Airborne Division on Rome remained to be made, and at feverish speed. For the former the main task was to prepare instructions for Italian shipping and aircraft, to be broadcast at the appropriate moment, giving recognition signals, routes, and ports and airfields to which they were to proceed. The latter was altogether a riskier operation and it was decided that we must have first-hand knowledge of the actual situation before a final decision on its launching could be taken. It was decided, therefore, to send Brigadier-General Taylor,39 of the United States Airborne Forces, to Rome to report from there the chances of success; he was instructed, if he decided against the operation, to include a specific innocent-sounding code-word in his signal. He sailed in a British motor torpedo boat from Palermo on 7th September and transferred, off Ustica, to a light Italian naval craft. At the same time details were agreed with the Italians to ensure that there should be no possibility of misunderstanding over the announcement of the Armistice. We were already in direct wireless communication with Marshal Badoglio by means of a set given to Castellano in Lisbon, but in case this should break down it was arranged that the BBC should broadcast at stated times two short talks on German activities in the Argentine as a sign that that was the day. At 1830 hours on that day (i.e., 8th September) General Eisenhower was to broadcast the announcement of the Italian surrender and simultaneously Badoglio was to broadcast a similar announcement. Immediate steps would then be taken to ensure that the news was spread as widely as possible all over Italy by radio and leaflet.\n\nOn 8th September the dispositions of the Allied invasion forces were as follows. The assault convoys for Salerno were at sea north of Sicily steering a northerly course preparatory to turning east after last light, I Airborne Division was concentrated at Bizerta on its warships, ready to sail for Taranto when Badoglio's announcement should have confirmed that the Italians were ready to surrender. The troops of 82, Airborne Division were at Licata in Sicily, ready to emplane for the drop on Rome. In Calabria I Canadian Division on the right had entered Locri, Cittanova and Polistena without contact with the enemy; 5 Division on the left had reached Rosarno and the line of the River Mesima; 231 Infantry Brigade, supported by Commandos, made a landing at Pizzo, the same morning, which was intended to get in behind the enemy's rear but which actually made contact with his last elements retreating more rapidly than had been expected. Meanwhile a new crisis was brewing at Bizerta where at 1100 hours a conference of Commanders-in-Chief, presided over by General Eisenhower, was in progress.\n\n#### _Italian Surrender Announced._\n\nAt the end of the conference two messages from Rome were brought in. One was from General Taylor advising against the airborne operation; the pre-arranged codeword was present and the decision had to be accepted. 82 Airborne Division were stood down only a short while before they were actually due to emplane; not merely were they not used in Rome, where their presence perhaps would have made little difference to the development of the situation, but it was also too late for them to be switched back to their original role in support of the Salerno landings. This was a serious blow. The other message was from Marshal Badoglio. He stated that because of the presence of strong German forces in the neighbourhood he was unable to guarantee the security of the three airfields on which the airborne division was to land and therefore the landing could not be attempted; consequently it was impossible for him to announce the Armistice until the seaborne invasion had proved successful. The statements in the first part of the signal were not strictly accurate, or at least exaggerated, for the Germans made no move until after the announcement of the Armistice and General Taylor based his decision to cancel the airborne operation on the obvious disorganisation and vacillation in Italian military circles rather than on the danger from the Germans. As to delaying the announcement of the Armistice, it was quite impossible for us to accept Badoglio's change of attitude, or rather reversion to his original attitude, since he had all along been anxious to see our hand exposed before taking the final step. The troops were at sea facing an operation whose risks were already considerable; it would be intolerable to add to those risks. If we allowed the Italians to break the agreement with us there was a danger that, when they saw the smallness of our force, they might repudiate it altogether. It was not true that they had had insufficient time to make the necessary military dispositions, and in the frame of mind which then reigned it is doubtful if any further allowance of time would have produced a better result.\n\nMarshal Badoglio was therefore reminded in vigorous terms of the obligations he had assumed and the dishonour which would follow their repudiation. Although the airborne operation, on his own showing, would have to be cancelled, we were eager to undertake it again as soon as possible; in the meantime his five divisions should suffice to provide temporary protection for the capital. Whatever Badoglio did, finally, the Allies would announce the existence of the Armistice at the hour originally planned. No reply came to this signal and when at the appointed time, 1830 hours, Badoglio did not broadcast as arranged it seemed that the worst had happened. But it was only a final instance of vacillation; at 1945 hours he at last was heard reading in a depressed and subdued voice his statement that Italy had surrendered unconditionally. That night he and the King fled from Rome by car to Pescara and thence in a warship to Brindisi. They left no orders behind for the defence of Rome, where all was in confusion, and scarcely any response was made by the Italian armed forces or civilian population to the rather vaguely worded order in Badoglio's broadcast that, whilst ceasing resistance to the Allies, they were to resist \"any attack which might come from another quarter\". It was only at the last minute that Badoglio had decided that he could not honourably order his people directly to take action against the Germans.\n\nThe result was a fatal apathy and disorganisation. Only the fleet carried out wholeheartedly the surrender terms. The air force endeavoured to do so, but with only partial success. On land no real resistance was offered to the Germans and we derived little positive benefit from the Armistice as a result. The five divisions in the Rome area made only a brief and unco-ordinated resistance to 2 Parachute Division and the hastily summoned 3 Panzer Grenadier Division; all was quiet there by 10th September, so much so that the Panzer Grenadiers could be sent on almost immediately to the front in Campania. In North Italy the Germans were faced with a considerable logistical and organisational problem in the mere physical difficulties of taking over control of so extensive an area with so many large industrial cities; but these difficulties were not aggravated, or only insignificantly, by the resistance either of the armed forces or of the civilian population. The great city of Milan, for instance, with a strong garrison of regular troops and an allegedly turbulent and liberty-loving proletarian population, surrendered to a small force of S.S. troops. We had not expected much from the Italians; twenty-one years of Fascist corruption and inefficiency had quenched any spark of patriotic feeling in a not naturally warlike people.\n\n#### _The Battle of Salerno._\n\nThe news of the Italian Armistice could not be kept from the troops who were even then heading up the Gulf of Salerno nor was it either honourable or advisable not to inform them that the Italians were now pledged to fight on our side. But in spite of the fact that they were warned that the assault would continue as planned and that they would certainly meet resistance on shore from the Germans there was a definite feeling of optimism among the assaulting troops. The Germans were also surprised by the news with opposite results; the shock was the greater as they had just heard that our invasion fleet was at sea. That afternoon at 1600 hours, two and a half hours before General Eisenhower's broadcast, 16 Panzer Division had been informed that thirty-six ships, escorted by destroyers, had been sighted twenty-five miles south of Capri; the division ordered \"State of Alarm II.\"40 When the news of the surrender came, however, there was still nine hours in which the Germans could act. They at once proceeded to take over the Italian coast defence positions and disarm the troops. By the time the first Allied troops landed the Germans were ready for them.\n\nThe fighting on the beaches of Salerno was among the fiercest of the whole Italian campaign, in spite of the fact that the advantage of strategic surprise enabled us to bring three divisions against one; but war is never a matter of mathematics and least of all are amphibious operations. Of the Allied formations only 46 Division had had much previous experience in action and that experience had been occasionally unlucky; 56 Division had had only a few days fighting on the Enfidaville line in Tunisia, with varied success; 36 Division was entirely inexperienced. The time available for training and planning had been very short; some units landed on the wrong beaches. This was the first time we had met real resistance, including the use of German tanks actually on the beach. The result of the tactics employed by 16 Panzer Division was that, at the cost of severe casualties to itself, it succeeded in imposing serious delay and some degree of disorganisation and thereby gained time for reinforcements to arrive. Once given this breathing space the German rate of reinforcement by land was bound to be greater than ours by sea. They determined to devote all their efforts to throwing us back into the sea and for a week they disregarded all other factors for this purpose, including the steadily growing threat from Eighth Army.\n\nThe first three days of the operation went relatively successfully though our progress was not as great as we had hoped. In the next three days the Germans launched a series of counter-attacks which produced a very serious crisis on the 14th. By the 15th the Germans had admitted defeat. It was a dramatic week. The first reports spoke of heavy fighting on the beaches but steady progress. The greatest gain in ground was made on the southern flank where VI Corps by the night of 11th September had captured a line from Altavilla to Albanella and back to the coast at Agropoli; at its furthest point this represented an advance of some ten miles inland. resistance in this sector had been very heavy on the beaches but considerably lighter when the first beach-head had been consolidated. The enemy resisted much more strongly on 10 Corps' front, both on the beaches and further inland; Salerno was captured on the morning of the 10th and Montecorvino airfield, one of the Corps' most important objectives, on the evening of the 11th, but it could not be brought into operation as yet since it was still under artillery fire. Very heavy fighting raged on the 10th and 11th around Battipaglia, the most important road junction in the plain; by the night we had a battalion in the town, fiercely engaged by the enemy.\n\nFighting of this intensity showed how different the Sicilian campaign would have been had we been opposed on the beaches by German troops and seemed to augur ill for the time when enemy reinforcements should arrive. On the afternoon of 10th September, I signalled to General Montgomery to the effect that if the Germans had dealt successfully with the Italians in the Naples - Rome area I was anxious about their possible rate of concentration against Fifth Army. It was of the utmost importance that he should maintain pressure upon the Germans so that they could not move forces from his front and concentrate them against AVALANCHE.\n\nThe Germans were indeed reinforcing fast. From the north-west the Hermann Goering Division and part of 15 Panzer Grenadier Division were rushed down to oppose 10 Corps, followed by 3 Panzer Grenadier Division, its task of pacification in the Rome area completed. LXXVI Panzer Corps was ordered to accelerate its disengagement from Calabria and despatch to the Salerno battlefield 29 Panzer Grenadier Division, all but a battle group of 26 Panzer Division and the third regiment of I Parachute Division from Apulia. Eighth Army's advance was henceforward to be delayed almost entirely by geographical and logistical difficulties while Kesselring sought to snatch a quick success over Fifth Army. There was an obvious danger that the German build-up would be quicker than ours at a time when only our initial objectives had been reached and we had neither a port nor an airfield, and to meet the threat all means of increasing our fighting troops in the bridgehead, even at the expense of their administrative units, must be sought. It was fortunate, therefore, that there were at Oran eighteen Landing Ships, Tank, _en route_ for India; permission was asked and granted on 11th September for these to be employed at Salerno; they were to be released again by 12th October at the latest.\n\nBefore this reinforcement programme could take effect large-scale German counter-attacks had begun and soon caused grave anxiety. The critical period was 12th to 14th September. On the 12th a strong attack drove VI Corps out of Altavilla and on the 13th the enemy advanced down both banks of the River Sele, threatening to cut our bridgehead in half. This latter attack made dangerous progress and on the night of the 13th\/14th VI Corps withdrew from Albanella to a shorter line on the La Cosa creek to conform with the withdrawal on its left. Our lines had been pushed back at one point to within a thousand yards of the beach. Even more dangerous was the attack on the 10 Corps front. On the 12th the enemy succeeded in driving us out of Battipaglia, inflicting heavy losses on 167 Infantry Brigade which had to be relieved by 201 Guards Brigade. In a signal which I received early on the 13th from General Clark he described 10 Corps' situation as unfavourable and 56 Division as exhausted. The enemy pursued his advantage; regrouping his forces he attacked again in strength from Battipaglia and Eboli on the night of the 13th\/14th, clearly intending to break right through to the beaches. The 14th was the critical day and the attacks on all parts of our front were pressed with the greatest vigour. We suffered heavy casualties and lost ground in some places, but by the use of every remaining reserve and by employing administrative troops in the line the enemy was held. It was an impressive example of stubborn doggedness in defence, for the sea at our backs was very close and all troops were exhausted by six days of uninterrupted struggle.\n\nWe had taken such steps as we could to improvise extra assistance but there was not much we could do which would have immediate effect. Admiral Cunningham ordered \"Warspite\" and \"Valiant\" at full speed to the Gulf, in spite of the danger of German air attacks, which had been scoring some successes with the new radio-controlled bombs. Their accurate and deadly shooting against the troop concentrations at Battipaglia and Eboli, reinforcing the fire of the British and United States cruisers and destroyers already on the spot, undoubtedly contributed very considerably to the defeat of the counter-offensive in the most dangerous area. An equally valuable contribution was made by heavy bombing attacks by the Strategic Air Force. To bring sea and air power to bear was a relatively easy and rapid affair, but other reinforcement could not be so speedy. On the 12th I had ordered Eighth Army to press on with all possible speed, accepting the administrative risks involved, and sent General Richardson41, my Chief of Staff, to General Montgomery to explain the full urgency of the situation. On the 13th I made arrangements to put 82 Airborne Division into the bridgehead as quickly as possible and bring 3 United States Division from Sicily on top priority. A Regimental Combat Team of 82 Division was dropped by parachute behind our own lines on the night of the 13th-14th and went into action at once, another was dropped in the same way the next night and the third came in by landing craft on the 15th. We also dropped a battalion of parachutists in the Avellino area to disrupt enemy communications there; this was originally requested for the night of the 12th-13th but could not be mounted before the night of the 14th-15th. This was fairly quick work; the first elements of 3 Division, on the other hand, could not begin to arrive before the 18th.\n\nI went to the bridgehead myself on 14th September and was able to see both the acute difficulties of the situation and the gallant efforts of the defence. By the evening of that day I felt that the crisis was past and the situation beginning to turn in our favour. 7 Armoured Division had begun to disembark in 10 Corps' area on that day and a Regimental Combat Team of 45 Division also landed and came into Army reserve.42 These moves were part of the original programme and the emergency moves on which we had decided were also beginning to show their effect. Before I left on the 15th I signalled to General Eisenhower to the effect that although I was not actually happy about the situation I was happier than I had been twenty-four hours earlier. The troops were tired but on the whole in good heart. I informed him that I had issued certain instructions, details of which I would give on my return next day. I also said that I had asked for I,500 British Infantry replacements from Philippeville to come as early as possible. I asked him to inform Admiral Cunningham and Air Marshal Tedder that our air bombing and ships' gunfire had been great morale raisers to the troops.\n\nThe Germans in their counter-attacks had been working under definite limitations of time. They had, deliberately, as good as broken contact with Eighth Army in order to fling the troops coming up from Calabria against Fifth Army, but they could not ignore Eighth Army's advance beyond a certain date. By the 15th they decided that they had failed; on that day reconnaissance elements of 5 British Division were at Sapri, about fifty miles south of the VI Corps position, with patrols forward, and by the 16th the whole division was concentrated in the area Lagonegro - Sapri - Maratea with a brigade at each place. On the same day patrols of 5 Reconnaissance Regiment made contact with patrols from VI Corps five miles west of Vallo and the Canadians were in a position to threaten Potenza. The enemy had already begun to withdraw in front of VI Corps, and with that confession of his inability to destroy our bridgehead our hold on the mainland of Italy could be considered firm.\n\n## PART II.\n\n## THE WINTER CAMPAIGN\n\n#### _Planning._\n\nOn 21st September I issued instructions to both Army Commanders giving the broad basis of our plan for future operations. The situation at that date was briefly as follows. Fifth Army had just advanced VI Corps, on its right, northwards to follow up the German withdrawal which was taking the form of a great wheeling movement, pivoting on the Salerno peninsula; 10 Corps was regrouping and reorganising after the heavy fighting of the past week and was preparing to launch a direct attack on the Naples plain through the gorges north of Salerno. Eighth Army was halted in the Potenza area, having made contact with Fifth Army on its left and 5 Corps on its right; it was now necessary to pause after the rapid advance to the assistance of Fifth Army while the administrative \"tail\" of the fighting troops could be brought up and the new axis of supply established through the Heel ports. 5 Corps Headquarters had landed at Taranto on 18th September and on the 22nd a special force under command of Headquarters 78 Division, and including elements of that division and of 4 Armoured Brigade, was due to land at Bari for mobile operations against Foggia. I Airborne Division had reached a line from forward of Bari to near Matera, where they were in contact with I Canadian Division; all the area southeast of this line, including the ports of Bari, Brindisi and Taranto, was clear of the enemy. The Italian fleet and air force had surrendered in accordance with the terms of the Armistice in so far as they were not prevented by the action of the Germans but the Italian army had been eliminated except for a few poorly equipped formations in the south and the troops in Sardinia and Corsica. Mussolini had been rescued from his prison on the Gran Sasso but this, though irritating, was not considered likely to add to our difficulties in Italy, an appreciation which proved wholly justified. The \"Quadrant\" conference at Quebec had broken up and I was informed of its main decisions regarding the Mediterranean on 18th September. No change was made in the allotment of forces to the theatre; this involved the withdrawal to the United Kingdom of eight good divisions, to be replaced in part by French divisions as the latters' equipment progressed, reduction of the bomber strength by about a hundred and seventy aircraft by December 1943 and a considerable withdrawal of troop-carrying aircraft and assault shipping and craft.\n\nMy plan of campaign had to be based on these considerations. It had to be flexible and general in terms and as I put it to my Army Commanders it was rather a general directive on the method of conducting the coming operations and an indication of the bounds of our advance. Our object I defined as \"the seizing of certain vital areas which contain groups of all-weather airfields, ports and centres of road communications. On these firm bases the Armies can be regrouped, reorganised and balanced, and from them strong offensive operations can be developed to destroy the German forces in the field. Light mobile forces and patrols will be operating ahead of these bases against the enemy continuously. This advance screen harasses the hostile rearguards, obtains information of all natures, and aids us to keep the initiative\".\n\nI indicated four phases into which our advance could be divided. The first was the consolidation of our present position on the line Salerno - Bari; the second was to give us the port of Naples and the airfield centre of Foggia. The third aimed at securing Rome and the airfields round it and the important road and rail centre of Terni. For the next phase I indicated as eventual objectives the port of Leghorn and the communications centres of Florence and Arezzo; but this was well in the future, dependent on the enemy reaction, the strength of our own forces, how our ports and communications were functioning and so on. Throughout the advance I planned \"to take full advantage of our control of the sea and skies to put ashore small but hard-hitting mobile forces behind the enemy so as to cut him off\". In the event I was only able, for reasons which will appear later, to carry out two of these amphibious operations, at Termoli and Anzio.\n\n#### _Capture of Naples and Foggia._\n\nThe first phase of this plan was already practically completed when I wrote and, after the pause, we proceeded with the second phase. Fifth Army had a hard struggle for the passes leading down into the plain of Naples but by 28th September 10 Corps was through and the King's Dragoon Guards entered the great city at 0930 hours on 1st October. Eighth Army's principal objective, Foggia and its airfields, had fallen four days before on the 27th. On both fronts the pursuit went on, but it was slower now. On 6th October Fifth Army stood along the line of the Volturno River and realised that it would have to force a crossing against strong resistance; Eighth Army had also left behind the early days of rapid advance across the open country of Apulia and the line ran clear across Italy through the mountains from Termoli to Benevento and Capua and down to the Tyrrhenian at Castel Volturno. My plan had been based on the German intention to withdraw to the Pisa - Rimini line and that intention had now been revoked on the highest authority; but before proceeding to discuss the effect of this new situation I must pause to describe the problems of administration which now faced us.\n\n#### _Administrtative Problems._ 43\n\nThe most serious and most urgent problem was the imminent danger of the complete breakdown of the maintenance of Eighth Army. This situation, though no doubt it should in theory never be allowed to occur, did not reflect any discredit on anyone but was the result of a deliberate decision to accept an administrative risk for the sake of urgent and vital operational advantage. It would obviously be absurd at such a time, to sit down and do nothing until our administrative resources and plans were perfect, nor was there any simple solution available, for we had rightly decided not to create a proper base in Sicily and were therefore still based on North Africa and Middle East and, to a certain and increasing extent, directly on the United Kingdom and United States. It would have been equally absurd to confine our operations to Calabria until we could build up a cast-iron administrative backing. The early days of the landings had gone smoothly enough; the small ports of Reggio, San Venere and Cotrone were put into use for the maintenance of the forces in Calabria and although the initial maintenance of the hastily planned operations at Taranto was not entirely satisfactory this was natural enough in the circumstances44. The administrative staffs were a little surprised to get their first positive confirmation of the operation simultaneously with the news of the landing but were soon mollified by reflecting on the importance of the speedy capture of Taranto and Brindisi undamaged; indeed this was of vital importance in averting the threatened breakdown. It was when I began to be worried about the situation at Salerno that I ordered General Montgomery to push ahead at all risks and he complied in spite of the warnings of his staff that so rapid an advance would risk a complete administrative breakdown. Hardly was the danger to Fifth Army averted when the expected difficulties materialized and Eighth Army found itself with virtually no reserves at all.\n\nTaranto and Brindisi, however, were now available so that if our administrative tail could be switched from the Toe to the Heel there would be the considerable advantage of a shorter line of communication and better roads and ports, and even railways, with which to operate. On the other hand to carry out this switch and at the same time continue to support the Army in its operations was an extraordinarily difficult task and placed a tremendous strain on the very limited resources available. It was a great achievement and it took the rest of the month of September before the situation could be said to be stabilized again, though even then it was far from satisfactory. On the 29th General Montgomery informed me that when he had reached a line from Termoli through Campobasso to Vinchiaturo he would have to pause for ten or fourteen days as he had absolutely no reserve stocks. Our administrative machinery had been overdriven and could not sustain any more shocks for the moment; as I told the Chief of the Imperial General Staff45 in a signal on the 30th \"Men can go hungry but a truck just won't\".\n\nEighth Army were thus rather breathless after their splendid gallop through Calabria, Lucania and Apulia; Fifth Army had had sterner fighting but their maintenance position was much easier, for they could use the ports and beaches at Salerno and Torre Annunziata, which were close behind their front line, and would shortly be able to bring Naples into use. At first sight this looked a disheartening problem. The port had been most thoroughly blocked and all the port facilities -cranes, quays, lighters, etc. - destroyed. Ships of all sizes, including ten thousand ton cruisers, hospital ships and two large liners, had been sunk alongside nearly all the quays and in the fairway inside the moles. In all, some three hundred lighters, the total number available in the port, and all the tugs and small craft had been sunk at their berths. I need hardly mention that mines and booby traps were cunningly dispersed everywhere from the harbour gates to the water's edge. But we had had fair experience in opening demolished ports and by the second week in October the discharge capacity was already reaching five thousand tons per day. This was a splendid effort and entirely removed any apprehension as to Fifth Army's maintenance.\n\nOur next problem, now we were firmly established in Italy, was the rate at which we could reinforce or, in the universally accepted expression of this war, our \"buildup\". We were definitely inferior in numbers to the Germans and their land communications would enable them to reinforce much faster than us. The solution of the problem depended on availability of formations and shipping to move them. The former consideration was not likely to influence the situation before 1944 since, although the number of formations in the Mediterranean was in fact limited, and although the majority of these were deficient, in one way or another and would therefore only become available for operations with a varying degree of delay, there were at present as many fit for battle as the means of transport could deal with. An estimate prepared for me on 6th September showed that by the end of the month we should have available in the Mediterranean one armoured and eleven infantry divisions and an airborne brigade; this figure did not include the divisions due to return to the United Kingdom but included one division earmarked for operations against the Dodecanese.46 By 1st January this figure should have risen to twenty infantry divisions, five armoured divisions and possibly one airborne division. I must emphasise, however, that this was the total for the whole theatre and out of it must be deducted the four divisions required for the garrison of the Middle East and North Africa and the forces intended and promised for the support of Turkey if that country should enter the war.47 Our position is therefore clearer if we contrast these forces not merely with the nineteen German divisions already in Italy but with the fifty-odd in the Mediterranean theatre from South France to the Balkans.\n\nOur build-up in Italy could not be very fast. A paper prepared on 2nd October estimated that by mid-October we should have on the mainland ten infantry divisions, one and a third armoured divisions, two airborne divisions and the equivalent of five independent brigades. Three of the infantry divisions had had heavy casualties and were considered only seventy-five percent. effective; one armoured division and one airborne division were due to be withdrawn to the United Kingdom and in the event the other airborne division went also, leaving only a brigade group behind. By February, 1944, we expected to have in Italy eighteen and a half divisions (of which two were armoured). In actual fact we managed to increase this figure to the equivalent of over twenty-one divisions (as against a German total of twenty-three) but of these, two infantry divisions and an armoured brigade were only in process of arriving and an infantry division was leaving. This increase was due to the allotment of extra shipping and the delaying of the move of the Strategic Air Force. The move of the latter represented a serious slowing down of our build-up and required a very nice adjustment of priorities.\n\nIt had originally been intended to move the Strategic Air Force to bases in the Rome area when captured but on 15th September this was changed and it was now to be moved to Italy as quickly as possible and based on the many airfields around Foggia. It was planned to move the whole of the Tactical Air Force, the whole of the Strategic Air Force, elements of the Coastal Air Force, the Photographic Reconnaissance Wing and the Troop Carrier Command, together with most of the Service Command and the supporting services, to the Italian mainland by the end of December, 1943. This could only be done at the expense of the Army, both the buildup of the formations already engaged and the reinforcing formations. The Tactical and Coastal Air Forces, the Reconnaissance Wing and Troop Carrier Command were, of course, of vital importance to the success of the campaign in Italy; the move of the Strategic Air Force, on the other hand, was dictated by considerations of general European strategy outside Italy, that is the furtherance of POINTBLANK, the strategic bombing programme against German Europe which was in full swing from the United Kingdom. In itself, therefore, from the purely local point of view, the move represented a positive disadvantage to the progress of the Italian campaign, though the capture of Foggia and its employment in this manner had been one of the main objects of the invasion of Italy. The necessary lift for the Strategic Air Force came to rather more than the equivalent of two divisions and their maintenance requirements were nearly as great as those of Eighth Army on the east coast. We eventually decided to slow down the move and spread it out until March, with the proviso that six heavy bombardment groups (equivalent to about two hundred and fifty four-engined aircraft) should be in Italy and operative by the end of the year.\n\nThe vital question in all discussions of build-up was the availability of shipping. I have already pointed out that the Mediterranean now took second priority to western waters and that, besides surrendering eight veteran divisions, we were to lose most of our amphibious equipment. The effect of the reduction was to remove eighty percent. of our Landing Ships, Tank and Landing Ships, Infantry and two-thirds of our assault craft of all natures. The loss of Landing Ships, Tank was most serious for we could move a vehicle across the Mediterranean in a week by craft that would take a month to do so by ship. The careful destruction by the Germans of Italian lighters had left us terribly short of small craft for harbour working. We wanted a minimum of fifty-eight Landing Craft, Tank but it looked as though we should, on this programme, be reduced to nine; by vigorous representations I got this increased to twenty-four but even this was still below the number required. I mention these details not with any intention of querying the decision to concentrate the maximum resources in the west, which was obviously the right one, but to show more clearly the difficulties of our position in Italy and, in particular, why we were unable to make greater use of our command of the sea.\n\n#### _Enemy Change of Plan._\n\nUp to the beginning of October we had been planning on the assumption that the Germans were intending to withdraw by gradual stages to a line in the northern Apennines but in the first week of that month we became aware that a radical change had been made.48 Hitler had decided that the withdrawal should stop and Kesselring was to hold a line as far south as possible in Italy. There had been time enough to recover from the gloomy apprehensions with which the Germans had regarded the situation on the Southern Front at the time of the Italian surrender. The country was perfectly quiet, except for the north-east where the Slovenes were giving trouble, so that the internal security commitment was much reduced, and a better knowledge of the Allied Order of Battle showed that the Germans enjoyed a considerable numerical advantage and were likely to continue to do so. The terrain of southern and central Italy is admirably suited for defensive warfare; the whole of the area between Rome and Naples, except for the Volturno plain at its southern end and the Pontine Marshes at its northern end, is mountainous and unfavourable to manoeuvre and offers on the east coast a continuous series of river lines. The weather in autumn and winter would hamper Allied offensive operations and curtail the value of our air superiority. To hold a line south of Rome was eminently practicable; from the German point of view, therefore, it was eminently desirable. The forces under command of Field-Marshal Kesselring had been engaged in a continuous retreat for almost a year, since November, 1942, a retreat which had brought them from just short of Alexandria to just north of Naples and it was time to put a stop to it. I have mentioned the other reasons which urged the retention of as much of Italy as possible; there was now an additional reason, to give a certain semblance of authority to the recently created Republican Fascist Government by retaining as much territory as possible for it to govern under German supervision.\n\nThe line which it was decided to hold, known as the \"Winter Line\"49, had been reconnoitred by the Germans before the Armistice. It was based on the east coast on the River Sangro and on the west on the Garigliano backed by the Aurunci Mountains on the coast and the strong Cassino position rising to the _massif_ of Monte Cairo; the centre of the peninsula, the rugged mountains of the Abruzzi, where bears roamed in the fastnesses of the National Park, was considered too difficult to admit of manoeuvre by large forces. On this line the Italian peninsula is at its narrowest, only eighty-five miles from sea to sea. Delaying positions could be held in front of it in order to gain time for the weather to deteriorate still further and allow artificial defences to be constructed to add to the natural strength of the position. There was little hope of holding permanently the Volturno and Biferno, but a stronger defence of these positions could reduce the Allied impetus and give still greater depth to the Winter Line. This new decision involved a reorganisation of the command. Rommel's Army Group \"B\" in the north was dissolved and on 21st November Kesselring assumed command of the whole theatre. The armoured divisions in North Italy, which would be of little use in the mountains, were relieved for employment in Russia, to be replaced by infantry, including a Mountain Division from the Leningrad front, and the remainder of the forces were put at Kesselring's disposal.50\n\nThis German decision to stand south of Rome did not affect my general plan of campaign though it was, of course, destined to affect its timing. It was, as can be seen, a positive assistance to me in carrying out the Combined Chiefs of Staff directive, for if the Germans had adhered to their original intention it would have made it very difficult for me to carry out my mission of containing the maximum enemy forces. An orderly withdrawal up the peninsula would have required only a comparatively small force, aided by the difficulties of the terrain, and although a larger force would be eventually required to hold the selected line, even this would not be immediately required since our build-up in front of that line would be necessarily slow. This peculiar feature of the strategy of the Italian campaign remained unchanged to the end: we had the initiative in operations but the Germans had the initiative in deciding whether we should achieve our object since they were free, other considerations, psychological or political, being excluded, to refuse to allow themselves to be contained in Italy. Had they decided to withdraw altogether, for instance, they could have defended the line of the Alps, or one of the strong river lines in north-eastern Italy, with the minimum forces and, instead of us containing them, they would be containing us. All danger of such an alarming result was removed by Hitler's decision. From the moment of that decision the German Army undertook a commitment as damaging and debilitating as Napoleon's Peninsular campaign, the final result of which was that it saw itself next summer under the deplorable necessity of pouring troops into Italy to retrieve disaster there at the very moment when the Allied invading forces were storming the breaches of the crumbling Western Wall. One further result of the German decision to stand was to remove the necessity, and the possibility, of a Balkan campaign. I had considered at one time a possible plan of first capturing Naples and Foggia and then, from this firm base in South Italy, launching an operation across the Adriatic. The Germans placed much greater importance on the retention of the Balkans than on the defence of Italy as was shown by the way in which, while withdrawing hastily from Sardinia and Corsica, they turned and struck with all the strength they could collect at a minor British incursion into the Dodecanese. If they continued to withdraw in Italy it would be difficult, as I have just explained, to contain any large force there but we should be certain of a violent reaction if we landed on the eastern shores of the Adriatic. We should also get some military support from the Partisans, though by October the Germans had a pretty firm hold on the coastal areas at least. It would have been a good way, therefore, of carrying out our directive, though we should have required a large increase in our allotment of amphibious equipment and reinforcement in troops. However, now the Germans had decided to allow themselves to be contained in Italy, there was no need for us to go further afield; Campania and Latium were far enough from France. And if there was no need there was certainly no possibility; now that all the German divisions in Italy were to be made available for the southern front we were actually outnumbered and would remain so for some months; there was even the possibility that the enemy might, if we let him, assume the initiative in an attempt to snatch a hasty victory, which would have come as a very welcome present to the German people at the beginning of a hard winter. I devoted my attention, therefore, to the exclusion of adventures further afield, to the task of containing, and manhandling as far as possible, the German forces facing us in Italy.51\n\n#### _Battles of Termoli and the Volturno._\n\nNow that the Foggia plain had been overrun the sector allotted to Eighth Army was a mountain and foothill region separated from the Adriatic Sea by a narrow coastal plain. The lower slopes of this area offer only moderate difficulties to an advancing army; but on the left the centre of the pensinsula is in all places steep and precipitous, completely unsuited to the manoeuvre of armour, for all movement is confined to the roads. The coastal plain with its gentle slopes presents greater opportunities but here trees and intensive cultivation also favour the defence by limiting the field of view and the effectiveness of weapons. Major rivers cross the whole region at approximately ten mile intervals, at right angles to our line of advance; in the mountains they are swift-running streams usually between high banks and in their lower reaches they spread out into broad sandy and gravel beds where the streams meander widely, normally shallow but liable to sudden flash floods. We could expect plenty of rain in the autumn, up to five inches a month52, and snow above two thousand feet as early as December. This would assist the effectiveness of bridge demolitions and render movement off the roads most difficult. The only good continuous roads forward lay on either side of the Army sector, forty miles apart; these were the coast road through Termoli and Vasto (Route 16) and a mountain road through Vinchiaturo and Isernia (Route 17). A number of first or second class laterals connected these roads by tortuous routes over mountains and along river valleys, and between them lay other less direct routes forward which could be used by up to one division.\n\nEighth Army's maintenance situation was now better and likely to improve and General Montgomery decided to seize with light forces a line including Termoli, where there was a small port which might be of use, and Vinchiaturo, a communications centre on Route 17. After this it would be necessary to pause to establish our administrative facilities on a firmer basis before advancing to contact the main German winter line on the Sangro. The enemy on this front consisted of the LXXVI Panzer Corps with I Parachute and 29 Panzer Grenadier Divisions, holding a front from the Adriatic to Benevento. 26 Panzer Division, originally under command of XIV Panzer Corps in the Benevento area, came under command after the beginning of October, operating south of the Benevento - Isernia road with a detachment operating on the Foggia - Isernia road. General Montgomery's plan was to employ 13 Corps for his advance with 78 Division right and I Canadian Division left while 5 Corps took command of the remaining formations, I Airborne, 5 Infantry and 8 Indian Infantry Divisions, with the task of organising the administrative build-up, securing the Army lines of communication and protecting the left flank of 13 Corps. On 3rd October the Royal Navy landed 2 Special Service Brigade (Commandos) at Termoli ahead of the advance of 78 Division and captured the town and port intact, together with a number of prisoners. They made early contact with the leading brigade of 78 Division across the Biferno but the difficulties of the crossing rendered this contact precarious. A brigade of 78 Division was therefore landed in the bridgehead area on the night 3rd\/4th October and a further brigade was taken in by sea on 5th October. The enemy reacted violently and rushed over 16 Panzer Division from Army reserve in the western sector. Fierce fighting continued for some days. The Biferno rose in flood and cut communication by road, but by the 7th the enemy had accepted defeat and drew off westward to his next line behind the River Trigno.53\n\nWhile the fighting at Termoli was in progress I Canadian Division was advancing up Route 17 against skilfully conducted German rearguards who forced our troops to deploy against every defensible position without themselves imperilling their withdrawal. 5 Division came under command of 13 Corps on 9th October; it was put in on the right of the Canadians on 11th October and on the 13th entered Casacalenda on Route 87. On the 14th the Canadians captured Campobasso and on the 15th Vinchiaturo. The first part of the Army Commander's plan was thus completed and the necessary pause ensued.\n\nOn the west Fifth Army's maintenance position, from its nearer bases, was much easier and by the end of the first week in October both 10 and VI Corps had reached the River Volturno. They were now faced with a difficult military problem in the crossing of this broad and swiftly flowing river and the recent change in enemy intentions made it certain that the defence, though not pushed to the last extreme, would be stubborn and protracted. The weather was miserable. It was originally hoped that VI Corps would be able to force a crossing on the night 9th\/10th October and 10 Corps on the following night, but delays were imposed by heavy rain and bad going, combined with extensive demolitions and mining. The enemy forces opposing Fifth Army consisted of XIV Panzer Corps with, from east to west, 3 Panzer Grenadier, Hermann Goering Panzer and 15 Panzer Grenadier Divisions. In the lower reaches they had the advantage of a higher flood bank on the northern side of the river and superior observation from Monte Massico, just in rear. Sites for a crossing were restricted, by the difficulties of the going, to existing sites and the river continued to rise and fall in a baffling manner.\n\nThe attack eventually went in on the night of the 12th. 10 Corps made diversionary attacks with 56 Division at Capua and 7 Armoured Division at Grazzanise and a main attack by 46 Division at Cancello. The latter was successful but heavy fighting followed in difficult and open country while 56 Division at Capua, as had been feared, was unable to force a crossing. VI Corps, however, got across in the more mountainous area east of Capua and by the use of its bridges 56 Division also crossed on the 15th. By the 25th both Corps had firmly consolidated their bridgeheads and were ready to engage the next enemy delaying line, based on the ridge of mountains from Monte Massico on the sea coast, through Monte Santa Croce to the Matese Mountains on the boundary between Fifth and Eighth Armies. Only two passes pierced the line of hills, at the two defiles followed by Routes 6 and 7 and called after Mignano and Sessa respectively.\n\nOn 4th October I moved my headquarters to the small village of Santo Spirito, north-west of Bari. I intended to move eventually to the Naples area but there was no hope of accommodation there for the moment and if I wanted to move to Italy, as was clearly necessary, the relatively undamaged areas of Apulia offered the only suitable sites.\n\n#### _Plans for the Winter Operations._\n\nBoth at Termoli and on the Volturno the Germans had shown a new determination and stubbornness, and this, together with the slowness of our build-up, made the decision as to the correct strategy to be adopted in Italy still more difficult. My most recent directive from General Eisenhower, called for the capture of air bases in the Rome area; the general directive under which all forces in the Mediterranean, and mine in particular, were working was to tie down and divert from other fronts the maximum German strength; it was not easy to see how, with the forces available or in prospect, either of these objects could be attained or to what extent the pursuit of one might hinder the achievement of the other. One thing was certain; for either purpose it was essential to retain the initiative which we then had. It would mean a hard and costly fight, now that it was known that the Germans no longer intended to withdraw by stages to the north, but for the sake of the greater objects in view it was necessary to accept this cost and not give the enemy any rest.\n\nI reviewed the situation in the light of these considerations on 21st October. In Southern Italy eleven Allied divisions were opposing nine German in a position eminently suitable for the defence, while in the north there were some fourteen more, a known total of twenty-three divisions.54 Eleven against nine was no great numerical superiority and with their great resources in the north, where the internal security commitment was now quite unimportant, the Germans could easily convert it into a positive inferiority; at the least they could carry out constant reliefs of their formations in the battle area and oppose our attacks with constantly fresh troops. This was what they proceeded to do. There was no practical limit to the number of troops they could bring into Italy; it was calculated that their lines of communication were adequate to support up to sixty divisions should they wish to employ such a force there. Our build-up, on the other hand, was severely limited, as I have already explained; we expected to have thirteen divisions by the end of November, fourteen or fifteen by the end of December and sixteen to seventeen by the end of January. Since the Germans had decided to stand we were committed to \"a long slogging match\" with no possibility, in view of the shortage of landing craft, actual or about to exist, of amphibious operations against the enemy's flanks.\n\nAdmittedly the disparity of our relative strengths showed that we were doing our duty in containing the enemy. Indeed he seemed to be going out of his way to assist us in attaining that object; I pointed out in my appreciation \"the German reinforcement of Italy seems greater than warranted by the internal situation or by purely defensive requirements\".55 There was a serious possibility, which I had to consider, that if he saw a chance of seizing an easy success in Italy he would take it, for its psychological value at such a time would be very great. Any relaxation of effort on our part would allow him to seize the initiative and use it either, as just suggested, for a strong counter-offensive - aiming for instance at the recapture of Naples, a glittering prospect - or to reduce his forces on the defensive front to a minimum and make available for elsewhere the divisions thus saved. This same result, the relieving of German forces from Italy for the Eastern or, subsequently, Western front, would also follow, and in greater measure, from a successful enemy counter-offensive, provided it were delivered before the spring of 1944. On the other hand, if we could keep the enemy \"on his heels\" until then, we should be certain of retaining in Italy the divisions already there; we might even (and this, though unexpected, actually occurred) draw still more into the theatre, while still keeping him sufficiently off-balance to be unable to seize the initiative from us; finally, if he were to launch a great counter-offensive next spring, we should welcome it, for the more successful it was the more troops it would draw off from the defence of France, and success there was well worth the price of a possible set-back in Italy.\n\nI presented this appreciation at a conference at Carthage with the Commanders-in-Chief on 24th October. It was agreed by General Eisenhower and signalled to the Combined Chiefs of Staff. The conference agreed that it was essential to retain the initiative and approved my plan of campaign which I reported at the same time. Eighth Army's advance up the east coast was running into a _cul-de-sac_ of rather unimportant country; but General Montgomery was of the opinion that if he could establish himself on the high ground north of Pescara, after crossing the Trigno, Sangro and Pescara rivers, he could then strike south-westwards down Route 5, the Via Valeria, to Avezzano and threaten Rome from the east. In conjunction with this south-westerly attack by Eighth Army, Fifth Army was to attack north, directed on Rome. Both attacks were to be assisted, if at all possible, by amphibious flank attacks, on the east in the strength of about a brigade group and on Fifth Army's front of at least an infantry division with some armour. Since landing craft were so short the latter attack would have to wait until those used in the former had been brought round to the west coast; even then they might not be sufficient for the scale of attack I proposed. The signal to the Combined Chiefs of Staff therefore concluded: \"it is certain that more landing craft will be required for a limited time if we are to capture Rome in the near future and avoid a slow, painful and costly series of frontal attacks.\"\n\nA further review of the situation produced more definite proposals. On 31st October, General Eisenhower again approached the Combined Chiefs of Staff with a full review of the need for landing craft and the resources necessary to meet those needs. The tasks for which the craft were required were threefold. The first was the build-up of auxiliary units to complete formations already in Italy. Secondly it was essential to be able to mount an assault behind the enemy lines in the strength of about a division, probably on the west coast. Thirdly it was necessary to meet the demands of the Strategic Air Force, which included not only the move of the operational formations themselves but also large numbers of airfield construction and servicing units. The Foggia airfields, though the principal base in South Italy for the Italian Air Force, were not all-weather and very large quantities of steel plank had to be transported. The requirements of the Strategic Air Force had also been largely increased by the decision, communicated on 23rd October, to set up the XV United States Air Force in Italy. With our present resources, that is adhering to the existing programme of returning craft to the United Kingdom, the first of these tasks would not be completed before 15th December and there would remain only sufficient lift for one brigade or regimental combat team, which would be quite inadequate. If, however, we could keep until 15th December all the British Landing Ships, Tank (between forty-eight and fifty-six) and twelve United States, it would be possible both to complete the build-up of present formations and to mount a divisional amphibious assault. Even then only about a third of the task of establishing the Strategic Air Force in Italy would have been carried out; but if the craft could be retained for a further three weeks, until 5th January, the whole programme could be completed.\n\nAnother Commanders-in-Chief conference was held at Carthage on 3rd November. I confirmed the plan presented at the previous conference with the proviso that Eighth Army would have to make a short pause after the capture of the Pescara line before exerting pressure south-westwards down Route 5. Fifth Army was to press on up Route 6, the Via Casilina, and attempt to break through the enemy opposition on that axis coincident with Eighth Army's drive on Rome; it was hoped that it would retain sufficient impetus to reach the Frosinone area. At this point we would, if we had the means, launch an amphibious assault south of the Tiber and subsequently other assaults north of the Tiber. In order to carry out these contemplated manoeuvres it would be necessary to move in for Fifth Army two French divisions plus the necessary services and non-divisional troops in order to maintain the impetus of the attack: the bulk of the troops in Fifth Army had been fighting continuously, and heavily, since 9th September. Moreover, their mobility and maintenance were severely hampered by the fact that about two thousand five hundred urgently needed vehicles were still held up at Bizerta awaiting landing craft to move them. In reply to a signal sent at the conclusion of the conference we were authorised by the Combined Chiefs of Staff to retain the sixty-eight landing craft until 15th December. With this, planning could go ahead with greater confidence.\n\n#### _Advance to the Winter Line._\n\nAfter the advance to the Termoli - Vinchiaturo line Eighth Army continued active patrolling while they reorganised for the attack on the Winter Line. 5 Corps took over the right flank on 11th October with 78 and 8 Indian Divisions under command; the latter was a new formation, though of experienced units, but distinguished itself in this its first action. 78 Division managed to seize a bridgehead over the River Trigno, on the axis of Route 16, on the night of the 22nd-23rd, and by the next night all the enemy in the Corps sector were back behind the river. The main position here was on the San Salvo ridge, a dominant feature overlooking the west bank. The Trigno near the coast is a broad stream, liable to very sudden flooding and the ground on either bank is a very heavy clay soil in which it was almost impossible to construct a firm track. The first attack on San Salvo, on the night of the 27th, was frustrated largely owing to these difficulties, aggravated by a heavy fall of rain, and a full-scale attack was therefore necessary. This opened on the early morning of 3rd November, when 78 Division attacked San Salvo and 8 Indian Division, on their left, the village of Tufillo on a high spur above the river. There was heavy fighting for both villages but San Salvo was clear by the 4th and Tufillo by the 5th. The enemy, having now offered as much delay as possible on this line - and 16 Panzer Division, which was not fresh when it went into action, had had heavy losses - began to withdraw to his next, the \"Bernhardt\" line, which on Eighth Army's front ran from north of Isernia along the range of mountains forward of the Sangro. In the Sangro defences itself Kesselring had disposed 65 Infantry Division which he had brought down from the north. As a result of this withdrawal we were able to enter unopposed the important road junction of Isernia on 4th November.\n\nOn the Fifth Army front the first task, which fell to 10 Corps, was now to secure Monte Massico, the high razor-back ridge north-east of Mondragone. Apart from being an important stage in our advance northwards, this position was also vital to complete the covering screen defending Naples if it should be necessary at any time to go on to the defensive; present enemy strength and his constant reinforcement had, as I have already mentioned, brought such considerations more into the foreground. Two new German divisions, 305 and 94 Infantry, had already been brought down into the line from North Italy. The operation, which led to the capture both of Monte Massico and Monte Santa Croce to the north, began on 28th October and was successfully completed by 4th November, at which date 46 and 7 Armoured Divisions reached the lower Garigliano between the bend opposite Monte Iuga and the sea. The enemy had intended to offer delay on this line, the southern extremity of the \"Barbara\" line, as shown by his reinforcing; but the dangers inherent in standing for long with a broad river immediately in rear, coupled no doubt with apprehensions of a seaborne outflanking move, decided him to pull back his right, when pressed, behind the Garigliano. In the meantime VI Corps had pushed forward up, and then across, the Volturno and driven the left wing of XIV Panzer Corps back to the \"Bernhardt\" line based on Monte Camino, Monte Maggiore and the hills on the north side of the Mignano defile from above Venafro (captured on 4th November) to above Isernia.\n\nThe idea of an amphibious landing continued to be entertained. On 23rd October General Clark signalled to me (I was then at the Commanders-in-Chief conference in Carthage) that he was contemplating a landing near Formia in the Gulf of Gaeta in the strength of a regimental combat team and two Ranger battalions, in connection with the attack of 10 and VI Corps. Naval opinion, however, condemned this as impracticable owing to the strength of the coast defences and minefields. The only apparent alternative, a landing between Gaeta and Sperlonga, was clearly impossible as yet, and until the forces advancing overland were within supporting distance.\n\n#### _Attack on the Winter Line._\n\nOn 8th November I received a new directive from General Eisenhower. It began by reaffirming the objectives given on 25th September, the capture of Rome and the maintenance, subsequently, of maximum pressure on the enemy. Rome, of course, had great political value but we did not regard it primarily as a prize to be won but rather as something which we knew the enemy intended to defend and for which we could make him fight his hardest. To draw him into battle and destroy his forces was our real object. The directive recognised that the enemy \"intends to resist our occupation of Southern Italy to a greater degree than hitherto contemplated.\" Priority was therefore given, in the first phase, to the build-up of our land forces and of such, air forces as were specifically required to assist them in their task. However, six heavy bombardment groups of the Strategic Air Force must be in Italy and operating by the end of the year for use in the bombing programme against Germany. Finally I was directed, after the capture of Rome, to secure possession by occupying a general line to cover Civitavecchia and Terni, the former being taken into use as a port.\n\nOn the same day I also issued a directive intended in particular for the guidance of Fifth Army in the operations to secure their objectives. My directive must be read against the background of the severe exhaustion of Fifth Army. The winter rains had started at the end of September and were steadily increasing, making roads and bypasses extremely difficult and turning the open country into a sea of mud. The mountains in front were the most formidable we had yet encountered and the enemy, who had already reinforced his flanks with two fresh infantry divisions, was now bringing over part of 26 Panzer Division from Eighth Army's front. This meant that there were five enemy divisions opposing our five, and the Fifth Army troops were more tired than the enemy. The Germans were showing a stubborn spirit of resistance at all parts of the front and it was clear that a co-ordinated effort would be required to drive them from their positions. I therefore directed Fifth Army, on the completion of its present operations, to pause and regroup, allowing Eighth Army to strike first. The latter was to get astride Route 5 from Pescara to Popoli and Collarmele and be prepared to threaten the enemy lines of communication via Avezzano. Then Fifth Army would attack up the valley of the Liri and Sacco to reach Frosinone. This is the classical route for an army marching on Rome from the south and the only practicable one for a large force; the Via Appia, Route 7, becomes too involved with the Aurunci Mountains and the Pontine Marshes. Our troops, I think, got a little tired of hearing the Liri Valley described as \"The gateway to Rome\" during the long months when the gate was shut so firmly in their faces, but the description is true nevertheless. Finally, when the main body reached Frosinone, a seaborne landing would be made south of Rome, directed on the Alban Hills.56 All available air support would go to Eighth Army in the first phase and to Fifth Army in the succeeding phase.\n\nBetween 5th and 15th November Fifth Army continued their attempts to break into the Winter Line in their sector. This enemy position, as I have already explained, was not so much a line as a belt of terrain about nine miles wide; its forward edge, in front of which our troops now stood, was the \"Bernhardt\" line, its rear, based on the high ground behind the Garigliano and Rapido, was the \"Gustav\" line, with the key fortress of Cassino. On the south the two lines coincided and the German defences utilised the plain forward of the Garigliano, the river, swift-flowing and deep, and the Aurunci Mountains to the west of it which command every part of the plain. To the north are the mountains commanding the Mignano Gap through which Route 6 passes, dominated by Monte Camino to the south and Monte Sammucro to the north; in the gap itself there are three isolated masses of high ground, Monte Lungo, Monte Porchia and Monte Trocchio, rising abruptly like rocks in a fairway. North of Monte Sammucro the mountains rise even higher to the central ridges of the Apennines, impossible country for large-scale operations.\n\nThe first objective was the Monte Camino _massif_ , including the two subsidiary peaks of Monte La Difensa and Monte Maggiore, and the task of the assault was given to 56 British and 3 American Divisions under 10 and VI Corps respectively. From 5th to 12th November the attack was pressed against rock-hewn defences, steep slopes up which all supplies had to be man-handled, constant enemy counter-attacks and bad weather. Ground was gained by both divisions, but it was impossible to remain and impossible to push on in the weakened condition to which the divisions had been reduced.57 On the 12th General Clark decided to withdraw, an operation which was successfully accomplished on the night of the 14th. Meanwhile VI Corps had been driving at the northern defences of the Mignano Gap. 3 Division had already been successful in capturing Monte Cesima, an outlying hill mass on the north side of the gap, and 45 and 34 Divisions battered their way into the mountains in front of them to extend the line northwards. But Monte Lungo, in the mouth of the gap, was a harder nut to crack. It is a great, bare, scrub-covered mountain ridge dominated from either flank by higher enemy-held ground and 3 Division was tired after fifty-six days of continuous operations. On 13th November General Clark represented to me that the time had come to pause and regroup; any further repetition of the attacks we had been making would exhaust divisions to a dangerous degree.\n\nWhile Fifth Army was attempting to break into the Winter Line on the west coast, Eighth Army in the east was advancing to make contact with the left flank of the same line. This was based in their sector on the line of the River Sangro from the mouth for some fifteen miles upstream and then on the forward slopes of the great Maiella _massif_ behind the Casoli - Pescocostanzo road. The strongest part of the line was the extreme north, where defences had been under construction since early October. The Sangro here runs in a channel varying from three hundred to four hundred feet wide and a foot deep but after heavy rain it rises rapidly, filling the entire river bed with a depth of five feet or more and a rate of flow measured on one occasion at seven knots. There are steep hills on the right bank, giving good observation; on the left bank there is a flat plain for about two thousand yards and then a steep escarpment, rising abruptly some hundred and fifty feet. It was on this escarpment that the main enemy defence works were established. \"Our position,\" wrote the Commander of the German 65 Division in an Order of the Day, \"is naturally very strong and it is rendered considerably stronger by our numerous and excellent defence works.\"\n\n78 Division reached the right bank of the river from the mouth to as far south as Paglieta on 8th November and immediately began to organise patrols across it to dominate the plain on the left bank. 8 Indian Division, the left hand formation of 5 Corps, was longer in forming up to the line and the enemy did not withdraw completely across the river in their sector until 19th November. At that time the coastal sector was held by the recently arrived 65 Infantry Division, a relatively inexperienced formation, with 16 Panzer Division supporting it in reserve. To the south I Parachute Division held a front of some twenty-five miles in the mountains. Before the main Eighth Army attack began 16 Panzer Division was withdrawn to proceed to the Eastern front; after the attack went in 26 Panzer Division had to be hurriedly brought back from the Mignano sector, where it had been as hurriedly sent when Fifth Army's attack looked serious, and 90 Panzer Grenadier Division was brought down from northern Italy.\n\nGeneral Montgomery's plan for the attack envisaged a heavy, well-prepared assault on the coastal end of the line. 5 Corps was to command the main thrust with 78 and 8 Indian Divisions, and the recently arrived New Zealand Division, under Army Command, was co-operating on their left. 8 Indian Division had continued to advance on the left of the Corps' front until the Sangro was reached; it was then relieved by the New Zealanders and went into reserve behind 78 Division. The latter was to seize a bridgehead, the Indians were to break into the line, then 78 Division was to come into the lead again and exploit on to Pescara and simultaneously the New Zealanders were to strike across the river directed on Chieti, from where they were to swing south-west down Route 5 to develop the desired threat against the Avezzano area. D-day was laid down as 20th November in orders published on the 16th, but both the timing and execution of the plan were strongly affected by the weather. It was essential to make full use of our command of the air and our superiority in armour, and both depended on reasonably fine weather. On the 20th the weather broke completely and we could only establish a small bridgehead; on 23rd November the river was in flood and rendered all bridges useless; the same happened on 25th November when the attack had again been scheduled. The main attack eventually went in on the 27th with 8 Indian Division leading. Mozzagrogna, a key point in the defences, was captured on the 29th and by the next day a bold use of our armour against ground considered impassable by the Germans gave us the whole ridge above the Sangro from there to the sea. In the meantime the New Zealanders had got across the river and on 2nd December captured Castelfrentano. The Division's next objective was Orsogna, which was attacked unsuccessfully on 7th December and again on the 14th equally without success. The enemy had been reinforced and the weather was abominable. Further to the right 8 Indian and 78 Divisions advanced to the River Moro, capturing Lanciano and San Vito on 3rd December, I Canadian Infantry Division now relieved 78 Division, which had suffered ten thousand battle casualties in the last six months.\n\nThe battle of the Sangro had driven the enemy from strong prepared positions and inflicted on him heavy casualties. But thanks to the difficult nature of the ground and the violence of the winter weather, and the enemy's ability to relieve tired troops with fresh, Eighth Army had been unable to break through the enemy's dispositions or seize any vital ground. The difficult \"ridge and furrow\" country of the Molise offered few chances of a decisive success to an Army attacking, as Eighth Army had always done, across the grain of the country. The further north we pushed our advance the more numerous and close together were the river lines. The prospect was little better for the time when the Army should have turned westwards into the gap between the Gran Sasso and the Maiella where the Via Valeria runs through a series of terrifying defiles. It was one of our most serious handicaps in this winter campaign that our front was divided so rigidly into two by the spinal barrier of the Apennines. It meant an inevitable loss of flexibility, for the two armies were often fighting what were almost independent battles and, owing to differences in nationality and equipment it was not easy for me, as it was for Kesselring, to switch units and formations from one side of the barrier to the other.\n\nDuring the period of Eighth Army's attack on the Adriatic sector Fifth Army had been resting and regrouping its troops in accordance with the orders of 16th November. The next operation was divided into three phases. The high ground dominating the Mignano Gap was to be captured in sections, first that to the south, and then that to the north; in Phase I, that is to say, Monte Camino, Monte La Difensa and Monte Maggiore were to be captured and in Phase II Monte Sammucro, combined with an attack westwards along the Colli - Atina road; Phase III, the main advance into the Liri valley, was only to be initiated on Army orders after the completion of the first two phases. Of the three British and six United States divisions in Fifth Army at the beginning of the period, two, 7 Armoured and 82 Airborne, (less one Regimental Combat Team) were being withdrawn to the United Kingdom. I United States Armoured Division began arriving at Naples and I Special Service Force, six battalions of specially trained mixed American and Canadian troops, also came under command.58 2 Moroccan Division was due to arrive in the first week of December. II Corps Headquarters arrived from Sicily in October and took over command of the centre of the line with 3 and 36 Divisions on 18th November; VI Corps now commanded on the extreme right with 34 and 45 Divisions. I Armoured Division remained in Army reserve; it was not expected that it would be used until the Liri valley was reached, when it would debouch through II Corps. The Germans had also been reinforcing; 29 Panzer Grenadier Division came in from reserve and 44 Infantry Division, an Austrian formation, from Slovenia. 5 Mountain Division arrived from Russia in December.\n\nThe first phase of the new attack, the capture of the mountains on the south side of the Mignano Gap, was planned as a very deliberate operation, as an example of how a large, semi-isolated mountain mass should be captured. The assault was to be made by two Corps, 10 south and 11 north, supported by very heavy artillery fire and the greatest weight possible of air attack. The enemy was to be made to believe that our intention was to attack further south, across the lower Garigliano, by various measures, including naval bombardment between Minturno and Gaeta and feint attacks by 23 Armoured Brigade in the plain between Monte Massico and the river. The operations began with a subsidiary attack on the southern end of the mountains on the night of 1st December and on the next night, while the heaviest concentration of artillery yet fired in the Italian campaign pounded the enemy positions on the heights, 56 Division started for the second time up the steep slopes of Monte Camino. Simultaneously I Special Service Force and 36 Division attacked the northern third of the mountain mass to gain Monte La Difensa and Monte Maggiore. Air support on that day was heavy and for the first time was not reduced by weather. Both Corps' attacks were successful. On 6th December 10 Corps captured the summit of Monte Camino, which they had almost secured on the 3rd but failed to hold against counterattacks, and on the 9th Rocca d'Evandro was captured. This brought 10 Corps to the Garigliano all along its front. II Corps captured La Difensa on 3rd December and held it against strong counter-attacks, and on the 8th captured and mopped up Monte La Remetanea. 36 Division's attack on Monte Maggiore, the northern most and lowest peak, had succeeded by the night of the 3rd; counter-attacks were repulsed and by the 7th the position could be considered secured. Between then and the 11th 10 Corps took over the whole of the feature from II Corps.\n\nBetween 29th November and 9th December VI Corps on Fifth Army's right made diversionary attacks along the axes of the Colli - Atina and Filignano - Sant' Elia roads. Very little ground was gained in tangled and difficult country, with peaks rising to over twelve hundred metres. 2 Moroccan Division began to relieve 34 Division on the Corps' right on 8th December. Phase I of the Army Commander's plan was now, however, completed with the capture of the Camino _massif_ and Phase II was ordered to start on 7th December. In this phase 10 Corps had a minor defensive r\u00f4le; the principal objective was the clearing of Monte Sammucro and this was assigned to II Corps. VI Corps was to continue to drive westwards along the roads to Atina and Sant' Elia but on a larger scale facilitated by the accession to its strength of the fresh and mountain trained Moroccan Division. It was hoped that by attacking on so wide a front the enemy would be sufficiently stretched to prevent him massing for the defence of Cassino.\n\nThe bitterest fighting took place for Monte Sammucro and the village of San Pietro in Fine below it. The attack began on 7th December; the first two high points on Sammucro were seized without exceptional difficulty but after that our troops were held until the 13th by severe German counter-attacks and heavy mortar and artillery fire. On the 8th the Italian Motorised Group failed in an attack on Monte Lungo, in the throat of the gap. The second battle for San Pietro opened on the 15th and succeeded, though at heavy cost in casualties, by the 17th; Monte Lungo was also occupied and, north of the village, we forced our way further along the knife-edge of Monte Sammucro. This was bitter mountain fighting, with great use of artillery and gains in territory small compared with the time consumed and the losses suffered. There was still another enemy position, almost equally as strong as San Pietro, just a short distance ahead, based on the western end of Monte Sammucro and the lower hills covering the village of San Vittore. But 36 Division was exhausted and on 29th December had to be relieved by the 34th before San Vittore was taken. The VI Corps attack on the right had also made little progress against difficulties of ground and stubborn enemy defence; by the end of the year it could only be said to have kept level with the advance of II Corps with gains of approximately three miles. The German Winter Line had been broken into but not broken; there were still some miles of mountain before the rear line of the position, the \"Gustav\" line, should be reached and the difficulties of that line were already the subject of serious study.\n\nIt was during this period that we received the only serious blow which the German Air Force was ever able to strike us during the campaign. On the night of 2nd December an air raid by about thirty aircraft on the port of Bari took the defences by surprise and caused very heavy damage. Seventeen ships of various sizes were sunk and thirty thousand tons of cargo lost, mainly by the explosion of two ammunition ships. The port was not permanently damaged but we lost five days' working.\n\nAt the turn of the year the Mediterranean theatre, which had already lost so many of its best troops, now lost two of its senior commanders for the benefit of the Western campaign. On 10th December, 1943, General Eisenhower was informed of his appointment as Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force; he actually handed over to General Wilson59 on 8th January, 1944. General Wilson's appointment was announced on 27th December and on the same day was made the announcement of General Montgomery's transfer to command of Twenty-first Army Group. General Montgomery was succeeded, on 1st January, 1944, by General Leese,60 who had commanded 30 Corps in the desert and in Sicily. In the new organisation in the Mediterranean, Allied Force Headquarters now had a wider authority, including those areas which had previously come under General Headquarters Middle East. To a large extent, therefore, its preoccupations were political and logistical; I was accordingly instructed that for the conduct of the campaign in Italy I was given a free hand. For this reason the title of my headquarters was changed from Fifteenth Army Group to Headquarters Allied Armies in Italy61 and my administrative staff was reorganised and put on a proper level with the operations staff. At the same time I was relieved of the duties of Deputy Allied Commander-in-Chief, being succeeded in the appointment by Lieutenant-General J.L. Devers of the United States Army.\n\nI had had the pleasure of serving under General Eisenhower as Supreme Allied Commander for about a year. I have already expressed, in my Despatch on the Conquest of Sicily, my appreciation of his gifts as a commander and I need not repeat it here; but I will say that, apart from our professional relationship, the footing on which we stood personally was of close friendship and understanding. General Wilson, of course, was a member of the old Middle East team, having commanded Ninth Army in Syria and subsequently the Persia and Iraq Command. He had succeeded me in command at General Headquarters, Middle East when I took over command of Eighteenth Army Group on 19th February, 1943. His diplomatic gifts and his experience in negotiations with various nationalities made him the natural first choice for the command of Allied Force Headquarters in view of its new r\u00f4le; in particular his knowledge of the Balkans made it essential that he should continue to be in charge of that area which was now under Algiers. My military relations with him were slightly different in principle, as I have explained, from those with General Eisenhower but our personal relationship was excellent and I must record my gratitude here for the comprehension and support which he never failed to afford me.\n\n#### _The Cassino Position._\n\nI have already described the Liri valley as the gateway to Rome and alluded to the strength of the defences of the gate. A description of the terrain now facing us will make clear the reasons why this one sector was the only place where we could hope to develop an advance in strength and why I was obliged to transfer there ever-increasing forces until by next May the bulk of my Armies was disposed in the Tyrrhenian sector. The Adriatic coastal plain in which Eighth Army had been operating leads nowhere except, eventually, to Ancona. The centre of the peninsula is filled by the Apennines which here reach their greatest height; they were now under deep snow and even in summer are quite impracticable for the movement of large forces. The west coast rises steeply into the trackless Aurunci and Lepini Mountains and the coastal road runs close to the seashore, except for a short stretch in the plain of Fondi, until it debouches into the Pontine Marshes which the Germans had flooded. The Aurunci and Lepini Mountains are separated from the main Apennine range, however, by the valley of the Liri and, further to the north-west, by the valley of its tributary, the Sacco. The gap thereby formed, through which runs Route 6, the Via Casilina, varies in width from four to seven miles. When it reaches the eastern end of the Aurunci chain the Liri meets the Rapido (known also as the Gari for the stretch between Cassino and the confluence) flowing from due north at right angles to its course and the joint stream, now called the Garigliano, flows due south to reach the Tyrrhenian Sea east of Minturno. From the confluence with the Rapido to Ceprano, where the Sacco joins the Liri, the valley is about twenty miles in length with the river on the south side and the road on the north. Undulating and well-wooded towards the north-west the valley gradually loses these characteristics, and open cornfields in the vicinity of Aquino give way to flat pasture land nearer the Rapido. Numerous transverse gullies break up the surface, the most important being the Forme d'Aquino.\n\nThe mouth of the valley was closed by formidable defences. To enter it, it is first necessary to cross the Rapido river which, as its name shows, is very swift-flowing; the banks are generally low but marshy, in fact most of the land here is reclaimed land. The Rapido might be compared to the moat before a castle gate and on either hand are two great bastions. To the south Monte Majo, rising to just under three thousand feet, sends down spurs to the river running along its eastern side. The key of the position, however, lies on the north. Here Monte Cairo, over five thousand feet, rears its head as the southernmost peak of a great spur of the Apennines. From its summit a ridge thrusts out, terminating abruptly in Monte Cassino. This is a bare, rocky promontory, seventeen hundred feet high, whose sides drop sharply into the plain beneath. It had been selected for its natural strength and inaccessibility by Saint Benedict as the site of his first monastery and by the Italian General Staff as an example of an impregnable position. Before we could advance on Rome by this route, and there was no other way except by sea, we should have to storm this bastion defending the gate, for from it the Germans could command the whole floor of the valley.\n\n#### _Plans for an Amphibious Landing._\n\nThe desirability of employing our control of the sea in amphibious outflanking movements had been well in the forefront of all our planning ever since we first set foot in Italy. For lack of resources in men and craft only one operation had so far been attempted, Eighth Army's small-scale but successful landing at Termoli, but I had also been constantly examining the possibilities of a \"seaborne hook\" on the west coast where it seemed to promise still greater advantages. General Clark had endeavoured to fit in such an operation as a feature of almost all his attacks so far but, in spite of his great keenness, had been unable to find a suitable target for the resources available. Now that we were approaching the narrowest part of the peninsula the advantages of an amphibious strategy became even more obvious. With the shortening of their line and the strengthening of their defences, with only one really vulnerable point in their front, the Liri valley, the Germans could economise in troops while we, however well our build-up might progress, would have difficulty in bringing our full strength to bear. The advantages of an outflanking move were not, of course, limited to assisting the advance on Rome and extending the area on which the Germans would have to fight us; they included also the possibility of the destruction of part of the force opposing us. It was on these grounds that I had urged this strategy at the Carthage conferences on 25th October and 3rd November and it had been agreed that an amphibious landing should be made south of the Tiber when Fifth Army had advanced to within reasonable supporting distance. I had proposed to use for this I British Infantry Division, which had been originally intended for Eighth Army. The landing craft situation was quite uncertain. I pointed out on 8th November that, on the present programme, my Armies would still be ten thousand vehicles short by 1st January and that it would be impossible to mount an amphibious operation before 25th December. If the craft were then withdrawn it would be impossible to lift as much as a division with what would remain. However, we decided to go on planning on the assumption that sufficient might be available. The SEXTANT conference was due to open in Cairo on 22nd November and General Eisenhower agreed to press there for the retention of the landing craft which I thought necessary.\n\nMy operation instruction of 8th November had directed that in the third phase of the operations then envisaged an amphibious landing would be made south of Rome directed on the Alban Hills. The choice of this objective was made for obvious geographical reasons. Rising just south of Rome this large _massif_ of volcanic origin dominates both routes from Rome to the enemy's line on the Garigliano, Routes 6 and 7, the Via Casilina and the Via Appia. The latter can be cut with ease by landing almost anywhere on the west coast, but the Alban Hills mark the first point where the inland route is not protected by the almost trackless Aurunci and Lepini Mountains. If we could seize them the enemy's communications would be cut and Rome almost within our grasp. It would, admittedly, be rather in the nature of a bluff, for a really strong-nerved commander might still hang onto his positions - although, of course, we intended to attack them frontally in force simultaneously with our landing - and try to raise a force from somewhere else to fight his communications free. Such a course would certainly mean reinforcements from outside Italy, which would be an assistance to the other fronts, and I felt myself that, provided we got firmly on to the Alban Hills and across Route 6, Kesselring would not dare to take the risk of retaining his positions at Cassino.\n\nWith the objective thus designated, detailed planning became a Fifth Army responsibility, in conjunction with Rear-Admiral Lowry,62 United States Navy, who was appointed as naval commander for the force. The codename SHINGLE was given to the operation. On 12th November, Fifth Army set up a planning staff; they were instructed by my Headquarters to work on the assumption that the force would number about twenty-three thousand men and that the target date would be 20th December. The planning staff quickly decided on the area around Anzio as the site of the landing. This would give immediate access into relatively open terrain, though broken by water obstacles, over which good roads lead directly to the Alban Hills only twenty miles away. The beaches were definitely poor, with very shallow underwater gradients and off-lying sandbars, but they were the best to be had south of the Tiber; there were three possible landing sites, one east and one west of Anzio and one in the port itself. The beach to the west was particularly shallow and had, in fact, to be abandoned after the initial assault. The weather was likely to be bad for beach working and forecasts promised only an average of two good days out of seven. Conditions would be much improved, however, if the port of Anzio, which the Germans had been using for coastwise maintenance, could be captured undemolished. As to opposition to the landing, it was not expected that the enemy would have any large force in the area. Our estimate of the prepared defences likely to be met was made difficult by the fact that the first photographic coverage showed an enormous number of defences of all kinds in the immediate vicinity of Anzio. It was learned, however, that the area had been a much-used training ground for Italian troops before and during the war, and nearly all the defences were marked as unoccupied; in the event the masses of trenches and strongpoints which dotted the coast on the defence overprints issued to the troops played no r\u00f4le in resistance to the assault.\n\nThe first plan for SHINGLE was approved on 25th November. The operation was to be timed to coincide with the arrival of the main body of Fifth Army on the general line Capistrello - Ferentino - Priverno and was to be in the strength of one infantry division,63 reinforced by some armour and anti-aircraft artillery. It was intended to make contact with the main body within seven days. We were to retain the necessary landing craft until 15th January but we now thought it unlikely that we should be within supporting distance until at least 10th January. By 18th December it was clear that even this date could not be met and General Clark signalled to me \"reluctantly\" recommending the cancellation of the operation on the grounds that the arbitrary date set for the surrender of landing craft made it impossible to mount the attack under the conditions necessary for success. I signalled this decision to General Eisenhower on the 21st but informed him that I was still studying the problem in the hope of being able to prepare a modification of the original plan for a later date.\n\nI fully shared General Clark's reluctance to see ourselves forced back on a strategy of frontal assault in the present unfavourable conditions. There was now no hope that Fifth Army could arrive within supporting distance of a landing at Anzio within the proposed time; no advantage would be gained by a landing nearer to the present front under the abrupt southern slopes of the Aurunci; I therefore began to consider the possibility of making the SHINGLE force much stronger, strong enough to hold its ground by itself, for a longer time than we had previously considered. I put up this proposal, which virtually amounted to a new plan, at a Commanders-in-Chief conference in Tunis on 25th December. The Cairo conference had just broken up and it had there been decided that General Eisenhower should take over the command of the invasion of North-west Europe, to be succeeded in the Mediterranean by General Wilson. Both were present at the conference, as was also the Prime Minister who was passing through on his way back from Cairo to London. I proposed we should assault with two divisions reinforced by some armour. The conference decided that, by a readjustment of the programme for the repair and refitting of landing craft in England, it would be possible for sufficient to remain in the Mediterranean long enough to carry out the assault without diminishing the numbers available for the invasion of North-west Europe.64 We also had a lucky windfall in the arrival of fifteen Landing Ships, Tank on their way home from the Indian Ocean where a proposed operation for which they were earmarked had been cancelled. It was decided, therefore, that all preparations should be made for carrying out SHINGLE with two assault divisions on or about 20th January. The objective, as before, was to be the Alban Hills.\n\nIt was now necessary to press on rapidly with the planning of the new assault. The composition of the force caused some discussion as it would be difficult to compose a homogeneous Corps quickly enough. I decided, in agreement with General Clark, to use the VI United States Corps Headquarters, General Lucas commanding, which was then out of the line, with I British Division, plus some Commandos and armour, and 3 United States Division, also supported by American armour, parachutists and Rangers, I Division had just arrived in Italy and was not yet committed, 3 Division had already been engaged on planning SHINGLE and was the obvious choice. I should like to mention, in this connection, a typically understanding signal I received from General Eisenhower, almost the last he sent me before leaving the Mediterranean. \"The disadvantages of employing a mixed Corps,\" he said, \"are of course as obvious to you as to me. I have wondered whether or not you may have been influenced by either of the following factors: that you felt it undesirable, because of the risks involved, to hazard a Corps of two American divisions when you as a British officer have the deciding responsibility or that you may have thought it undesirable from a political viewpoint for a Corps of two British divisions to be given the opportunity for the direct capture of Rome. In my opinion neither of these factors should be allowed to outweigh the military advantages of launching your assault by any troops you believe best fitted and most available. In giving these views I merely wish to remove any political difficulties that may occur to you in order that you can launch the best military operation that can be laid on in the time available.\" I replied that the composition of the Corps was based solely on the best formations available in the time: \"the political aspect is of no consequence but I do think the sharing of risks and hazards together is of importance.\"\n\nOrders for the operation were issued on 2nd January. The objective was defined as to cut the enemy communications and threaten the rear of the German XIV Corps. In the last paragraph Fifth Army was ordered to make \"as strong a thrust as possible towards Cassino and Frosinone shortly before the assault landing to draw in enemy reserves which might be employed against the landing forces and then to create a breach in his front through which every opportunity will be taken to link up rapidly with the seaborne operation.\" For this 10 Corps was being reinforced by 5 British Infantry Division. This was the second division I had taken from Eighth Army, for I Division had been originally intended for it, and I was shortly afterwards to take three more. The Adriatic sector was now of secondary importance to the western sector. The intention was to launch successive attacks by the three Corps on the main front: the French Expeditionary Corps on 12th January against the high ground north of Cassino, II Corps on the 15th to capture Monte Porchia and Monte Trocchio and reach the Rapido river and 10 Corps on the 17th to cross the lower Garigliano in the Minturno area and attack northwards up the Ausente river valley towards San Giorgio a Liri. Finally, II Corps, with its left and right thus protected, would on 20th January force the Rapido in the area of Sant' Angelo and exploit rapidly, supported by armour, westwards and north-westwards. Two days later VI Corps was to land at Anzio and threaten the rear of the enemy who, it was hoped, would by then be already hard pressed on his main front.\n\nI was still a little anxious about the time limit for the return of landing craft because of the needs of maintenance and my Chief administrative Officer, General Robertson,65 gave me his opinion on 5th January that the plan was not sound administratively. I managed eventually a slight readjustment of the programme, as a result of a conference on 8th January, which gave us a reasonable guarantee that we should be able to supply the force landed. I also planned to land in the first follow-up convoy a mobile, hard-hitting force from I United States Armoured Division and 45 Infantry Division. Later the remainder of these divisions was to follow. This meant that in two months SHINGLE had grown from a first tentative figure of twenty-three thousand men to an expected eventual strength of one hundred and ten thousand. It was hoped that the Germans would not be able, with the resources available to them in Italy, both to block off this force and to hold the \"Gustav\" line.\n\nHaving made the outflanking force as strong as possible it was now essential to give the maximum strength to the frontal attack, which must have sufficient momentum to carry it well up the Liri valley. I therefore decided to withdraw the New Zealand Division from Eighth Army, to be concentrated in the Naples area by 26th January, D plus 4 for SHINGLE. This division, of good fighting quality, well motorised and with an armoured component, was the most suitable readily available for such exploitation. It gave me an Army Group reserve under my hand, for the first time, with which to influence the battle; as the events of the following May were to show, operations in the Liri valley and from Anzio must be treated as an Army Group battle. It was the third division taken from Eighth Army to increase our concentration at the vital point; I intended to put it at the disposal of Fifth Army when a suitable opportunity for its employment in an exploiting r\u00f4le could be foreseen.\n\n#### _Operations Preliminary to the Anzio Landing._\n\nOn the Adriatic sector General Montgomery still continued with his attempt to break through the enemy's defensive system and reach Pescara but with even less success as the weather worsened and the enemy's strength increased. The immediate objective was now Ortona, a small port surmounted by a medieval Old Town with a dilapidated castle and an outlying New Town of modern solidly built houses. It was hoped that we should be able to use the harbour for maintenance. On 6th December I Canadian Division and on 7th December 8 Indian Division crossed the Moro and drove on Ortona. Every advance was most bitterly contested by 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, which had now arrived complete; instead of the passive defence of 65 Division the Panzer Grenadiers spent lives recklessly in savage counter-attacks. But the acme of stubbornness was reached in the defence of Ortona itself by I Parachute Division which had been brought across from its hitherto inactive front on the Maiella. These parachutists were undoubtedly the best German troops in Italy - in the German army, some said - and Ortona gave magnificent opportunities for street fighting. For over a week, from 20th to 28th December, the Canadians were engaged in the most violent hand-to-hand struggle. Street fighting, especially in a town of masonry houses, calls for the greatest skill and courage as Stalingrad had shown and the Canadians came triumphantly out of a test as severe as any in the war. On the 28th the parachutists were finally driven from the town. All our attacks on Orsogna in the meanwhile had failed and the enemy remained in possession for another five months. For the rest of the period no advance was made east of the Apennines; the Germans took the opportunity of the pause in operations to complete the relief of 65 Division by the newly arrived 334 Division.\n\nOn the Fifth Army front advances by II Corps and the French Expeditionary Corps between 3rd and 15th January drove the Germans back through the depth of their winter positions on to the final \"Gustav\" line. It was a strongly contested advance; the Germans had reinforced their front here in December with 44 Infantry and 5 Mountain Divisions and 71 Infantry Division was on the way. San Vittore was captured on 6th January and Monte Porchia on the same day; Monte Trocchio, the last hill before the Rapido, was abandoned by the enemy on the 15th. Meanwhile the French Expeditionary Corps, of 2 Moroccan and 3 Algerian Divisions, had also made contact with the \"Gustav\" line further north where they had captured Monte Santa Croce across the upper Rapido, and Monte Pile, west of Viticuso. This represented an advance of about ten miles by the northern arm of my pincers aiming at Cassino and caused considerable alarm to the Germans; the newly arrived 5 Mountain Division made a poor showing in its first battle in Italy and had to be reinforced with detachments from the 3 Panzer Grenadier Division which had been intended for the Adriatic.\n\n#### _Opening of the Battle for Rome._\n\nOn 20th January I moved my headquarters over to the west of the Apennines and opened in the Royal Palace at Caserta. General Richardson had been succeeded as my Chief of Staff shortly before by General Harding66 who, after commanding 7 Armoured Division in the desert, had had command of a Corps in England.\n\nIt will be useful at this point to pause and describe the order of battle of the opposing armies as they stood on 22nd January, the day of the Anzio landing.67 On our side there were at that time eighteen divisions68 and six brigades, equivalent to rather over twenty divisions; however 3 Carpathian Division and 5 Canadian Armoured Division were not yet available for employment. Eighth Army had two Corps in the line, 5 and 13, with four divisions and two brigades, and two divisions arriving in the Army area. Fifth Army had three Corps in line, French Expeditionary, 11 United States and 10 British, with six divisions in line and one in reserve; VI Corps, landing at Anzio, had two reinforced divisions, to be followed shortly by elements of two more. There was one division in Army Group reserve.\n\nTotal enemy strength was between twenty and twenty-one divisions. On the main front Tenth Army had thirteen divisions (facing ten to twelve on our side) under LXXVI Panzer Corps in the east and XIV Panzer Corps in the west. The remainder were in North Italy under Fourteenth Army; some of the eight there were still in process of forming. In view of the weak state of some of these the German High Command considered it necessary to reinforce Italy with the equivalent of three good divisions, and allow the retention of a fourth, in order to meet the threat presented by Anzio.\n\nThe operations to which the Anzio landing was to be the climax began with the attack of 10 Corps across the Garigliano on 17th January. This was delivered by three divisions, the 5th, 56th and 46th but the last played only a minor role in the opening phases; the object was to crush the enemy's extreme right behind the lower Garigliano, and then turn northwards and, breaking through the hills between Minturno and Castelforte up the valley of the Ausente river, to appear in the Liri valley at San Giorgio. The attack began well. The German 94 Infantry Division, a relatively inexperienced formation, had not been expecting an attack and was surprised by the weight of its delivery, for the arrival of 5 Division had been well concealed. The Germans reacted rapidly to what they imagined to be our main effort, finding confirmation of this appreciation when II Corps attacked across the Rapido on 20th January. 90 Panzer Grenadier Division was brought down from the Eighth Army front and 29 Panzer Grenadier Division from the Rome area; the latter move was rather gratifying and unexpected, for it was the division which had been expected to oppose the Anzio landing; in addition the Hermann Goering Division was also put in on the lower Garigliano in spite of orders which had been received to transfer it to France on 20th January to prepare for the invasion battles of the coming summer.\n\nThe 10 Corps attack looked the more dangerous to the enemy; by the 19th 5 Division had captured Minturno and the 56th was in the outskirts of Castelforte. General von Vietinghoff decided to rely on the strong defences of the Rapido to hold off the frontal attack of II Corps. In this he was justified although the attack by 36 Division was pressed with great gallantry. A small bridgehead was seized on the 21st but it was eliminated on the 22nd. Meanwhile the Germans were preparing a powerful force to counter-attack 10 Corps. On the morning of the 22nd all the three newly-arrived mobile divisions, 29, 90 and Hermann Goering, were thrown into the attack; every division of the Tenth Army was thus actively committed at the moment when VI Corps was landing at Anzio.\n\nThe assault force had sailed from Naples at 0500 hours on 21st January in perfect weather conditions and with the prospect that the weather would continue fine. The convoy was made up of two hundred and forty-three warships, transports, landing craft and various other vessels of the United States and Royal Navies, supplemented by Dutch, Greek, Polish and French ships. The assault force consisted of some fifty thousand American and British troops and over five thousand vehicles. The voyage was uneventful and the force was neither observed nor intercepted by the enemy. The first assault troops touched down on the beaches at 0200 hours on the 22nd; opposition was negligible and it was clear that complete surprise had been obtained. The enemy defences, except for a few coastal artillery positions, were unmanned and it was soon discovered that the only German unit in the area was a battalion of 29 Panzer Grenadier Division which had been so severely reduced in the recent fighting that it had been sent there the day before to rest and refit and to acquire some training in demolition by blowing up, at its leisure, the small harbour of Anzio.69 Fortunately it had made no progress with the task before its training was interrupted. The failure of enemy reconnaissance is undoubtedly to be ascribed at least in part to a heavy air raid we had laid on for the purpose against the enemy's long-range air reconnaissance base at Perugia on 19th January. This was so successful that no reconnaissance was flown between 19th and 22nd January. A local diversion was made by the Navy who bombarded Civitavecchia and simulated landings there on the night of the 21st; the feint was taken seriously at first by the enemy who flew a reconnaissance over the area - the pilot asked where the landing was. Army Group \"C\" informed the German High Command at 0600 hours that a landing had taken place directed at Rome and requested the reinforcements which had been agreed for that case; but the first real news that the landing was taking place at Anzio was given by a Messerschmidt at 0820 hours, six hours after the assault troops landed.\n\n#### Consolidation of the Bridgehead.\n\nThe first phase of the operation had thus gone better than we had reason to hope; we had gained both strategical and tactical surprise and had got our forces ashore with scarcely any fighting. The exploitation inland, however, was slower than I had planned and failed to reach our objective, the Alban Hills. This is in part to be ascribed to what is always a potent factor in all military operations, the delayed effect of preconceived ideas on a situation to which they no longer apply. At the time when the orders for the operation were issued Fifth Army's Intelligence Staff estimated that enemy resistance would be in the strength of one division (viz. 29 Panzer Grenadiers), four parachute battalions from Rome, a tank and an anti-tank battalion and other miscellaneous units, to a total of fourteen thousand three hundred men. VI Corps was therefore expecting to have to fight an assault landing and have some trouble in consolidating its beach-head. Although the enemy dispositions assumed in this appreciation had been radically altered, and VI Corps had, of course, been apprised of this fact before the landing, the effects of the original conception of the task undoubtedly remained. The fact that the whole nature of the operation had fairly recently been changed from a relatively small flanking assault designed to join up quickly with the advance of the main body of Fifth Army to one employing five times the force, intended to be self-supporting for an indefinite period, combined with the fact that the enemy withdrawals which had left the coast clear at Anzio had reduced the chances of rapid progress by the main body, undoubtedly contributed to the decision to secure first, and consolidate, a sound defensive perimeter before proceeding to the main objective, the capture of the Alban Hills. The increase in the size of the force no doubt persuaded the Corps Commander that it was now practicable to proceed, if not cautiously at least deliberately, rather than hazard a dash inland at the very beginning of the operations. There was a mechanical factor making in the same direction; the beaches were so bad that the landing of the guns, tanks and heavy equipment was delayed beyond our expectations and it was some time before the troops could be wedded to their supporting weapons.\n\nAt the time, therefore, I considered that our progress in the first days of the landing had been rather too slow. On the other hand, now that we have the inestimable advantage of wisdom after the event and know what steps the enemy was prepared to take, I find it interesting to speculate whether a deep and rapid thrust inland, ignoring what the Germans could bring against us, would have been successful or not. Certainly my experience of German reactions on such occasions has been that, though they are easy to deceive, they are not easily panicked. Every time we attacked Kesselring in Italy we took him completely by surprise, but he showed very great skill in extricating himself from the desperate situations into which his faulty Intelligence had led him. I feel now that he would not, in these circumstances, have altered his dispositions on the main front to any great extent until he had tried every means to eliminate the threat in his rear. The risk in such a course is obvious; on the other hand, VI Corps, with the resources available to it, would have found it very difficult both to be secure on the Alban Hills and at the same time retain the absolutely necessary communications with the sea at Anzio. There are too many hypotheses involved to make further speculation valuable; but such conclusions as can be drawn are at any rate satisfactory: that the actual course of events was probably the most advantageous in the end.\n\nThe area of the bridgehead, as decided on previously, was about seven miles deep by fifteen miles wide with a perimeter of twenty-six miles. On the left the flank rested on the Moletta river and was covered by a system of _wadis._ In the open central sector the line ran across fields to meet the western branch of the Mussolini canal south of Padiglione, and then along its course eastwards to Sessano and southwards to the sea. The canal between Sessano and the sea is a considerable obstacle, with steeply sloping sides like an anti-tank ditch, and a shallow stream in the middle sixteen feet wide. The right flank was therefore very strong and could be held with minimum forces. This original beach-head line was reached all along its extent by the evening of the 23rd after some small actions on the night of the 22nd on the Mussolini canal with elements of the Hermann Goering Division. The British beaches on the western flank had been found wholly unsuitable and abandoned after the landing of the first assault troops; but the port of Anzio had been opened, practically undamaged. Ninety per cent. of the personnel and equipment of the assault convoy had been landed by midnight on D-day and the return and follow-up convoy programme was running to schedule.\n\nEnemy reactions to the landing were rapid. Kesselring's first decision was to build up as hastily as possible, and with every available means, some form of blocking force to contain the beach-head. There were already in the Cisterna area some elements of the Hermann Goering Division, notably part of the divisional tank regiment with some artillery; a regiment of 3 Panzer Grenadier Division, which was on its way to Eighth Army front, was halted and brought back to the Alban Hills where it was joined on the evening of the 23rd by a regimental group from 15 Panzer Grenadier Division, the successful defenders of the Rapido. The latter two forces were put under command of a regimental commander of 4 Parachute Division, Colonel Gehricke, and were rapidly joined by the remainder of this division which came down by battalions at a time from Perugia, where it was in process of forming. The rest of the Hermann Goering Division came up from the lower Garigliano, where the offensive it had joined in on the 22nd was called off by the end of the day. It was clear that the enemy intended both to hold the \"Gustav\" line, where he had now blunted our first attacks, and to seal off the bridgehead in his rear with a view to destroying it later if possible. This intention was soon reinforced by an order from the Fuehrer's Headquarters which was directed to be read out to all ranks: \"The 'Gustav' line must be held at all costs for the sake of the political consequences which would follow a completely successful defence. The Fuehrer expects the bitterest struggle for every yard\". This verbal intervention by Hitler was followed by more fruitful actions than was to be usual later; the Italian theatre was to be reinforced. Kesselring was informed that he would receive two semi-motorized infantry divisions, three independent reinforced regiments and two heavy tank battalions, together with an extra allotment of G.H.Q. medium and heavy artillery. Further, he was told he could retain in Italy for the present the Hermann Goering Division. With these reinforcements he was expected not merely to contain but to eliminate the Anzio bridgehead. Not only was this essential militarily in order to continue holding in Italy with the minimum forces but also psychologically and politically it would be a most valuable gain to defeat ignominiously the first seaborne landing made by the Allies in 1944, a year which was fated to see other and still more dangerous landings.\n\nBy 30th January there were already elements of no less than eight divisions assembled south of Rome. Admittedly these forces were extremely mixed and hastily organised, but they were in the main experienced troops and accustomed by now to working independently of their parent formations. The first four divisions represented were, as already stated, 3 and 15 Panzer Grenadier, 4 Parachute and Hermann Goering. They were joined by 26 Panzer Division which was rushed across at top speed from the Adriatic sector, bringing with it three battalions of 1 Parachute Division. Meanwhile 65 Infantry Division, which was reorganising at Genoa after its losses on the Sangro, was hurried down to the west of the bridgehead to assist Gehricke, and advanced elements of 715 (Motorized) Infantry Division had already arrived. Command was exercised by Fourteenth Army, General von Mackensen, with two Corps Headquarters, 1 Parachute and LXXVI Panzer Corps. The tank strength available amounted to above one hundred and eighty and the artillery deployment was already formidable.\n\nThe first attempt to enlarge the bridgehead position was on 25th January when 3 Division advanced towards Cisterna. This attack was halted by the Hermann Goering Division after gains of up to two miles. The advance was resumed on the 27th but was again halted well short of its objective; 3 Division was still three miles from the town and it was evident that a more concentrated and better prepared attack would be necessary, 1 Division in the meanwhile was endeavouring to push up the main road from Anzio to Albano with Campoleone as its first objective. An attack on the so-called \"Factory Buildings\" (actually the first buildings of Mussolini's new town of Aprilia) was successful on the 25th, though it met strong resistance from 3 Panzer Grenadier Division; but we could only advance a mile and a half beyond the \"Factory\" and it was clear that Campoleone, like Cisterna, could only be taken by a strong and consolidated attack. I had returned to the bridgehead on the 25th, after being there on D-day, and as a result of my observations ordered General Clark on the 27th to press the advance with the utmost energy, before the enemy reinforcements could arrive; they were then suffering considerable delay from our air attacks on communications. I told him I considered that, with the prospect of the balance of 45 Division arriving in the bridgehead shortly, risks must be taken and I suggested that all efforts should now be concentrated on full-scale co-ordinated attacks to capture Cisterna and Campoleone, followed by a rapid advance on Velletri.\n\nGeneral Clark, who had set up an Advanced Command Post at Anzio, replied that the main attack could not be launched, for various reasons, before 30th January. The results of the attack were disappointing. 3 Division failed to capture Cisterna and suffered heavy losses, particularly among the Ranger battalions which were under command. 1 Division reached the railway embankment at Campoleone, a difficult obstacle, but was unable to advance beyond it, leaving itself in a dangerous salient protruding into the enemy lines. On 31st January I again visited Anzio by destroyer, returning on 2nd February. It was clear to me that until we had captured Cisterna and Campoleone it would be impossible to undertake any important offensive operations. I therefore ordered a renewed attack on Cisterna in full strength with a properly prepared Corps plan and all possible concentration of artillery and air attacks. Next my plan was to gain ground on the left of 1 Division, clear up our centre and organise our communications so as to be able to mount a solid offensive to cut Route 6.\n\nBefore these instructions could be carried out the Germans on 3rd February launched a counter-attack on the salient which 1 Division had established, stretching north from Carroceto to Campoleone. The position, held by 3 Infantry Brigade, was untenable against a heavy attack and it was only by committing 168 Brigade of 56 Division, which had landed as a reinforcement on 3rd February, that it was possible to extricate our troops from the salient by the night of the 4th\/5th to a line covering Carroceto and the \"Factory\". VI Corps then went over to the defensive in preparation for the enemy counter-attack in force, of whose imminence there was strong evidence. Two positions were to be prepared in rear of the present front lines; the last, corresponding with the initial bridgehead, was to be the final line, 1 and 3 Divisions, both reinforced, plus the newly arrived I Special Service Force and a regimental combat team of 45 Division, were in the line; the remainder of the 45th and 1 Armoured Division, less one Combat Command, were in reserve. As the dimensions of the enemy threat became more apparent I decided that more reinforcement was necessary and sent in the remainder of 56 British Division; this arrived between 13th and 18th February and relieved 1 Division on the 13th. On 25th February 18 Infantry Brigade, from the British 1 Armoured Division in North Africa, began to disembark at Anzio.\n\n#### Renewed Attack on the \"Gustav\" Line.\n\nAlthough the attempt by 10 Corps to envelop the southern flank of the \"Gustav\" line had been halted after an initial success by the enemy's counter-attacks, and the frontal attack by II Corps across the Rapido had failed, it was still vitally necessary to breakthrough as soon as possible in order to gain the maximum advantage from the Anzio landings. There was little chance of a further advance through the Aurunci Mountains for the enemy were strongly posted and prepared and we had had to weaken 10 Corps by withdrawing 56 Division for Anzio. I therefore decided to strengthen the northern arm of my pincers and ordered II Corps to shift its weight to its right flank and, in conjunction with the French Expeditionary Corps, to seize the high ground above Cassino and envelop the position from the north. If we could seize Cassino, the northern bastion, we should be able to advance up the valley without worrying about the southern flank.\n\nIt was difficult for Eighth Army to provide much distraction to tie down the enemy on their front. When General Leese took over he found that the heavy battles from the Sangro to Ortona had left the enemy, though no longer in his planned winter positions, still strongly posted on an easily defensible line and our own troops severely depleted in strength. There was no vital objective within our grasp on this front; the enemy could easily afford to give ground if really necessary and had already prepared strong defensive positions in rear. On 22nd January General Leese told me that he hoped to be able to mount a major operation, using 4 Indian, 1 Canadian and 78 Divisions, by mid-February. I replied that this would probably be too late and that what we needed was to prevent the enemy withdrawing troops from opposite Eighth Army, which he was doing at that very time. On further consideration, however, I saw clearly that that was impossible and I therefore decided, on 30th January, to follow the enemy's example and reinforce the vital points at the cost of weakening the Adriatic sector.\n\nThe first attack north of Cassino, between 24th and 31st January, had had limited success. 34 United States Division, in hard fighting, secured a bridgehead over the Rapido about two miles north of the town and, pressing up into the hills beyond the river, captured two outlying spurs and the village of Cairo. To their north the French, supported by an American Regimental Combat Team, captured Colle Belvedere and pushed further into the mountains towards Terelle. II Corps was now in a position to swing the direction of its attack from west to south. 36 Division, still weak from its losses in the Rapido crossing, was brought in to guard the western flank by holding Monte Castellone, captured by 34 Division on 1st February, and the 34th began attacking on the 2nd along the ridge from Colle Majola on to the rear of Monastery Hill. Hopes were high and General Clark signalled me on that day: \"Present indications are that the Cassino heights will be captured very soon\". He asked for a directive on the employment of the New Zealand Division.\n\nI had already decided that the development of the situation at Anzio and the stubborn enemy resistance on the main front made necessary a reinforcement of General Freyberg's70 forces if they were to be able to carry out the task assigned. I had therefore ordered General Leese on 30th January to despatch 4 Indian Division, which had newly arrived in the country, to come under command of General Freyberg in an _ad hoc_ New Zealand Corps. 4 Indian Division had had the longest experience in actual operations of any Allied formation and had recently been doing some training in mountain operations.71 I told General Leese: \"I fully realise that this will put out of court any possibility of offensive operations by you\". On 3rd February I put the New Zealand Corps under command of Fifth Army, from Army Group reserve. I still felt the need for a formation under my hand to influence the battle and therefore signalled Eighth Army on the 4th to be prepared to release 78 Division within seven to ten days. General Leese was naturally very perturbed at this proposal to take away a fifth division; not only would it render any offensive action quite impracticable and upset the system for reliefs of tired formations but he feared that it might even lead to a loss of security on his front. This, however, was a risk which I was prepared to take; the Adriatic sector was now unimportant to either side; both were gathering their maximum strength for the decisive battle under the snows of Monte Cairo and among the canals of the Pontine Marshes.\n\nThe attack by 34 United States Division continued to make progress but the enemy was now steadily reinforcing. Leaving 5 Mountain Division to oppose the French he decided to strengthen the mixed group of 44 and 71 Divisions which was defending Cassino itself and the Monastery with 90 Panzer Grenadiers, brought down from the Anzio front. Against these excellent troops II Corps was unable to make progress. It had got into the outskirts of the town and was within striking distance of the Monastery hill; indeed it was only a mile from Route 6 down below, but it was a mile packed with defences held by fanatical troops and broken up by mountain ridges and gullies. The first battle of Cassino was a German success; its retention now was a matter of German prestige.\n\nI had refused to commit the New Zealand Corps, my _Corps de Chasse,_ until it was certain that II Corps could not take the position. The New Zealanders had relieved the Americans south of Route 6 on 6th February to allow the latter to concentrate for the attack; but it was now clear that they would be obliged, not merely to debouch through a gateway flung open for them, but to capture the gate themselves. II Corps went over to the defensive on 12th February. My plan now was for 4 Indian Division to capture Monastery Hill while the New Zealanders would seize a bridgehead over the Rapido. The Corps would then exploit up the Liri valley, but this was not to start until weather conditions were favourable enough to allow the movement of armoured forces off the roads. At the same time I ordered Fifth Army to make plans for resuming the offensive with VI Corps.\n\nTime was urgently pressing, for it was known that a great enemy counter-attack against the Anzio bridgehead was being prepared. In the event the two attacks went in on the same day, 16th February. A preliminary to the New Zealand Corps attack was the destruction of the Monastery of Monte Cassino by air bombardment and artillery fire. This famous building had hitherto been deliberately spared, to our great disadvantage, but it was an integral part of the German defensive system, mainly from the superb observation it afforded. It is doubtful, however, whether the ruins after the destruction were not more valuable to the enemy than the intact buildings; as we were to find in the town of Cassino below, heavy bombardment often produced better defensive positions than it destroyed. The attack which went in on the 16th made no progress. 4 Indian Division ruefully decided that the Cassino position was almost as strong as Keren, still their invariable standard of comparison. The only gain below the mountain was a small bridgehead over the Rapido opposite the railway station. 78 Division, which had been put under command of New Zealand Corps on the 8th, arrived in the area on the 17th, having been held up by deep snow on the way from Eighth Army front. On the 24th it took over from the New Zealanders south of the railway, the latter relieved 34 United States Division in the north end of Cassino and the remaining elements of 11 Corps, on Monte Castellone, were relieved by the French Expeditionary Corps on the 26th.\n\n#### Fourteenth Army's Counter-attack at Anzio.\n\nThe preliminary moves in the enemy's planned counter-offensive against the bridgehead took the form of an attack to clear the \"Factory\" area to secure a firm base for the assault. This began on 7th February and the intention was to capture the whole area in a night attack. In actual fact the stubborn resistance of 1 Division and counter-attacks by 45 United States Division meant that five days of heavy fighting were necessary before the objective was secured on the 12th. VI Corps was now back on its \"intermediate\" line astride the Anzio - Albano road and it was clear that this road would be the axis of the enemy's main attack. To meet it VI Corps relieved I Division and handed over the sector to 56 and 45 United States Divisions. On 17th February General Truscott, Commander of 3 United States Division72 was appointed Deputy Commander of the Corps. He directed, with great success, the defence against the great German counter-offensive and on the 23rd succeeded General Lucas as Corps Commander. It was a new r\u00f4le, for General Truscott had made his reputation, and continued to increase it, as a dashing commander of hard-hitting offensives; indeed the defence was a new r\u00f4le altogether for our armies in Italy. The troops showed, however, that they were fully equal to the demands made on them, encouraged by the massive support of our concentrated artillery fire, which was augmented by the big guns of the Allied Navies and the bombs and machine-gun fire of the Air Forces.\n\nBy the time the German attack began two more divisions had been brought in to reinforce Fourteenth Army: 114 Jaeger from Jugoslavia and 362 Infantry from North Italy, and the three independent regiments and two heavy tank battalions already mentioned had also arrived. This gave the Germans the equivalent of about ten divisions against an Allied strength of rather less than five. German morale was particularly high; a special order from Hitler was read out to all troops before the attack in which he demanded that this \"abscess\" must and would be eliminated in three days. They were told that they would get massive air support from the Luftwaffe, combined with numbers of heavy tanks, employed for the first time in Italy, and would have the privilege of operating for the first time on any front the new secret weapon, the \"Goliath\" remote-controlled explosive tank. The plan was to attack on a very narrow front of some four thousand yards straight down the Albano - Anzio road on to Anzio itself, only eight miles away. The loss of Anzio would mean that the bridgehead would be split in half and deprived of its port; this would have made further defence hopeless and even evacuation would have been almost impossible for the beaches were already known to be entirely inadequate. The assault was to be made by four divisions, reinforced by eleven battalions, led by the crack Lehr Regiment, the Infantry Demonstration Regiment from D\u00f6beritz, pride of the German Army. Four hundred and fifty-two guns supported the attack. Two mobile divisions, 26 Panzer and 29 Panzer Grenadier, reinforced by two battalions, one of Tiger and one of Panther tanks, were echeloned behind them to exploit the success of which no one doubted.\n\nThe attack began at 0630 hours on 16th February after half an hour's artillery preparation, with massed infantry covered with smoke and supported by tanks. By the end of the day a salient of some two thousand yards had been driven down the road in the sector of 45 Division. The airstrip at Nettuno had been rendered unserviceable by long-range artillery fire, which also destroyed four aircraft as they were about to take off; fighter cover, as a result, now had to be flown wholly from the Naples area. Before midnight the attack was resumed. Fighting on the 17th was even heavier; the enemy made fewer diversionary attacks and concentrated on his drive down the Anzio road. By now there was a wedge two and a half miles wide and over a mile deep in the centre of 45 Division's front. Against this wedge the whole of VI Corps' artillery was directed, supported by all the air resources available, some seven hundred bomber sorties. The enemy was now getting very near the \"Final Beach-head Line\" and General Truscott moved two brigades of 1 Division into that line in rear of 45 Division.\n\nThe 18th was the most critical day. After infiltration during the night into the shoulders of the salient the enemy moved forward under a lowering and overcast sky which prevented a repetition of the previous day's tremendous programme of air support. Once more waves of infantry attacked in the morning and in the afternoon Mackensen threw in his _Corps de Chasse,_ not now to exploit a breakthrough in the Allied lines but to make one. For four hours the battle raged east of the road on the final beach-head line. The honours of the day go mainly to the United States 179 Infantry Regiment and 1 Battalion of the Loyals, and to the Corps artillery which did deadly execution in the attacking masses. The enemy was held, and that night it was clear that he was pulling back to reorganise. The time had come for the planned counter-attack. On the 19th an armoured force from 1 United States Armoured Division together with elements of 3 United States Infantry Division attacked the eastern flank of the German salient and gained some fifteen hundred yards causing disorganisation and panic. In the afternoon 2 Brigade of 1 Division cleared up some enemy penetrations and re-established the final line. A last, badly mismanaged enemy attack on I Loyals on the morning of the 20th, repulsed with heavy losses, was the end of the German offensive. It was clear that they would attack again, for Hitler was insistent, but their losses would render essential a pause to reorganise.73\n\n#### Fresh Plans of Campaign.\n\nThe failure of the main offensive attempts by both sides, by the Allies in the second battle of Cassino and by the Germans at Anzio, left us with the same problem as before and the necessity of thinking out some new solution for it. I felt confident now that the bridgehead could be held, for, unless they could find fresh formations, a renewed German attack would have to be made in much reduced strength. I could concentrate, therefore, on Cassino and try to find some new method of taking this fortress which had twice defied our best efforts. I still had one division uncommitted, the 78th, but the weather was very bad and the Liri valley a sea of mud; it was no good putting my last fresh troops into a repetition of our former attacks unless I could produce some new tactics to give us a better chance of success. In this frame of mind I decided to try the effect of a really heavy air bombardment. General Cannon,74 Commanding General of the Tactical Air Force, was anxious to make the experiment too; he hazarded the opinion that, given good weather and all the air resources in Italy, we could \"whip, out Cassino like an old tooth.\" Of course both of us regarded the plan wholly as an experiment, without any certainty as to how it would work out, for we had never tried anything on that scale before; but I was very willing to try it on for I felt that if successful we should have found a way of capturing positions like this without the loss of life which more normal methods must involve.75 Accordingly, on 20th February, after discussing the plan with General Clark and General Freyberg, I decided we would next attempt to capture the town of Cassino, after a heavy bombardment, with the New Zealand Division which would then push past the southern face of Monte Cassino along Route 6, make contact with the Indians northwest of the Monastery and thus encircle the enemy positions. This would give us a big bridgehead over the Rapido and an entry into the Liri valley.\n\nAt the same time I decided to carry out a thorough regrouping of forces and reorganisation of command, the main lines of which were reported by General Harding, my Chief of General Staff, to Allied Force Headquarters in an appreciation dated 22nd February. In this the object of operations in Italy is defined as \"to force the enemy to commit the maximum number of divisions in Italy at the time OVERLORD is launched.\"76 To attain that object the most effective way was not merely to push back the enemy's line but to destroy enemy formations in Italy to such an extent that they must be replaced from elsewhere to avoid a rout. But, as Nelson said, \"Only numbers can annihilate\"; my own calculations were that \"to have a reasonable chance of effective penetration against organized defences in Italian terrain, it is necessary for the side that takes the offensive to have a local superiority of at least three to one in infantry\". It is important to note that I said local, not overall superiority. At the time the Germans had between eighteen and nineteen divisions south of Rome and some five divisions, including three still forming, in the rest of Italy; as against this we had about twenty-one divisions. To remedy this it was proposed to initiate immediately a scheme of reinforcement to bring the Allied Armies by mid-April up to the total of twenty-eight and a half divisions, four of which, however, would be armoured divisions, of less value than infantry for fighting in Italy.\n\nThe details of the regrouping carried out can be better described in connection with the actual opening of the spring offensive. Briefly, the effect was to bring Eighth Army Headquarters over west of the Apennines to take command of all British troops, except for a Corps on the Adriatic and the two divisions at Anzio, and with these to capture Cassino and advance up the Liri valley. Fifth Army would attack on a parallel axis to the south through the Aurunci Mountains and from Anzio on to Valmontone to cut Route 6 in the enemy's rear. This was the plan with which we were successful in May, unaltered except for the minor point of timing that the VI Corps attack was held back until the main attack had made good progress. It was not certain that our big attack would be made from the same positions as those held in February but I was already prepared for that. This had certain advantages. A major offensive from these positions gave the best chance of achieving our object, for between the main front and the bridgehead we were certain to trap and maul so many German divisions that reinforcements would have to be sent at the expense of the resistance to OVERLORD. If, on the other hand, our spring offensive found the Germans holding a connected front south of Rome, or withdrawing up the peninsula to the \"Gothic\" line, they would be unlikely to need reinforcements so urgently and, indeed, in the latter case, might be able to release formations for the west. However, our regrouping would take a long time and I estimated mid-April as the earliest possible date which could be expected for the resumption of the offensive.\n\nGeneral Wilson, in replying to my proposals, showed anxiety about the possible effects of a pause in operations. He began by stating that as far as operations in Italy were concerned, these must be conditioned mainly by the air factor. His general plan for Italy was to use the air to deprive the enemy of the ability either to maintain his existing positions or to withdraw his divisions out of Italy in time for OVERLORD. There was indeed, considerable optimism at Allied Force Headquarters about the ability of the air forces so to damage the enemy's communications as to force him to accept the alternatives of starvation, and reduction of ammunition reserves below the danger level, or withdrawal. This was based largely on an over-estimate of the disorganisation caused by bombing attacks on marshalling yards; but even the more effective policy of creating blocks at defiles, especially by the destruction of bridges, which was subsequently adopted with the support, and, in part, on the advice of my staff, never in fact achieved this desirable result though, it did seriously reduce the enemy's margin of maintenance.77 General Wilson estimated, in the signal referred to, that the Mediterranean Allied Air Forces' bombing plan would make itself felt by the end of April and the effect would be to compel the enemy to withdraw \"at least to the Pisa - Rimini line\". The land forces would be required to keep up a continuous pressure during this time, otherwise the enemy might withdraw and the spring offensive would be a blow in the air. I could not consider it likely, on the basis of past experience, that the enemy would withdraw, and I was convinced that our spring offensive would find him still offering a most determined resistance. It was for this reason that I considered a regrouping absolutely vital to bring our full strength to bear at the critical point, while a continued attack in our present circumstances would merely weaken us to no good purpose. First, however, I would try once more to eliminate Cassino and seize some kind of a bridgehead; this would mean that there would be no serious lull in the fighting. Commenting on the air plan I limited myself to hoping: \"that the weather will improve in time to give our air forces a chance to carry out their part of your plan. At present it is atrocious and shows no sign of change\".\n\nI explained my plan, on the lines of the appreciation of 22nd February, to the Army Commanders at a conference at Caserta on the 28th. We decided to relieve 5 British Division in 10 Corps by 88 United States Division at once and the former should then move to Anzio to relieve 56 Division. 56 Division had been severely reduced in fighting value during its short period in the bridgehead; General Truscott on the 26th reported it as inadequate to hold its present front.78 We decided further that, at a later date, 34 United States Division should also move to Anzio. Steps were also taken to prepare the major reorganisation of the front for the coming offensive.\n\n#### Fourteenth Army's Second Offensive at Anzio.\n\nWhile the weather held up our renewed attack at Cassino it was already clear that the enemy was preparing another offensive at Anzio. He no doubt calculated that he had time enough before our threat to the \"Gustav\" line became serious and experience had given him a justified confidence in the strength of his defences there. His renewed attack could not be made in the same force as the first; there were large gaps in his divisions and morale had suffered the inevitable depression that follows the failure of an offensive of which much had been hoped. Mackensen therefore planned an attack on a smaller scale, using LXXVI Corps only; it was designed to narrow down the bridgehead by driving a wedge into the eastern flank to cut off the troops defending the Mussolini canal. If this were successful a further process of attrition might reduce the bridgehead to dimensions too small for safety. Four divisions, including two panzer divisions, were to make the assault, with a mobile division in reserve: it was to be combined with diversionary attacks on both flanks. VI Corps was prepared for the attack on 29th February and it was a complete failure: artillery fire and the firm defence of 3 Division broke up most of the attacks, a small penetration was made but was soon ironed out and by the afternoon of 1st March the enemy had acknowledged defeat.79 He never again resumed the offensive and I now could consider the Anzio bridgehead secure, especially after we had captured Fourteenth Army's order of 4th March directing the assumption of the defensive. In March three German mobile divisions, 26 Panzer, 29 Panzer Grenadier and Hermann Goering Panzer, were withdrawn from the line, followed by 114 Jaeger. On the Allied side 5 Division relieved the 56th between 5th and 11th March and on the 28th 34 Division relieved 3 United States Division, which had been sixty-seven days continuously in the line. 56 Division went to the Middle East but the 3rd remained at Anzio in Corps reserve.\n\nI reported on the situation after the repulse of these attacks in a signal on 5th March, when I had returned from another visit to Anzio. It was now much improved and, I added, \"a more healthy feeling of confidence prevails throughout\". I took the opportunity of summing up the balance of the six weeks fighting with reference to the rather misleading accounts which had been given publicity:\n\n> \"From various reports I have read from home it appears that public opinion imagines that after the initial landing no effort was made to advance further. This is most distressing to me and the troops. Reference should be made to the many casualties sustained by the British in taking Campoleone where they were finally held at the foot of the Colli Laziali, and also the losses suffered by the Americans in trying to take Cisterna, where all attacks failed. After this, superior German forces attacked us in strength and threw us on to the defensive and we had a bitter struggle to maintain the bridgehead intact after being driven back from Campoleone. A man may enter the backdoor of a house unperceived save by the kitchenmaid who raises the alarm. But unless the inhabitants hide upstairs there will be a fight in the passage for the possession of the house. We are now fighting in the passage\".\n\nAll this time the New Zealand Corps, now strengthened by the addition of 78 Division, was waiting for suitable conditions for the next attack on Cassino, which was intended to be our last attack before the spring offensive. In order to give our experiment in the use of heavy air attack its best chance we had laid down two conditions: there should be three fine days before the attack to ensure that the ground was dry enough for the use of tanks, especially in the exploitation into the Liri valley, and there should be good visibility on the day of the attack for the benefit of the bombers. For a fortnight after the repulse of the second German offensive at Anzio General Freyberg waited at twenty-four hours notice until, on the 14th, these conditions appeared likely to be fulfilled and the attack was ordered for the next day. The total weight of high explosive showered on Cassino amounted to over eleven hundred tons of bombs and nearly two thousand rounds of artillery fire, but when the New Zealanders advanced into the town they found the enemy still resisting. This was an extraordinary feat and much to the credit of 1 Parachute Division.80 After personally witnessing the bombardment it seemed to me inconceivable that any troops should be alive after eight hours of such terrific hammering, let alone should be able to man their defences. I doubt if any other division in the German Army could have done it. With the defenders showing such spirit the heaps of rubble raised by the bombardment were actually an assistance to them, not least in preventing the use of tanks. However, we succeeded in clearing the greater part of the town and capturing Castle Hill. That night, contrary to the forecast the weather broke; torrential rain turned the valley, with its mass of craters, into a bog and deprived the night attack of the advantage of the moon. The same spirited defence was made on the mountain as in the town beneath. \"Hangman's Hill\", a small knoll protruding from the glacis of Monte Cassino a short way below the Monastery, was captured by 4 Indian Division on the 16th; this marked the limit of our gains in the heights above the town. Fighting continued in the town and by the 18th most of it was in our hands; but on the 19th an enemy counter-attack re-took a point between \"Hangman's Hill\" and the Castle hill. Our garrison of the former, which had been reduced by casualties, was cut off and progress in the town was halted.\n\nOn 20th March I informed both Army Commanders:\n\n> \"The slow progress made so far in attacking the town of Cassino with the consequent delay in launching the attack on the Monastery, combined with the necessity of preparing the maximum forces for a full-scale offensive in the second half of April, makes it essential to decide in the course of the next twenty-four or thirty-six hours whether ( _a_ ) to continue with the Cassino operations in the hope of capturing the Monastery during the next three or four days or, ( _b_ ) to call the operations off and to consolidate such gains of ground as are important for the renewal of the offensive later\".\n\nRenewed attacks on the 21st and 22nd again made no progress and on the 23rd the attack was called off. The decision was taken to consolidate Castle Hill and the eastern part of the town; as a result the isolated troops on \"Hangman's Hill\" were withdrawn on the night of the 24th, and 4 Indian Division was relieved by the 78th. On 26th March 13 Corps took command of the sector and the New Zealand Corps was dissolved.\n\nThe three attacks on Cassino had failed to achieve what we had hoped from them but they left us with solid advantages. We had the greater part of the town, which gave us a bridgehead over the Rapido to use when we could concentrate the proper force for a renewed offensive. We could look forward to the next phase with confidence. Not only had we the Cassino bridgehead but we also held a large salient into the enemy's southern flank, won by 10 Corps' attack in January, which was of the very greatest value to Fifth Army in May; above all we had established, far in the enemy's rear, a strong Corps of good troops well supplied, in a position to cut all the enemy's communications when they should break out, or to threaten directly the possession of Rome on which the Germans set such value.\n\nIt was natural, perhaps, that some disappointment should be felt at home in view of the length of the pause which we now proposed before renewing the offensive. I felt it necessary to explain, on 2nd April: \"The date is influenced by our ability to regroup the necessary formations for battle, marshal our forces and prepare the stage for an all-out, sustained offensive which will best assist OVERLORD in drawing in and destroying the maximum number of German divisions which would otherwise be employed against the Western invasion\". It could indeed be said, reviewing the results of the winter campaign, that the Allied Armies in Italy were already making the greatest possible contribution consistent with their strength to the plan of diverting German attention to what was now a secondary theatre. Twenty-three German divisions, including many of the best in the German Army, were held down in Italy; Anzio alone had meant the equivalent of four divisions being lost to other fronts. The size of the German garrison in the Balkans was also influenced by the potential threat from Italy and by aid to the Partisan movements which could be provided from Italian bases. All this was achieved without our once having that numerical superiority usually considered necessary for offensive operations, with a mixed force of many nationalities and with little opportunity of flexibility in their employment. And it was already likely that the enemy, now forced on to the defensive in so awkward a two-fronted position, would be unable to meet our next offensive without drawing once more on his dwindling central reserve to prevent a great disaster.\n\n## PART III.\n\n## THE CAPTURE OF ROME AND THE ADVANCE TO THE ARNO.\n\n#### Regrouping for the Spring Offensive.\n\nIn planning the strategy to be used when the Allied Armies in Italy should be able to resume large-scale operations I had laid down at the start that \"to have a reasonable chance of effective penetration against organised defences in Italian terrain, it is necessary for the side that takes the offensive to have a local superiority of at least three to one in infantry\". It was to the attainment of this prior condition that I devoted my attention during the month of April. My general superiority in divisions in May would be of the nature of just under one-and-a-quarter to one; these were, however, the best odds I ever enjoyed in Italy. But to convert this slight overall superiority into a local superiority of three to one at the critical point would not be easy. Neither side enjoyed any particular advantage in ease of lateral communications and, if Kesselring correctly appreciated our intentions, he could concentrate his strength opposite the threatened point as fast as we could. And it must surely be easy for him to form a correct appreciation; we could not be going to attack up the Adriatic, which led nowhere; our main effort must come somewhere west of the Apennines and almost certainly on the axis of the Liri valley. So much was obvious from the configuration of the ground and would be confirmed by the move across to the west, which we could not hope to conceal, of Eighth Army Headquarters and the majority of the British troops under its command.81\n\nThe directive on which Kesselring was acting, dating from the previous October but still in force, was to hold the Allies as far south of Rome as possible. He had been successful, at great strain and risk, in achieving this object during the winter months, but this very success had made his task more difficult. For the very reason that he had kept the Allies out of Rome for seven months the retention of Rome had acquired a still greater value for prestige, a consideration which might overrule the requirements of sound strategy; indeed for the same reason, though acting here with slightly lesser force, the Cassino position had acquired a semi-sacred character which would dictate a special effort to hold it. However, there was no reason for Kesselring to suppose that the task laid on him would be beyond his powers. He had twenty-three divisions to our twenty-eight, two of them Panzer and four Panzer Grenadier divisions. He had been receiving very strong drafts all through the winter, amounting on the average to fifteen thousand men a month, and his formations were therefore well up to strength.82 New equipment, particularly an increased divisional allotment of assault guns, had arrived and the April lull had been used to good advantage in training. Morale was high and the troops could be relied on to give a good account of themselves.\n\nOf the twenty-three German divisions in the country eighteen were in the two armies actively engaged;83 as the battle developed all but one were drawn in, together with five more from other theatres. One of the two Panzer divisions, the Hermann Goering Division, was earmarked for France and was already halfway there, as it was re-forming around Leghorn, but in the event it too was drawn into the battle in Italy. 162 Infantry Division, a formation of Soviet subjects, mainly Turko-mans, had been brought in from Slovenia to take over responsibility for the Tuscan coast. During the lull in April the mobile divisions in Tenth and Fourteenth Armies were pulled out of the line into reserve. The infantry divisions in the line also thinned out wherever possible; in the Adriatic sector Russian troops were employed in the line to relieve Germans and even west of the Apennines battalions were occupying sectors formerly held by regiments. The enemy, therefore, was theoretically in a good position to meet our offensive owing to the presence of strong mobile reserves. It was our prime object to see that these reserves should be directed to the wrong sectors.\n\nOne thing was clear to the enemy: the Allies would have to make an attack up the Liri valley whatever else they did, and here the German plan of defence rested on three fortified positions known as the \"Gustav\", \"Adolf Hitler\" and \"Caesar\" lines. The first of these was the present main line of resistance which represented the rear line of the old \"winter position\", dented and endangered in some parts by the Allied offensives from January to March, but in principle the same as planned. It had stood the test of many furious attacks, which had revealed as nothing else could have done its strength and its weaknesses, and during the April lull these lessons had been applied in the form of much work on the improvement of the defences. However even before this, in December 1943, work had been started on a second line in rear which was given the name of \"Adolf Hitler\" until its fall seemed imminent, when it was changed to the colourless \"Dora\"; we usually called it the \"Piedimonte - Pontecorvo line\". Its function was to bar the advance up the Liri valley to a force which had succeeded in forcing the Rapido, and for this its left rested on Monte Cairo, descending to the valley through Piedimonte, and its right on the Liri at Pontecorvo; south of the Liri there were few permanent defences on this line for the country was very difficult. In the plain the defences were by May very strong; they included extensive belts of wire, anti-tank ditches, minefields and steel pillboxes, many of the latter formed by \"Panther\" tank turrets sunk in the ground. Against a frontal assault, therefore, the line was most formidable but it had one serious weakness: the presence of a strong Allied Corps many miles behind it at Anzio. A break-out from there, cutting Route 6, would make the \"Adolf Hitler\" line useless. The Germans therefore began to construct, in March, a third line of defences known as the \"Caesar\" line. This was a position to which Tenth and Fourteenth Armies would withdraw when, and if, the Allies forced a junction with the Anzio bridgehead; it might be called the last-ditch defence of Rome though, if it could be held, it gave reasonable depth forward of the city. Its main purpose was to block the gap between the Alban Hills and the Prenestini mountains through which run both Route 6 and the Alatri - Palestrina - Tivoli road. To the west of this gap the line continued across the Alban Hills to the left flank of the bridgehead, and to the east of it, it ran via Avezzano and Celano to positions on the Saline river west of Pescara. Only the right flank of the line, where it actually covered Rome, had had much work done on it but the positions here were naturally strong.\n\nThis was, in brief outline, the problem which faced me in planning the battle for Rome. The solution eventually adopted was first given expression in an appreciation of 22nd February and the plan there proposed was agreed on at an Army Commanders' conference at Caserta on 28th February. In essence it involved making Fifth Army responsible for the sea flank, including Anzio and the Aurunci Mountains south of the Liri, and bringing the weight of Eighth Army into an attack up the Liri valley. It would mean a great effort of regrouping and would take a considerable time. This would in any case be inevitable, for all troops in both Fifth and Eighth Armies were exhausted and time was necessary, not only for them to be rested, but also for the arrival of reinforcements.\n\nTwo main problems faced the administrative staff: the maximum number of divisions which could be maintained in Italy by the existing port facilities and the practicability of maintaining the bulk of these on an axis west of the Apennines. The agreed figure for the first was twenty-eight divisions, which coincided well enough with the maximum number we actually had available. The second problem was made easier by the fact that the original plan for a rigid division between the lines of communication of the two Armies had not been adhered to and there were already bases and depots both in Apulia and the Naples area which allowed us the requisite flexibility at the cost, well worthwhile as it turned out, of a certain duplication. The administrative plan for the spring offensive was that Fifth Army should be maintained on its existing west coast axis; Eighth Army should have two axes, one for the Army, less the Polish Corps, on the west and one for the Poles on the east, and 5 Corps, which was to be under direct command of my Headquarters, should have an independent axis of its own on the east coast.\n\nOrders for the regrouping were issued by my Headquarters on 5th March; the change of Army boundaries took effect from 26th March. I need not describe the actual steps by which we carried out the various reliefs but in order to understand their effect it will be useful to anticipate by giving our dispositions on the main front as they were on 11th May, when the operation began.84\n\nIn the sector from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the confluence of the Liri and the Gari Fifth Army had two Corps in line: on the left II Corps with 85 and 88 Divisions, and on the right the French Expeditionary Corps with four divisions, 1 Motorised, 2 Moroccan, 3 Algerian and 4 Moroccan Mountain Divisions and three Groups of Tabors of Goums.85 In Army reserve on this part of the front was 36 Infantry Division. Eighth Army's sector extended from Fifth Army's right boundary to a line running from the highest peak of the Maiella, through the summit of the Gran Sasso and so generally north-west. The striking force was on the left. From the Liri to Cassino town was 13 Corps with four divisions, 6 Armoured, 4, 78 and 8 Indian Infantry, and behind it, ready to pass through or come into line on its left as the situation should demand, was I Canadian Corps with I Infantry and 5 Armoured Divisions and 25 Tank Brigade; on its right, poised and concentrated for the attack on Cassino, was the Polish Corps with two infantry divisions, 3rd and 5th, and an armoured brigade.86 10 Corps held the right of the Army's front, the mountainous centre of the peninsula, with a miscellaneous group of forces based mainly on 2 New Zealand Division; it included a parachute brigade, two armoured car regiments and an Italian brigade group. In Army reserve was 6 South African Armoured Division which was not yet complete in the country; its motor brigade was under command of 10 Corps at the time the battle opened. On the Adriatic coast was 5 Corps, under direct command of my Headquarters; it consisted of 4 and 10 Indian Infantry Divisions and was intended to play a containing r\u00f4le only.\n\n#### Plans for the Offensive.\n\nA conference of the two Army Commanders was held at my Headquarters in Caserta on 2nd April and I explained my plan for the battle. Eighth Army's task I defined as \"to break through the enemy's main front into the Liri valley and advance on Valmontone\"; Fifth Army's \"to secure the Ausonia defile and advance _vi\u00e2_ Esperia to the south of the Liri valley\" and \"to break out of the Anzio bridgehead and advance on Valmontone.\" Timing was also discussed. The programme of reliefs, in particular the move of 10 Indian Division from the Middle East, was taking a little longer than was expected and we now estimated that it should be possible to complete all preparations by 3rd to 5th May. I had originally calculated that, in order to give the best support to the western invasion, our attack should precede it by fifteen to twenty-one days; I was unaware at the time of the date chosen for OVERLORD but I was given to understand that a date for our attack in early May would suit General Eisenhower. It would also suit well with the phases of the moon. For the sake of troop movements at night it is always most useful to have a good moon and it would be full on 8th May. I eventually decided on a tentative D-day of 10th May.\n\nThere as a good deal of discussion as to the relative timing of the assault on the enemy's main line and the break-out from Anzio. There was much to be said for making all attacks simultaneous but the main disadvantage of this was that it would mean splitting our air effort between the bridgehead and the main front. My original idea was to lead with the Anzio attack so as to threaten or, if possible, sever the enemy communications between Rome and Cassino and thereby make easier the task of the assault up the valley. I decided against it, however, because the enemy's mobile reserves around the bridgehead, for reasons which will appear later, were strong and there was a possibility that an attack there might get held up short of its objectives and, secondly, because the enemy seemed to expect us to make our major attack there and I wanted to surprise him; as long as he remained in that frame of mind he would tend to regard our attack on the main front as subsidiary only. It was decided, therefore, to lead with Eighth Army's assault on the valley and Fifth Army's into the Aurunci. The force at Anzio was to be ready to open an attack on or after D plus 4 at twenty-four hours notice. I modified the original proposal to put another infantry division into the bridgehead; instead the remainder of 1 United States Armoured Division would be moved in (as late as possible to avoid unnecessary losses from shelling in the rear assembly areas) and 36 United States Division would initially be held in Army reserve, ready either to support the main drive or to move to the bridgehead at short notice.\n\nThe prospects of an operation against Elba were also discussed at the conference. This operation (codename BRASSARD) had been for some time under consideration at Allied Force Headquarters. If it could be carried out without subtracting from the resources for the main attack the capture of the island would have important results in the disruption of the enemy's seaborne traffic and would also greatly assist our cover plan. General Wilson was prepared to use 9 Colonial Infantry Division (French) from Corsica. His Chief of Staff attended the conference and promised to examine the possibilities of the attack urgently. On 7th April, however, I was informed that, for various reasons, it would be impossible to launch the attack before May and 25th May was chosen as the target date. This considerably reduced the value of the operation as there was reason to hope that by that date enemy coastal traffic south of Elba would be diminished by reason of our overland advance and he would not be likely to pay much attention to a threat to his right flank when he knew that all our strength was committed on the southern front.\n\nA final conference was held on 1st May, also in the War Room at Caserta, at which decisions were taken on the remaining outstanding points. D-day was fixed at 11th May and H-hour at 2300 hours; postponement would only be on account of bad weather and would be for periods of twenty-four hours, the decision to postpone being taken not later than 1600 hours on D-day. The breakout from Anzio, which it had already been agreed should be prepared for D plus 4, would take place when a penetration of the enemy's second line of defence on the main front (i.e. the \"Hitler\" line) had been achieved. It was hoped that there would be sufficient air resources to meet all the demands of both Armies but, if not, priority would go in the first phase of the attack to Eighth Army and in the second, the breakout from Anzio, to VI Corps. Until the attack was about to open the air forces would continue with their existing plan of attacks on enemy lines of communication. The effects of this were most valuable but, since this was the first time we had tried anything of this nature, there was a certain tendency to overestimate them. I felt it necessary to emphasize that our intelligence staff credited the Germans with at least four weeks supplies at full operational rates and ventured the prophecy that we should have at least twenty-one days actual fighting, quite apart from days spent in movement, before the enemy could be defeated. It was actually twenty-four days from the opening of the offensive to the entry into Rome.\n\nThe definitive order for the attack, Operation Order No. 1, was issued on 5th May.87 This added little new information to the decisions already taken at the preceding conference. Reference was made for the first time to 91 United States Division which was now beginning to arrive in North Africa and was due to move to Italy during the latter part of May and the beginning of June, to join Fifth Army. It had arrived in North Africa at the end of April from the United States and was originally assigned to Allied Force Headquarters but one Regimental Combat Team was ordered to Italy, arriving at Anzio on 1st June; the remainder of the division joined Fifth Army after the fall of Rome. 1 British Armoured Division, which was expected to arrive in June, could not in fact be brought over from North Africa until July.\n\nGeneral Leese worked out his plan for Eighth Army at a series of conferences for Corps Commanders and did not issue any written operation orders. The Army's task was to break through the enemy's front in the Liri valley and advance on Rome. This involved breaking through, or turning, both the \"Gustav\" and \"Hitler\" lines, and the Army Commander divided the former task into two phases. In the first phase 2 Polish Corps would isolate the area Monastery Hill - Cassino from the north and north-west and dominate Route 6 until a junction should be effected with 13 Corps, subsequently capturing Monastery Hill. 13 Corps would secure a bridgehead over the Rapido between Cassino and the Liri, isolate Cassino from the west by cutting Route 6 and effecting a junction with 2 Polish Corps, and then clear the town and Monastery Hill and open up Route 6. In the second phase the Poles were to gain contact with the \"Hitler\" line north of Route 6 and develop operations against it with a view to a breakthrough. 10 Corps, covering a wide front, was to secure the right flank and demonstrate in force in the direction of Atina with the object of leading the enemy to believe that an attack was being made in that direction, a plan which had at one time been considered but rejected. 10 Corps was also to be prepared to relieve formations as the battle progressed, I Canadian Corps, in Army reserve, was to be held in readiness either to assist or to pass through 13 Corps, as the situation required. 6 South African Armoured Division was also in reserve; it was not yet quite complete and it was intended to use it for exploitation. The total strength in the attack was about six to seven infantry divisions and three armoured divisions.\n\nThe task of Fifth Army on the main front was described as to \"capture the Ausonia defile and advance on an axis generally parallel to that of Eighth Army but south of the Liri and Sacco valleys.\" In his Field Order No. 6 of 20th April General Clark further defined this as \"to advance with both Corps abreast, secure the Ausonia defile and advance south of the Liri River to cut the Pico - Itri road.\" Subsequent advances would be made on Army orders. The advance to the first objective was divided into four phases. In the first the intermediate objective was the Ausonia - Formia road; the French Expeditionary Corps, on the right, was to take Monte Majo and secure the defile at Ausonia while II Corps, on the left, was to seize the high ground west of Castel-forte and Santa Maria Infante, thus threatening the southern end of the Ausonia road. These attacks were to be simultaneous with each other and with the Eighth Army attack. In the second phase the French were to advance across the River Ausente and drive through the central part of the mountains to capture Monte Revole from where they could threaten the Pico - Itri road. II Corps were to cross the Formia - Ausonia road and capture Monte La Civita and Castellonorato. In the third phase the French were to cut the Itri - Pico road near Itri and direct their main strength on the capture of Monte d'Oro, overlooking Pontecorvo on their right. II Corps was to advance on the left to Monte Campese and Monte Scauri and on the right towards Itri. The fourth phase would put Fifth Army all along the Itri - Pico road, ready for a further advance. This division into phases was only to be regarded as an indication and it was expected that, after the \"Gustav\" line had been broken, the progress of operations would be fairly fluid. The total strength in the attack was six infantry divisions, plus twelve thousand \"goumiers,\" with one infantry division in reserve.\n\n#### Enemy Dispositions.\n\nOn the main front, held by Tenth Army, Kesselring adapted his dispositions to a fairly close copy of our own. On the Adriatic sector he organised a holding force which defended along stretch of front from the sea to Alfadena, in the centre of the mountains, with three infantry divisions; this was put under General Hauck of 305 Division and called the \"Hauck Group\"; in function it corresponded to 5 Corps on our side. From Alfadena to inclusive Cassino was LI Mountain Corps with three divisions, including 1 Parachute in Cassino. XIV Panzer Corps commanded the Liri valley sector, the Aurunci mountains and the west coast as far as Terracina. In the valley was a \"Blocking Group\" in regimental strength from 305 Division (Hauck) plus a regiment of 15 Panzer Grenadier Division; in the Aurunci mountains were two infantry divisions strengthened by three battalions from a third in LI Corps and the remainder of 15 Panzer Grenadier Division guarded the west coast. Fourteenth Army, at Anzio, had five divisions, one a Panzer Grenadier division, in line and a Panzer division in reserve.\n\nThese dispositions, especially when considered together with the location of the German mobile reserves, which I shall come to shortly, were gratifying evidence of the success both of our security measures and of our cover plan. As I have already explained, in order to achieve a secret concentration against the vital point in sufficient strength to give us the necessary superiority it was essential not merely to conceal our troop movements but also to induce the enemy to believe that the troops whose whereabouts were concealed from him were intended to be employed in a totally different direction. I therefore early decided that we would take steps to simulate the intention of launching another amphibious landing on the west coast, this time directed against Civitavecchia. The fact that, as was well known to us, the enemy constantly overestimated our total strength in the theatre and, from his own lack of experience of amphibious operations, was bad at assessing the probability of such a threat, would help us in our design; moreover I considered that the surprise which had been sprung on him at Anzio would make him more than ever willing to believe such a landing possible and more cautious in guarding against a repetition of his surprise. Such a cover plan had the further advantage that Kesselring would be bound to expect that, as in January, we should begin with a strong attack on the Garigliano so that the actual opening of the offensive would not cause him to revise his appreciation. Orders to put this plan into effect were issued on 18th April. The forces which were notionally to be employed in the amphibious operations were to be I Canadian Corps with its two divisions and 36 United States Division. They were directed to simulate wireless traffic and take other measures to create the impression that they were training in the Naples - Salerno area for the proposed operations.\n\nBesides the positive measures of deception it was necessary to carry out negative measure of concealment and camouflage on a very large scale. This presented great difficulties, since almost the whole of the front of attack was overlooked by the enemy and he had particularly good observation in the Cassino and Liri valley sectors. This observation covered not only the forward areas and approaches but also many of the gun areas and ammunition dumps and even, in the case of the Poles, Corps Headquarters. In this particular sector it was necessary to erect a vertical screen over a mile long to conceal vehicles passing along the road to the Headquarters of 3 Carpathian Division, which was in full view from Monastery Hill. Many new tracks had to be constructed in 13 Corps' sector leading down to the chosen crossing sites over the river, and these had to be carefully concealed with brushwood. All moves forward were made by night and dummy tanks and vehicles were left in the areas vacated by armoured formations. The new artillery positions were so well camouflaged that hardly a shell fell on them before the battle opened, although some of the guns had carried out registration from their new positions. The French concentration was particularly well concealed. Into their Garigliano bridgehead, with a radius of only some four thousand yards, they packed twenty battalions, five batteries and two divisional headquarters; the enemy only credited them with one division forward on the whole Corps sector. An even greater feat was the concealment of the entire Canadian Corps. This was vital to the success of the whole scheme for if the enemy had discovered their true location our bluff would have been exposed.\n\nThe plan succeeded perfectly; that it had done so was clear to us at the time from Kesselring's dispositions and was confirmed by documents subsequently captured. All the available German mobile formations were disposed up the west coast. Between the \"Gustav\" line and the bridgehead was 15 Panzer Grenadier Division (less a regimental group); between the bridgehead and the Tiber was 90 Panzer Grenadier Division (less elements in Tenth Army reserve); north of the Tiber in the Civitavecchia area was 29 Panzer Grenadier Division. In the last area there was also 92 Infantry Division, which had not yet finished training but was fairly complete. The other two mobile divisions were on the Anzio front, one, 3 Panzer Grenadier, partly in the line and the other, 26 Panzer, in reserve; these two also were regarded as available for use against a seaborne landing.88 A natural corollary of this misappreciation was that Kesselring badly underestimated the forces which we could bring against his main front. As late as 12th May, the day after our attack, he calculated that between Cassino and the west coast we had six divisions in line, against which his four should be quite adequate, considering the strength of his defences; in actual fact we had the equivalent of over thirteen. By this means we ensured that we had our three to one superiority at the vital point, that the German reserves were far away and that they were eventually committed, when Kesselring had at last realised the trap into which he had fallen, reluctantly, piecemeal and too late.89\n\n#### Opening of the Offensive.\n\nIn the Order of the Day issued before the attack I stressed the connection between the blow about to be delivered to the enemy in Italy and the assault from the west for which the world was waiting. The Combined Chiefs of Staff had directed that, for the sake of security, the connection could not be directly asserted and, after careful consultation with Washington and London, the most I was allowed to say was \"From the East and the West, from the North and the South, blows are about to fall which will result in the final destruction of the Nazis and bring freedom once again to Europe, and hasten peace for us all\". But, however concealed, no-one could miss the significance of the event and no sentence was more gratifying to those who had long years of Mediterranean campaigning behind them than the words which followed: \"To us in Italy has been given the honour to strike the first blow\".\n\nIn the late afternoon of 11th May the guns at Cassino and in the Liri valley ceased fire. By an odd coincidence the German artillery also ceased fire and a strange, impressive silence fell on the front. This caused much conjecture; the reason, we subsequently discovered, was that the Germans were intending to carry out reliefs at Cassino that night and were anxious to avoid hostile reaction. After an hour or two of this suspicious silence we opened up again with moderate harassing fire. On Fifth Army front also the day wore on quietly, with desultory artillery fire. The weather was cloudy with a little rain but the night was fine, except for ground mist in the Liri valley, and the forecast for the next seven days was good. At 2300 hours the whole of the artillery of Fifth and Eighth Armies, some two thousand guns, opened with a violent counter-battery programme. The Fifth Army infantry attack followed immediately, 13 Corps three quarters of an hour later and the Polish Corps two hours later, at 0100 hours on the 12th. It was soon clear that, having already achieved strategic surprise, we had now added tactical surprise. Besides the reliefs already mentioned which were going on at Cassino Tenth Army was carrying out a reorganisation of command in the Liri valley. The headquarters of 44 Division, from north of Cassino, was being brought down to take command of the five German battalions then opposing 13 Corps. As a result of the attack it never took over and went back to its old sector again; the confusion caused can be imagined and must have both assisted our attack and prevented the German higher command from forming a true picture of the situation.\n\nThe first definite success was the capture of Monte Faito by the French, four hours after the attack began. II Corps made some progress into the enemy's line of defences but met most violent opposition, as did the French after their first local gains. North of Cassino the Poles attacked with great dash across the broken rocks and scrub, seamed and pitted by four months of bitter battles and, at the cost of heavy casualties, seized \"Phantom Ridge,\" north-west of the Monastery. It was an exposed position and, as soon as damaged communications were restored, German artillery and mortars made it untenable. The Corps Commander therefore ordered a withdrawal to the start line at 1400 hours on the 12th. In 13 Corps sector 4 British and 8 Indian Divisions each assaulted the crossings of the Rapido with two brigades up. The stream was flowing fast, both sides were putting down smoke to add to the thick mist provided by nature and, though the enemy artillery had been very largely silenced, the infantry in their deep dugouts were much less affected. Once across the river the leading troops soon plunged into a thick and continuous network of bunkers, wire, minefields and concrete emplacements. 8 Indian Division managed to make good its footing on the west bank and two bridges were completed by next morning in the divisional sector; 4 Division was unable either to enlarge its narrow bridgehead or, for the whole of the next day, to replace its precarious ferries with bridges.90 The Eighth Army position, therefore, by the evening of 12th May was not quite as favourable as I had hoped; the right hand Corps was back where it had started, the left hand Corps had gained only about half of the objectives which it was intended to capture in the first two hours. Fifth Army, too, had made no significant progress and were still heavily involved with the strong enemy defences facing them without having achieved a breakthrough. Nevertheless I felt justified in reporting that evening that both Army Commanders were reasonably satisfied with the opening stages of the battle. Provided we could bring our full strength to bear before the enemy could reinforce all would go well but, I added, \"there is no doubt that the Germans intend to fight for every yard and that the next few days will see some extremely bitter and severe fighting.\" The forecast was fully justified.\n\nThe firm resistance offered to Fifth Army on the first day of the attack began to weaken on the 13th. The two German divisions facing our six had been ordered to resist to the last in their prepared positions; this meant that when their resistance was overcome there would be few survivors to oppose our further advance. The French enjoyed a particularly heavy numerical superiority - and exploited it with great _\u00e9lan_ \\- and the advantage of good training in mountain warfare. On this day they succeeded in capturing Monte Majo, the key to the whole \"Gustav\" line in their sector, and pushed 1 Motorised Division up the Garigliano, capturing Sant' Andrea, Sant' Ambrogio and Sant' Apollinare and thereby clearing the whole west bank of the river. II Corps made small advances in the coastal area, but were still meeting very stubborn resistance. It was clear, as I reported that night, that the Germans still intended \"to fight it out where they stand.\" This was particularly noticeable on 13 Corps' front also. It had seemed likely to me that, once the \"Gustav\" line was breached by a successful crossing of the Rapido, the Germans would offer only delaying resistance in front of the \"Hitler\" line in order to preserve sufficient strength for a successful defence of that line. They could scarcely hope to eliminate our bridgehead by counterattack for they had practically no mobile reserve for such a purpose. However they showed no signs of weakening but fought with the utmost vigour to resist any advance up the valley, pulling in every spare battalion, and even company, which they could detach from formations not heavily engaged, particularly from the central sector. Nevertheless we continued to make progress here also. By great efforts a bridge was completed in 4 Division sector on the morning of the 13th, the reserve brigade was immediately passed over and gains of up to two thousand yards made. By the evening both divisions in 13 Corps were only a little short of their second objectives, and the bridgehead was secure.\n\nThis completed the first phase of the operation. 13 Corps was now directed to employ its reserve infantry division, the 78th, to accomplish the second phase: to cut Route 6 and isolate Cassino in conjunction with the Poles who, having regrouped and reorganised, were warned to be ready to renew their attack on the morning of the 15th. The move forward of 78 Division was delayed by difficulties in the river crossing and congestion and bad going on the west bank. It was clear that 13 Corps would not be in a position to cut Route 6 by the morning of the 15th and the Polish attack was accordingly postponed. 4 British and 8 Indian Divisions continued to make good progress and with 78 Division moving in between them we should be able to develop a good degree of strength; but it was now certain that the latter would have to make a deliberate attack against stiffening resistance, rather than the rapid exploitation which had been hoped.\n\nIn the meantime Fifth Army was now finding the going rather easier. In the hard struggle which had marked the breaching of the \"Gustav\" line the two German divisions had suffered crippling losses; once forced out of their strong prepared positions their weakness was even more evident and their collapse was rapid. On the 14th the French captured Ausonia and cleared all the country to the north between it and the Liri, thus exposing the right flank of the Germans opposing 13 Corps as far west as San Giorgio a Liri. II Corps captured Santa Maria Infante, for which they had been fighting since the attack began, on the 14th; next day they were able to advance three miles beyond it and capture Spigno and Castellonorato. The whole of the German right flank had collapsed and its casualties had been such that it was never to form a coherent line again. The most significant point was the great hole which had been blasted in the centre of the line where 71 and 94 Divisions, or what remained of them, had left a gap as they fell back in different directions, one towards the Liri and the other towards the coast. Into this gap General Juin91 launched his Goums, with the order to advance west across the trackless mountains north of the great ridge of Monte Petrella and cut the Itri - Pico road, far in the enemy's rear. Almost unopposed they pressed on through country regarded by the enemy as impassable; by the 16th they had captured Monte Revole and their mountain guns were shelling the road. On their right 3 Algerian Division was that day attacking Esperia.\n\n#### Fall of Cassino.\n\nIn the Liri valley the Germans continued to resist unaffected by the disaster to their right.\n\n13 Corps was now, however, almost through the \"Gustav\" defences and ready for the final assault, with the Poles, on the Cassino bastion. General Leese decided that the Canadian Corps would have to be employed on its left for the attack on the \"Hitler\" line and it began to cross the river on the evening of the 15th, relieving 8 Indian Division. Next day 78 Division opened their attack northwest-wards through the last remaining defences of the \"Gustav\" line and made such progress that the same evening Eighth Army ordered the Poles to launch their attack on the morning of the 17th. The Poles had been obliged to carry out extensive reorganisation to fill the gaps caused by the losses of the earlier attack but, though their strength was reduced, they had gained experience. Once more they attacked the strong enemy positions on the ridges west of the Monastery and by 1800 hours had secured both \"Phantom Ridge\" and the commanding height of Colle Sant' Angelo. By the same time 13 Corps had cut Route 6. There was a narrow gap between, over the bare mountain side, which the Germans succeeded in keeping open that night long enough to pass through a large proportion of the garrison. In the morning of the 18th the town of Cassino was finally cleared and at 1030 hours the Poles raised the red and white standard with the white eagle over the ruins of the Monastery.\n\nThe fall of Cassino immediately brought a radical change in the shape of the battle in the Liri valley. The enemy now had no reason for attempting to stand forward of the \"Hitler\" line; indeed he had already spoiled his chances of a successful defence by his obstinacy in holding Cassino, mainly for propaganda purposes. Another incentive to withdrawal was the discovery of the original misappreciation; up to the 15th the German radio had still referred to our attack as \"diversionary\" but the identification of the Canadian Corps on the 16th showed Kesselring the trap into which he had fallen and the overwhelming strength of the assault which was about to be launched against the diminished garrison of the \"Hitler\" line. So weak, in fact, and so disorganised were they that Aquino, the northern bulwark of the line in the valley, was almost carried by a _coup de main,_ on the evening of the 18th, by a small armoured force of the Derbyshire Yeomanry.\n\nIt was impossible to provide reinforcement from elsewhere. On the right 71 Division had suffered a blow from which it did not recover for nearly two months. To save the southern end of the line 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, which was intended for the valley, had to be diverted south of the river to block the Esperia defile. It came up in detail and was defeated in detail; this was to be the fate of all Kesselring's mobile divisions. 15 Panzer Grenadier Division, the next to be engaged, was split already; part was in the Liri valley; part, recalled from its coast-watching r\u00f4le, was now put in west of Formia to buttress 94 Division which was being hard pressed by II Corps, and part moved back to Sant' Oliva, at the mouth of the Esperia defile. Here they came under command of 26 Panzer Division. The latter had been originally intended as the armoured reserve for Fourteenth Army against a breakout from the bridgehead but it had been grudgingly committed, again in small detachments, on 18th May. Its initial losses were extremely heavy.\n\nOn the 18th, while the attempt was being made to rush the \"Hitler\" line at Aquino, the Canadian Corps on 13 Corps' left was advancing to contact with the line. South of the Liri the French had captured Esperia and Sant' Oliva and the two mountains overlooking Pontecorvo, Monte d'Oro and Monte della Commune. II Corps had captured Formia and was about to enter Itri and Gaeta, both occupied next day. The battle had become fluid, and I took steps to increase the pressure. It was almost near the time for the breakout from Anzio and I therefore ordered 36 United States Division to the bridgehead; its arrival was spaced out over four days and we hoped it would pass unnoticed. It was extremely difficult to decide on the exact date for the VI Corps attack. General Truscott, the Commanding General, had asked for three days' notice, rather than the twenty-four hours in the original orders, so as to give him two nights to get his assault troops into position; it would have to be done by night, for by day the enemy had too good observation. This faced me with rather a difficult problem in prophecy, for the breakout would have to be timed carefully to fit in with Eighth Army's advance and it would not be easy to forecast where they would be in three days' time. On the main front Eighth Army were ordered \"to use the utmost energy to break through the 'Adolf Hitler' line in the Liri valley before the Germans have time to settle down in it\". The Poles were directed to press on to Piedimonte to turn the line from the north and the French, after reaching Pico, were to turn northwards, if at all possible, and envelop the southern end. If they could strike into the rear of the enemy facing Eighth Army, directed on Ceprano, we should be able to surround a good proportion of their force.\n\nThe operation for the capture of Pico proved to be a major one. Fearing just such a manoeuvre as I had planned Kesselring had strongly reinforced the area with his best troops from reserve, 26 Panzer and 90 Panzer Grenadier Divisions (both less large detachments) and was bringing over to their assistance the greater part of the two divisions from the Adriatic sector.92 As a result the French made little progress on the 19th but on the 20th captured Monte Leucio, a high and dominating mountain between Pico and Pontecorvo. They were driven off it by a German counter-attack on the 21st but recaptured it on the 22nd; on the latter date, after two days of violent and fluctuating fighting, they finally captured Pico. This delay meant that their thrust northwards would now have less chance of cutting off any important German forces, for Eighth Army was about to assault the \"Hitler\" line and expected, once that was broken, to make fairly rapid progress, especially on the left. II Corps, to the south, were pushing on, entering Fondi on the 20th and reaching Terracina on the 23rd. The French were therefore ordered to advance north-west as well as north, directed on Castro dei Volsci and Ceprano. The main assault would be a combination of two great drives; by Eighth Army through the \"Hitler\" line and up the Lin and Sacco valleys and by VI Corps from Anzio on to Valmontone. The French and II Corps were to clear up the mountainous triangle between the two drives.\n\n#### Breach of the \"Hitler\" Line.\n\nIn spite of their losses since the attack began and the defeat of their right wing, Tenth Army were still determined to defend the \"Hitler\" line in the valley between Piedimonte and Pontecorvo. The defences were even stronger than in the \"Gustav\" line which had already given Eighth Army so much trouble; they varied between five hundred and a thousand yards in depth and the main system, of reinforced concrete emplacements, was linked by tunnels and communication trenches into a mutually supporting whole. The main weakness was the lack of troops to man the defences but Kesselring had all the same ordered the strongest resistance. Eighth Army between 20th and 22nd May was preparing for the assault. Following the failure of the surprise attack on Aquino on the evening of the 18th heavier, but still hasty, attacks had been mounted on the 19th by 78 Division on the right and I Canadian Division on the left; these ran into heavy fire which showed the defences to be as formidable as had been expected. An attack in full strength would be necessary. The main blow was to be delivered by the Canadian Corps north of Pontecorvo while 13 Corps would maintain pressure at Aquino and concentrate forward ready to advance abreast of the Canadians. The Poles, who had captured Villa Santa Lucia on the 19th, were to continue the attack against the strongly defended hill town of Piedimonte which they had started on the 20th. 8 Indian Division, after its relief by the Canadians, had been sent back east of the Rapido; General Leese now decided to bring it forward again to reinforce 13 Corps, together with 6 British Armoured Division. These moves led to considerable congestion, a foretaste of the serious traffic jams which were to be a feature of the Liri valley operations.\n\nThe Canadian attack began at 0600 hours on the 23rd and met very stiff resistance. Our casualties were heavy, particularly in 1 Division, and the equally severe enemy losses showed the effort which had been made to hold the line. By noon on the 24th, however, we had cleared the whole position, except for Aquino, and 5 Canadian Armoured Division was exploiting rapidly towards the River Melfa which crosses the valley at right angles to the course of our advance and offered the next delaying position for the enemy's rearguards. It was certain, however, that it could only be a delaying position; the Germans must now withdraw in as good order as possible to the \"Caesar\" line south of Rome where Tenth and Fourteenth Armies could join hands to form a connected front barring any further advance north. It was a faint hope now. Tenth Army was a beaten force and, on the day the \"Hitler\" line was breached, Fifth Army began its attack from Anzio which was soon to reduce Fourteenth Army to the same state. On the same day Kesselring ordered forward his last useful formation in Italy, the Hermann Goering Division from Leghorn. This was the first of the formations which the Italian offensive diverted from the western front; I commented at the time: \"I cannot in all honesty say that I should welcome any more German divisions just at the moment but from the broader point of view no doubt it is for the common good.\"\n\n#### Break-out from Anzio.\n\nWith the arrival of 36 Division there were now seven divisions at Anzio plus the Special Service Force and a Combat Engineer Regiment. The perimeter was held by four divisions and the Engineer Regiment and in reserve were 1 Armoured, 3 and 36 Infantry Divisions and the Special Service Force. 1 and 5 British Divisions, holding the left flank, were put directly under command of Fifth Army; they were to revert to command of my headquarters after the capture of Rome. I issued the orders for the operation on 21st May; this was not three days' warning but it did give General Truscott the two nights he had asked for and proved quite adequate. The plan of attack by VI Corps envisaged two phases: first a penetration of the enemy defences to seize a firm base on an arc of about a mile radius round Cisterna, and secondly an advance through Artena on Valmontone. The first phase was the task of 1 Armoured and 3 Infantry Divisions and the Special Service Force; when it was completed 36 Division, the freshest formation in the bridgehead, was to pass through and advance to a line running across the valley below Velletri, supported by 1 Armoured Division. Then, reinforced by 3 Division, it was to advance on Valmontone. The enemy force opposing numbered five divisions. Almost all the armour in Fourteenth Army had been sent to the main front93 leaving only the assault guns of 3 Panzer Grenadier Division and a handful of Tigers and Panthers. The Hermann Goering Division was on its way but its leading elements had got no further than Viterbo the day the attack began. The last hope would have been 29 Panzer Grenadier Division but that, released at last from its fruitless guard over Civitavecchia, had been rushed down to Terracina where it went into action against II Corps on the 22nd. Once again Kesselring's mobile reserves had been misdirected.\n\nVI Corps' attack began at 0630 hours on 23rd May, half an hour later than the attack on the \"Hitler\" line. For the last ten days the Corps artillery had fired heavy concentrations on the German lines and gun positions at widely differing times; this was to accustom the enemy to being fired on heavily without an infantry attack following, and to encourage him to reveal his defensive fire plans; it also showed us, as might have been expected, that he was particularly alert at dawn. General Truscott decided therefore to attack an hour after dawn, when vigilance had relaxed. The result was complete local surprise. The enemy defences, though they had been under development since early March, proved less formidable than those of the \"Hitler\" and \"Gustav\" lines; the minefields, however, were numerous and well laid and caused unusually high losses in tanks. The attack continued to gain ground on the 24th and by evening Cisterna was completely surrounded; it fell on the 25th. The German 715 and 362 Divisions were by these actions practically eliminated as effective units, particularly the former. On the same day as Cisterna fell II Corps advanced from Terracina and made contact with the bridgehead. Our forces were reunited at last; more important still was the advance of 1 Armoured Division which had broken out northwards from the salient driven into the German defences and was advancing towards Velletri and Artena.\n\n#### Fall of Rome.\n\nI had now got my Armies into the position I wanted. Now that VI Corps had made contact with the rest of Fifth Army it was no longer an isolated bridgehead, a threat in the enemy's rear, but the spearhead of the extended left flank of my group of Armies. To use old-fashioned military parlance, I was now employing the \"oblique order\" beloved by Frederick the Great, with my left advanced _en potence_ and my right, 5 Corps, refused. In my centre I had a very strong and concentrated force, I Canadian and 13 Corps under Eighth Army, with which, while my left held the enemy by forcing him to fight for Rome, on whose retention he set much value, I intended to drive forward on an axis parallel to the extension of my left, break through the enemy's centre thus weakened and pursue up the centre of the peninsula, east of Rome. This would enable me to carry out the classical manoeuvre of parallel pursuit, for at the same time Fifth Army would continue to press hard against the extreme right of the enemy, continually forcing back his seaward flank. There were, therefore, topographically considered, two objectives; to capture Rome and to pass a force east of Rome up the axis of the Tiber where it flows southwards from the mountains of Umbria. These two objectives I allotted to the two Armies, the former to General Clark and the latter to General Leese. This allotment of tasks had, in fact, been made before the battle began and the operation had proceeded so closely in accordance with my original plan that there was no need to vary it.\n\nGeneral Leese issued orders to implement this part of the plan before the attack on the \"Hitler\" line went in. After the breach of the \"Hitler\" and \"Caesar\" lines his intention was to exploit to Rieti and Terni. This would mean that he would have to pass very close to Rome on the east, between the city and Tivoli, in order to get on to the two best routes to his objective, Routes 3 and 4, the ancient Via Flaminia and Via Salaria; if Fifth Army were already in or approaching the city it might be difficult to avoid traffic congestion, for the days when all roads from all parts of the civilised world converged on the Forum have left their mark still on the road-net of modern Italy. Fortunately the same reasons had provided plenty of bridges over the Tiber, but I foresaw that we should have to take forceful measures about road priorities.\n\nThe main advance up the valleys of the Liri and the Sacco was entrusted to 13 Corps, right, and I Canadian Corps, left. The Polish Corps, weakened by its high casualties and the shortage of replacements, was to be withdrawn as soon as it had completed the task of clearing Piedimonte and the slopes of Monte Cairo. I intended to use it later on the Adriatic sector, taking the place of 5 Corps, after it had had a little time for rest and reorganisation. 10 Corps, reduced by the withdrawal of two brigades for 6 South African Armoured Division, was to secure the right flank of the advance by blocking off the roads leading south from Sulmona, Opi and Atina. The New Zealand Division was on the southern flank of the Corps and advanced through San Biagio to Atina and Sora, on the road from Arce to Avezzano. For the advance in the valley the stages were to be, first the line Arce - Ceprano; secondly Ceccano and thirdly Valmontone, or near it, to link up with VI Corps. The two Corps would advance abreast, a great concentration of strength in so narrow a space.\n\nThe Germans were as well aware as we were of their position and of the danger of the centre of their line being rushed while their right was locked in a furious battle for Rome. At all events they must block the valley long enough to allow the withdrawal of their forces from the area to the south of it and ensure an orderly withdrawal into the \"Caesar\" line before Eighth Army joined hands with VI Corps. They also had to block the Sora and Subiaco roads to prevent a further envelopment by these routes, but this was a much simpler task for both roads run through narrow defiles on either side of the Simbruini mountains and can be held without much difficulty against any force which can advance up them. From a captured operation order it appears that they intended to hold the line of the Melfa river with 90 Panzer Grenadier and 1 Parachute Divisions but the order was issued too late; by the evening of the 24th the Canadians succeeded in forcing a crossing. This was a notable feat by 5 Canadian Armoured Division, which had advanced rapidly from the breach in the \"Hitler\" line with the right flank of its advance open since the enemy were still resisting 13 Corps in Aquino. The small bridgehead, only one company strong, resisted violent enemy counter-attacks all that night. Next morning, the enemy having withdrawn from Aquino and Piedimonte, 13 Corps was able to advance to the river line with 6 Armoured, 78 and 8 Indian Divisions, and the remainder of 1 Canadian Corps, which had been delayed by bad going and the inadequacy of routes forward, came up to the support of its advanced guard. There were now five divisions moving forward in the same general direction on a front of rather less than five miles and skilfully laid minefields and German delaying tactics added to the difficulty of bringing so large a force to bear in so restricted a space.\n\n13 Corps' plan provided for an advance up the northern side of the valley. The Corps axis was to run through Arce, exclusive of Ceprano, to Frosinone where it would swing right handed to run more or less parallel with Route 6 through Alatri to Genazzano. It was impossible to get started, however, until the enemy had been cleared from Aquino and an attempt to pass 6 Armoured Division south of Aquino involved it in confusion with 5 Canadian Armoured Division which was using the same axis; an undetected minefield caused further delay. They got across the Melfa on the 25th and advanced on the early morning of the 26th directed on Arce; the Canadians to the south advanced at the same time towards Ceprano. Shortly before Arce Route 6 runs through a defile formed by the main mass of Monte Cairo on the right and, on the left, by two prominent hills known as Monte Grande and Monte Piccolo, both rising about seven hundred feet above the general level of the valley. Monte Piccolo had been occupied by a small advanced detachment of 1 Guards Brigade late on the 26th but during the night 1 Parachute Division infiltrated back onto both hills and prepared for a stubborn defence. An attempt to force the defile on the 27th ran into heavy enfilade fire and we were obliged to desist from this attempt and withdraw the small force from Monte Piccolo. For the next two days attack and counter-attack continued and it was not until late on the 28th that the Germans evacuated Arce and fell back behind the upper Liri, which here cuts across Route 6 at right angles. Meanwhile the Canadians had made an assault boat crossing of the Liri south of Ceprano on 27th May. It was a difficult operation in face of heavy enemy artillery and small arms opposition but the town was captured by midday. Our bridgehead was still only supported by ferries and it was not until the afternoon of the 28th that a hundred and twenty foot bridge was completed over which the armoured brigade was to pass to advance to Frosinone. It had to be used instead, however, by 78 Division which 13 Corps had sent round to the south to outflank the enemy defenders of the Arce defile. This delayed the pursuit by the Canadian armour.\n\nThe first few days of the break-out by VI Corps had gone so well that the first object of the operations could be deemed to be secured; we were already threatening Route 6 and had destroyed or driven off all the enemy on the right flank of the original bridgehead. However the Hermann Goering Division had now begun to arrive in the Valmontone area where it had been joined by part of 92 Infantry Division from north of the Tiber and by units of 4 Parachute and 65 Infantry Divisions withdrawn from the left flank of the bridgehead. It had suffered heavy losses from air attacks, for its move from Leghorn had been so precipitate that it had mainly been made by day; but we knew its quality and that it was likely to put up a very stout defence. It was therefore decided to change the direction of VI Corps' attack and throw the main weight against the weakened left shoulder of the bridgehead in a drive to secure a line from Lanuvio to Campoleone station. Early on the 26th General Clark issued orders for the change, which he described as \"a new attack along the most direct route to Rome\". The intention was to continue the drive towards Valmontone with 3 Division, reinforced, and to employ for the new drive the 34th, 45th and 1 Armoured, supported by 36 Division, which had not been used for its original mission owing to the speedy success of the first attack. Within the very short space of twelve hours from the decision being taken the new attack was under way. Troops of 3 Division with their supporting tanks advanced with great dash to Artena, which they surrounded and captured next day. They were unable, however, in face of stiffening enemy resistance, to establish themselves across Route 6. 36 Division, which was to form the link between this drive and the main attack on the left, advanced towards Velletri, driving the enemy back into their prepared defensive line in its sector.\n\nThe new attack towards Lanuvio jumped off at 1100 hours on the 26th simultaneously with 3 Division's attack; the successful shifting of the axis of the assault divisions was a notable feat of staff work. Progress on the first day was rapid, for the enemy was now falling back to the \"Caesar\" line, and though resistance stiffened on the 27th we were still not in contact with the main defences and were able to advance to within two miles of Lanuvio and Campoleone station. Next day we came up against the \"Caesar\" line proper and in three days of desperate fighting we were unable to breach it. The defences were not on a very elaborate scale but the country was difficult, broken and abrupt and the enemy had perfect observation from the summit of the Alban Hills. Gallant attacks by 34 Division against Villa Crocetta, between Lanuvio and Velletri, on the 28th, 29th and 30th, failed to make a breakthrough and were halted with heavy losses. Further to the left 45 and 1 Armoured Divisions, attacking at the same time, also came up against an impenetrable line of defences after they had captured Campoleone station.\n\nFifth Army regrouped again, intending once more to shift the main weight of the attack on the \"Caesar\" line. The troops were tired and one more offensive might exhaust them for a time; but it was evident that the enemy, too, was tired, and one more blow might drive him from his positions. It was decided to make another effort in the Valmontone direction. On 29th May II Corps took over the command of the right sector of VI Corps' front, with 3 and 85 Divisions; the latter came up on the 30th. Speed was essential to prevent the enemy from settling down in the \"Caesar\" line, for now that the right of the line was holding well Kesselring was bringing up every possible reinforcement to the danger point north of the Alban Hills, covering Valmontone. On our side 88 Division was moving up to II Corps and the French, who were approaching Carpineto on the 30th, would soon be ready to intervene. General Clark decided, however, not to wait for this additional strength, nor for Eighth Army to come up, and all preparations were in hand for a renewal of the attack, when a sudden turn of fortune, rapidly put to account, changed the whole aspect of the operations.\n\n36 United States Division, the strongest and freshest in VI Corps, had been employed between the two thrusts on Lanuvio and Artena and had gradually advanced until by 30th May it had a firm hold on the Artena - Velletri road below the steep crest of Monte Artemisio, at the south-eastern extremity of the Alban Hills. Patrolling boldly forward it discovered that the Germans, drawn off by the fighting at Lanuvio and the threat to Valmontone, had left Monte Artemisio unguarded. The opportunity was instantly seized and on the night of the 30th one regiment of the division moved off silently in column of battalions through vineyards and thick woods up the mountain. The new moon cast a faint light, some dogs barked but no enemy were encountered. By dawn the summit, Hill 931, and the high ground known as Maschio di Lariano had been occupied. A second regiment followed and the third drove in behind Velletri and cut the escape route for the garrison of that town to Nemi. By the evening of 31st May the whole division was firmly established on the heights and had brushed aside hasty counter-attacks by the Hermann Goering Division. The \"Caesar\" line had been pierced at a vital point and the last defences of Rome broken.\n\nThe American success in the Alban Hills and the desperate position of Fourteenth Army did not alter Kesselring's determination to offer a continued and most stubborn resistence in the centre of his line where Eighth Army were fighting their way up the valley of the Sacco. Arce held out until the night of 28th May but to the south the Canadians were able to make better progress towards Frosinone. 5 Canadian Armoured Division, having got itself firmly established across the Liri at Ceprano, pushed forward on the 29th on two axes north and south of Pofi. Two rivers, the Fornelli and the Maringo, cut across this line of advance and both formed serious obstacles. Pofi was captured that night after a heavy dive-bombing attack. Next day the armoured division made contact with the French in Ceccano and on the right moved up to Route 6 at a point some five miles short of Frosinone. On the 30th I Canadian Infantry Division, which had relieved the armoured division, captured Frosinone, which stands on a steep escarpment commanding the junction with the road leading north through Subiaco. On the same day 10 Corps captured Alvito and were threatening Sora on the Arce - Avezzano road. 13 Corps, between the Canadians and 10 Corps, was advancing with difficulty on Alatri; in this sector also contested river crossings over the many tributaries of the Liri were the principal enemy delaying tactics.\n\nIt was during this period that the crisis of Fifth Army's attack in the Alban Hills was reached and on 31st May, in order to give them more freedom of action, I shifted the inter-Army boundary north to leave Route 6 to Fifth Army. Eighth Army were thereby directed further northwards in conformity with the movements of the enemy whose withdrawal was now much more northerly, up the Arce - Avezzano and Frosinone - Arsoli roads. 10 Corps was pursuing up the former, with the New Zealanders in the lead, and 13 Corps up the latter, with 8 Indian and 78 Divisions. The Canadian Corps was to move up Route 6 through Ferentino to the Army boundary and prepare to pass 6 South African Armoured Division through in pursuit through Rome. Should the enemy succeed in stabilizing on the \"Caesar\" line 13 Corps would join in a concentrated attack to the north of the Canadians. Ferentino fell on 1st June and the Canadians pushed on to Anagni, which was captured on the 3rd. By this time the fall of Rome was clearly imminent and Eighth Army turned its best efforts to get forward 6 South African and 6 British Armoured Divisions to lead the pursuit. It was not an easy task, for the South Africans had to pass through the whole Canadian Corps and then found Route 6 blocked by the French Expeditionary Corps and II Corps. In spite of these irksome difficulties it was inspiring to have these two fresh armoured divisions with which to press the pursuit of a fleeing enemy. As I signalled the night Rome fell \"If only the country were more open we could make hay of the whole lot. However you may rest assured that both Armies will drive forward as fast as is physically possible.\"\n\nFifth Army was ready to exploit 36 United States Division's success and the final orders were issued on 31st May. VI Corps was to attack on 1st June to secure the Alban Hills in its sector and advance to cut the enemy's withdrawal routes through Rome. 5 British Division, under Army command, was to advance on the left of VI Corps to drive against the Tiber and destroy any forces which were turned southwards by this thrust. II Corps was to secure the high ground north of Valmontone, seize the northern part of the Alban Hills and pursue any enemy attempting to withdraw northwards across its front. The Germans were still resisting desperately and still apparently with the same orders, to keep us out of Rome at all costs. Even now, with Fifth Army on the Alban Hills and their centre disintegrating under Eighth Army's blows, they continued to hope that the situation might yet be stabilized; captured enemy documents show that as late as 2nd June von Mackensen was still ordering resistance to the last and making plans for the redisposition of his forces with apparent confidence in the possibility of success. It is a striking example of German reluctance to yield ground even in the most serious circumstances, carried this time to a disastrous extreme.\n\nII Corps, once more with its old divisions, 85th and 88th, reinforced by the 3rd, made the greatest advance on 1st June. On that day they finally crossed Route 6 and on the 2nd they captured Valmontone and advanced almost up to Palestrina. VI Corps met very heavy resistance on the 1st but succeeded in capturing Velletri which had defied us so long. On the 2nd there was still no sign of weakening in the enemy determination to resist. That night, however, the Hermann Goering Division, though reinforced at last by 334 and part of 26 Panzer Divisions, had reached the limit of its endurance and turned to full retreat. It withdrew with all speed to the Aniene river, east of Rome, which it held with a light screen; 334 Division, whose losses had been particularly heavy, was taken out of the line entirely and sent north to re-form. It was now time for the Germans fighting south of the Alban Hills to pull out as well or risk destruction against the Tiber. By the afternoon of the 3rd both II and VI Corps were pressing forward on Rome by all the roads that lead to the city. 4 Parachute Division, from the extreme right, was left as a rearguard behind which the remainder slipped away through the city, over the Tiber bridges and precipitately north.94 The parachutists were able to delay II Corps long enough, in an action at Centocelle, to frustrate the attempt to drive southwards towards the Tiber and link up with VI Corps. At 1915 hours on 4th June the first elements of 88 United States Division entered the Piazza Venezia below the Capitol.\n\nSo Rome fell to the Allied Armies in Italy two days before the Anglo-American invasion was launched against the shores of Normandy. It was but the latest of many captures of Rome in history but it was the first time since Belisarius captured it fourteen centuries ago that the Eternal City had been taken by an invading army from the south.\n\n#### Influence of Operations in France on the Italian Campaign.\n\nThe fall of Rome preceded the invasion of France by two days. It was very gratifying to have provided a heartening piece of news so appositely, but before long the progress of operations in France began to exercise an influence which was most prejudicial to our exploitation of the victory in Italy. I must recapitulate a little to explain the connection. At the Quebec conference in August, 1943, it was decided that the forces in the Mediterranean were to contribute to the invasion of France by effecting a lodgement in Southern France, in the area of Toulon and Marseilles, as a diversion to the invasion of Normandy. This was confirmed after the Cairo conference in December of that year. The assault, given the codename ANVIL, was to be in the strength of at least two divisions, the date in May; it was an assumed prerequisite that our forces in Italy should have reached the Pisa - Rimini line. It will be remembered that OVERLORD was at that time planned for May. It was decided, however, at a conference held in Algiers in February, 1944, that there was no hope of getting enough craft to mount ANVIL in May and, at the beginning of March, the date was advanced to early June, thus making it once more simultaneous with OVERLORD whose date had also been postponed. Three divisions were now to be released from Italy for the assault. But the serious shortage of craft still continued and on 10th April the Combined Chiefs of Staff laid down that ANVIL would probably not take place before mid-July; it was intended to use craft released from OVERLORD.\n\nI was not directly concerned in these plans, which were discussed between the Combined Chiefs of Staff and Allied Force Headquarters, except in so far as the troops for the Southern France operation would have to come from my command. It was, of course, distracting to have this uncertainty weighing over us but it was at least satisfactory, after April, to know that I should be able to plan my operations for the capture of Rome without having to lose three divisions at short notice. However I still had to look ahead and, since March, I had been pressing for guidance on what the long-term plan for Italy should be. I got this on 22nd May in the form of the following directive from General Wilson:\n\n> \"Your task will continue to be the destruction of German forces in Italy.\n> \n> ( _a_ ) In carrying out this task you should bear in mind the importance of the capture of the Ancona area since its ports and airfields may be of considerable importance in any operations which may be taken across the Adriatic.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) It is also my intention, subject to conditions at the time, and further subject to the provisions that your operations will continue to have overriding priority in the allocation of resources until you have captured Rome, to prepare and mount an amphibious operation at the earliest opportunity, in any case not later than mid-September. This operation might take the form of an amphibious assault in close support of your ground advance or, alternatively, in areas outside your responsibility. For one operation in the latter category now being planned it is anticipated that three United States infantry divisions and all the French divisions at present in Allied Armies in Italy will be required. To make this possible it may be desirable for you to relieve formations to be concentrated under control of Allied Force Headquarters as early as follows: one United States division by 17th June; one French division by 24th June; one United States division by 27th June; thereafter the remaining formations at longer intervals. The dates given are the earliest you may have to meet, and then only if you have captured Rome. You should take this requirement into account in planning both immediate and subsequent operations.\n> \n> In addition to the above an experienced United States Corps Headquarters should be relieved by 1st June, if you can do so without interfering with your present mission.\n> \n> You will be notified from time to time regarding the assault lift and shipping which can be made available to you but it is unlikely that there will be sufficient resources (shore to shore) available this year to enable you to undertake an amphibious operation on a scale in excess of one division plus\".\n\nIt will be noted that no decision had been taken, at the time this directive was issued, whether ANVIL should be mounted or not; on the other hand the forces to be provided for it from Italy had now risen to seven divisions. This uncertainty was a very great handicap to our planning, and its psychological effect on the troops expecting to be withdrawn, especially on the French, was undoubtedly serious. It is hard to expect troops to give of their best when they are continuously \"looking over their shoulder\" to a new objective, particularly when it is so attractive an objective as the liberation of their own country. This situation lasted throughout June. On the 14th I was instructed that VI Corps Headquarters was to be withdrawn at once, 3 Division on 17th June and the 36th on 27th June. On the 24th a French division was to be withdrawn to the Naples area, followed by a second in the first week of July. On the same day the Combined Chiefs of Staff signalled \"the destruction of the German armed forces in Italy, south of the Pisa - Rimini line, must be completed. There should be no withdrawal from the battle of any Allied forces that are necessary for this purpose\". Nevertheless I was informed on the 16th that, in order to preserve the possibility of mounting ANVIL, it was necessary to proceed with the programme of withdrawal of forces already laid down. We could still hope that we might get these troops back again later but this became more unlikely after it was known that General Eisenhower had strongly recommended the operation in a signal of 23rd June. The final decision in its favour was communicated to me on 5th July. ANVIL95 was eventually launched on 15th August.\n\nWhatever value the invasion of Southern France may have had as a contribution to operations in North-western Europe its effect on the Italian campaign was disastrous. The Allied Armies in full pursuit of a beaten enemy were called off from the chase, Kesselring was given a breathing space to reorganise his scattered forces and I was left with insufficient strength to break through the barrier of the Apennines. My Armies, which had just been built up into a strong, flexible and co-ordinated instrument, inspired by victory and conscious of their own superiority, were reduced once more to the shifts and improvisations which had marked the previous winter and faced again with the problems of overcoming not only the difficulties of the Italian terrain and the stubbornness of the enemy's resistance, but also the lack of manpower on their own side.96 I express no opinion on the correctness of the decision, but I was, to say the least, disappointed that our victory was not to be exploited as it deserved.\n\n#### The Pursuit North of Rome.\n\nThe German flight north from Rome was, in the first few days, rapid and rather disorganised. The roads along which their flight had gone presented an amazing sight; mile after mile they were littered with the wrecks of armoured and other vehicles, destroyed either by our air forces or by our armoured pursuit or abandoned and wrecked by their drivers when fuel ran out. It was still Kesselring's intention, however, to delay us as far south as possible and retain as much territory as he could. He was, in fact, now back again in the same position as in September 1943, or rather in the position he then expected to find himself in, that is he was withdrawing up the leg of Italy pursued by a superior force. Now also, as then, his task was to fight a delaying action in front of a prepared position but this time his \"winter position\" was further back. The \"Gothic\" line, as it was called,97 ran along the summit of the Northern Apennines; it was intended to be held to the last to preserve the rich lands of Northern Italy. When Rome fell it was far from completion and though for the immediate future the Germans would have to fall back quickly to avoid a complete rout, especially in the relatively open west coast sector, it would soon be necessary to bring this withdrawal to a halt and gain time for more work to be done. It was necessary, therefore, for Kesselring to weigh carefully the dangers involved in making a stand too soon, and thereby risking another defeat before he had had time to reorganise his forces, and, on the other hand, in delaying that stand too long and allowing the Allies to make contact too soon with the \"Gothic\" line. It was certainly essential to carry out as soon as possible some measure of reorganisation for at the moment divisions were not only severely weakened by casualties but also in most cases split up into small groups, often under various different commands. It shows the efficiency of the German leadership and staff work that they were successful in bringing order out of this chaos and rallying so quickly a defeated and, in part, dispersed army.\n\nSince our offensive began on 11th May all the German divisions which were at that date in Tenth and Fourteenth Armies, including the two originally on the Adriatic coast, had been drawn into the battle south of Rome and west of the Apennines. Of the seventeen involved at that time three, the 71st, 94th and 715th, had temporarily ceased to exist as effective formations and the remainder had all been heavily mauled. Of the reinforcements brought in before the fall of Rome the Hermann Goering Division had suffered extremely heavy losses and 92 Infantry Division had been so battered that it was disbanded and never re-formed. However, in spite of the fact that the invasion of France had now begun, and the Russians were threatening East Prussia, Kesselring had been promised considerable reinforcements of new formations, quite apart from the normal replacement drafts. It is strikingly significant of the different value attached by the opposing sides to the Italian campaign that at the very same time as the Allies were withdrawing seven divisions from Italy to France the Germans were despatching to Italy the equivalent of eight divisions, some of them actually from the threatened West. 19 and 20 Luftwaffe Field Divisions came from Denmark and Holland respectively, 16 S.S. Panzer Grenadier and 42 Jaeger Divisions from the Balkans and 34 Infantry Division from Russia. Three other infantry divisions which were forming in Germany, one of which had already been equipped for the Russian front, were sent to Italy where they were given the numbers of divisions which had been destroyed in the battle for Rome and incorporated their survivors. In addition a battalion of Tiger tanks, 504 Heavy Tank Battalion, was taken from the G.H.Q. reserve in the great tank centre of Mailly-le-Camp in France. In view of the general German shortage of armour and the desperate need for heavy tanks to employ against General Eisenhower's gradually widening bridgehead, this transfer seems to me to be particularly significant.98\n\nI reviewed the situation in a signal to General Wilson on 7th June. My object I defined as \"to complete the destruction of the German armed forces in Italy and, in the process, to force the enemy to draw to the maximum on his reserves, whereby I shall be rendering the greatest assistance to the western invasion of which my Armies are capable\". I calculated that the enemy, in spite of such reinforcements as we knew to have arrived, was not strong enough to hold the \"Gothic\" line against a really powerful attack. Of our own troops I wrote \"I have now two highly organised and skilful Armies, capable of carrying out large scale attacks and mobile operations in the closest co-operation. Morale is irresistibly high as a result of recent successes and the whole forms one closely articulated machine, capable of carrying out assaults and rapid exploitation in the most difficult terrain. Neither the Apennines nor even the Alps should prove a serious obstacle to their enthusiasm and skill\". 1 proposed, therefore, to give the enemy no breathing space but to continue to press the pursuit up the centre of the peninsula to the line Bibbiena - Florence - Pistoia - Pisa and then over the Apennines; if they were held in force I would mount a full-scale attack on Bologna not later than 15th August. I would then establish a firm base in the area of Bologna and Modena for the development of further operations either westwards into France or north-eastwards into Austria according to the requirements of Allied stategy at that time. At the same time I would secure and protect any airfield areas in the Po valley considered necessary for the operation of the Allied Air Forces. As I explained, this plan was only possible on the assumption that I retained the forces I then had in Italy; I had to work on this assumption as long as I could while the fate of ANVIL was being decided.\n\nMy tactical plans for the pursuit north of Rome envisaged two main lines of advance: along the west coast for Fifth Army and up the axis of the Tiber, both east and west of the river, for Eighth Army. Fifth Army's first objective was the port of Civitavecchia, which was now vital for our maintenance; Eighth Army was directed on the area of Terni and Rieti, the capture of which would disrupt any German plans for forming a continuous front across the peninsula and would threaten with envelopment the left wing of Tenth Army. From the point of view of terrain the former task was rather the easier, for the country is of an open, rolling nature while the route up the Tiber, though not difficult by comparison with the country between Naples and Rome, offered many opportunities for delaying actions, especially on the east bank of the river. Enemy opposition was also much weaker on our left, for most of Kesselring's divisions had withdrawn northward east of the Tiber and, having rashly destroyed all the bridges from Rome as far as Todi, sixty miles to the north, were having great difficulty in getting across to the west to come to the support of the weaker forces retreating up the west coast. VI Corps therefore set the pace, with 34 Division on the coast and the 3 6th inland, both supported by armour from 1 Armoured Division. At 1030 hours on 7th June elements of 34 Division entered Civitavecchia. The speedy capture of this port, the most important between Naples and Leghorn, was a considerable gain and, although the Germans had carried out extensive demolitions, particularly fine efforts by the port reconstruction companies made it usable earlier than had been expected. The first Landing Ship, Tank berthed on 12th June and Liberty ships began unloading in the roads on the 14th.\n\nThe boundary between the German armies was now the Tiber, with Fourteenth west and Tenth east. General von Mackensen, the former commander of Fourteenth Army, had been relieved from his command after the fall of Rome and replaced on 6th June by General Lemelsen. To his assistance Kesselring directed all the newly arrived reinforcements, 356 Infantry Division from Genoa, 20 Luftwaffe Field Division from Holland, and the 162nd from Leghorn. The last named heralded its arrival with a charge of Cossack cavalry; this was the first we had seen of an arm of which we had heard such interesting reports but it proved ineffective against Fifth Army and the experiment was not repeated in Italy. In Tenth Army XIV Corps, retreating up the Rieti axis, had in the area of Carsoli and Orvinio a mixed group of 305 and 94 Infantry Divisions and, lined up north of the Aniene river from east of Tivoli to the Tiber, 1 Parachute, 15 Panzer Grenadier and Hermann Goering Divisions.\n\n13 Corps was the pursuit Corps for Eighth Army and the plan was to employ two armoured divisions in the lead, 6 South African up Route 3, the Via Flaminia, west of the Tiber, and 6 British up Route 4, the Via Salaria, east of the Tiber; 4 British Infantry Division with 25 Tank Brigade followed up the latter on the minor road leading due north from Tivoli through Palombara.99 The French were already across the Aniene, east of Rome, which gave an initial advantage to the pursuit on the right but on the left the South Africans were hampered by having to pass through II Corps to use the Rome bridges across the Tiber. They were clear through, however, by the morning of the 6th and by that evening a dashing advance of thirty-three miles brought them to Civita Castellana. East of the Tiber our advance was more strongly opposed, in particular by the Hermann Goering Division which gave 6 British Armoured Division a stiff fight for Monterotondo; 4 Division also met resistance on the Palombara road from 15 Panzer Grenadier Division and 1 Parachute Division.\n\nThe situation was developing so favourably west of the Tiber that on the morning of 7th June I sent fresh orders to both Armies and to 5 Corps:\n\n> \"I. The enemy has been greatly weakened by the fighting since 11th May and is now thoroughly disorganised. He is certainly in no position at present to launch a serious counter-attack. He will continue to suffer seriously during his retreat from attacks by our Air Forces and advancing columns.\n> \n> 2. To take full advantage of this situation Eighth Army will advance with all possible speed direct on the general area Florence - Bibbiena - Arezzo and Fifth Army on the general area Pisa - Lucca - Pistoia. Armies will maintain general contact on their inner flanks but will not wait on each other's advance. Enemy resistance will be by-passed wherever possible in order to reach the above vital areas quickly. Eighth Army will be responsible for any protection that may be necessary on its right flank.\n> \n> 3. To save transportation resources and bridging material 5 Corps will not follow up the enemy on their front. If the advance of Eighth Army fails to force the enemy to abandon Ancona, Polish Corps will be moved forward later on Eighth Army's eastern axis to take Ancona from the west.\n> \n> 4. The Commander-in-Chief authorizes Army Commanders to take extreme risks to secure the vital areas mentioned in paragraph 2 above before the enemy can reorganise or be reinforced.\"\n\nOn these orders the pursuit was pressed rapidly. The main difference was that 13 Corps was no longer directed on the Terni - Rieti area but farther afield; this meant that the South Africans were no longer to turn eastwards to cross the Tiber to seize Narni as originally planned, but to press on to Orvieto. Here again a difficult question of routeing was involved since both they and II Corps were in danger of arriving simultaneously at Viterbo. I decided to give precedence to the armour and II Corps was halted in place until the South Africans were through. Meanwhile VI Corps made rapid progress up the coast in spite of the arrival of two fresh German divisions. On the 9th it captured Tarquinia and a task force from 1 Armoured Division, operating on the inland flank, cut into II Corps' territory to capture the Viterbo airfield. On the 11th, however, VI Corps was relieved by IV Corps and moved to Naples, coming under command of Seventh Army for operation ANVIL. II Corps had pushed forward with 85 and 88 Divisions up the axis of Route 2 and consolidated the position between VI and 13 Corps. It was relieved by the French on 10th June. On the 9th Eighth Army had also carried out a regrouping; the Tiber was now to be the boundary between 13 and 10 Corps, with the latter commanding all the troops formerly in 13 Corps east of the river. The final result was to give 13 Corps 78 and 6 South African Divisions, with 4 Division in reserve, and 10 Corps 6 British Armoured and 8 Indian Infantry Divisions, with 10 Indian as reserve. The Canadians were grounded south of Rome. The Polish Corps, which had passed to Army Group reserve on 26th May after the capture of Piedimonte, assumed command of the Adriatic sector from 5 Corps on 17th June, remaining under direct command of my headquarters until 29th June when it passed to Eighth Army. The enemy had begun to fall back in the Adriatic sector on 8th June and on the 10th we occupied Pescara and Chieti.\n\nFor ten days after the regrouping the pursuit continued, though the enemy was now offering stronger resistance. Kesselring had at last managed to shift sufficient strength westwards to feel secure against a serious outflanking by Fifth Army up the west coast and he was beginning to feel the benefit of the fresh reinforcements he had received from elsewhere. He could now put twenty to twenty-one of his twenty- six divisions into the line. The revival of his strength was shown by the stiff action at Bagnoregio which delayed the fall of Orvieto to 78 Division until 14th June. IV Corps on the extreme left also had to fight hard for Orbetello and Grosseto; the latter fell on the 15th but little advance had been made beyond it by the 20th, for the Ombrone river was a difficult obstacle. During the same period of 10th-20th June the French, under a provisional \"Pursuit Corps\" Headquarters commanded by General de Larminat,100 advanced up Route 2 on the right of Fifth Army with two divisions, 1 Motorised and 3 Algerian. On the 11th they seized Montefiascone and on the 18th stormed the strong position of Radicofani, the highest point on the road from Rome to Florence. By the 20th advanced elements were on the Orcia river, a tributary of the Ombrone. Our main forces had now reached the line on which the enemy had decided to stand but on the Adriatic they were not yet up with that line which in this sector was the River Chienti. On 16th June I had instructed the Poles to press on with all possible speed to secure the capture of Ancona. The Polish advance was indeed rapid and by the 20th they had crossed the River Aso and captured Fermo and Pedaso. On the 21st they even managed to secure a small bridgehead over the Chienti but next day this was destroyed by a heavy enemy counter-attack. It was clear that to force the Chienti would require a full Corps attack. General Anders101 decided that in view of the time needed for concentration and for bringing up the necessary supplies and ammunition the probable date would be 4th July. I agreed to this plan and proposed to stage the attack in such a way as to be able to press directly on from the Chienti to Ancona, some twenty-two miles beyond the river.\n\nOn 14th June I divided my headquarters, and, leaving the bulk of the administrative branches and services in Caserta, to follow to Rome when space was available, I created a small Advanced Headquarters, consisting of my operational staff only. This was the system on which I had worked in Tunisia and Sicily and, now that the comparatively static period of the winter was over, I was anxious to be as close behind the Armies as possible. On 14th June I opened this advanced headquarters at Frascati, using for offices a small building which had previously been used for the same purpose by Field-Marshal Kesselring. This was soon left too far behind by the speed of our advance, and on 25th June I moved to a camp site on the eastern shores of Lake Bolsena.\n\nThe capture of Elba, early plans for which I have already mentioned, took place about this time. I originally wanted this operation to be launched if possible before the spring offensive opened but it had been postponed to a date between 20th and 25th May. On 16th May I was informed that it had been further postponed till mid-June. This removed almost all the value of the operation as by that time our troops, advancing overland, would be almost level with the island and on 12th June I asked whether the forces earmarked for Elba could not rather be used for a landing on the mainland in support of Fifth Army. However, this was considered unacceptable as the French would not consent to the use in Italy of 9 Colonial Infantry Division, which they wanted to keep for the landings in France. The operation therefore went in as planned in the early morning of 17th June; the occupation of the island was complete by the afternoon of the 19th. Steps were taken to emplace medium guns in the northeastern corner of the island to command Piombino but the town fell on 25th June without the necessity for their use.\n\n#### The Battle of the Trasimene Line.\n\nIt was clear that Kesselring had now decided not merely to stiffen his delaying resistance but to make a stand, although he was approaching the broadest part of the Italian peninsula. He calculated that the momentum of our pursuit, after the exhilaration of the chase north from Rome, now left a hundred and thirty miles behind, must be starting to flag and that he had his own troops well enough under control again to rally them for a defensive action on a coherent front; by thus imposing a pause on us he would gain time and space to prepare the \"Gothic\" line. His decision began to make itself felt about 20th June. The chosen line was based on the east coast on the River Chienti; west of the Apennines the key points were the high ground north of Perugia, Lake Trasimene and Chiusi, from where the line continued eastwards along the River Astrone to the Orcia and the upper Ombrone. By now the Germans were to a certain extent reorganised and regrouped and both armies were on the same line and fairly well balanced in strength. They had nineteen divisions, admittedly nearly all under strength, in the line and six in reserve; as against this we were maintaining the pursuit with nine only. The Army boundary ran through Montepulciano with Tenth Army east and Fourteenth west. On the Adriatic Tenth Army had LI Mountain Corps of four divisions, rather under strength. From the Tiber to the Army boundary was LXXVI Panzer Corps with seven divisions, including the good 15 Panzer Grenadier, 1 Parachute and Hermann Goering Divisions; it was this Corps which was given the task of delaying our 10 and 13 Corps either side of Lake Trasimene. In Fourteenth Army 1 Parachute Corps, between Montepulciano and Montalcino, had four divisions in the line, including 26 Panzer and 29 Panzer Grenadier. XIV Panzer Corps, on the west coast, was weaker; it had five divisions but only two, the 3rd and 90 Panzer Grenadiers, were of good quality and the other three were definitely poor. As the situation here deteriorated this Corps had to be reinforced with battle groups from two other divisions, 16 S.S. and 42 Jaeger. The general situation, however, was hopeful for the Germans; their best divisions were equally spaced at the vital points and had received heavy drafts of reinforcements and 34 Division was in process of arriving from the Russian front.\n\nThe line selected for a stand had been well chosen, in spite of its length.102 There were no very obvious natural obstacles to our advance, except the river lines on the two coasts, and no prepared defences; but the country is hilly and in general thickly cultivated, especially in the vine-growing areas in the centre of the line. Our own lines of communication were severely stretched and these difficulties would not be eased before the capture of Leghorn and Ancona. The reconstruction of the railways was being pushed ahead with good speed but at the moment Eighth Army railhead was back at Roccasecca, two hundred miles from the battle front. The time had also been well chosen for two reasons, one of which was a most unusual spell of bad weather between 17th and 20th June. The more important reason was unknown to Kesselring: the uncertainty of the future on the Allied side which had reached its climax just at this time. I explained the situation on 28th June:\n\n> \"The ghost of ANVIL hangs heavily over the battle front. For example the Americans have been ordered to send back 517 Regimental Combat Team and 117 Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron which are actually engaged in contact with the enemy. They are also required to release now an engineer regiment and other service units required for the conduct of the battle. The French do not appear to be putting their hearts into the present operations and the reason is undoubtedly because they have their eyes turned in another direction. The air effort will shortly be curtailed owing to moves of fighting units to Corsica. Eighth Army are not directly concerned with ANVIL but as long as there is doubt and uncertainty about the future so long will there be a moral weakening. Armies have a very delicate sense and they are beginning to look over their shoulders. You will no doubt remember the Biblical quotation: 'If the trumpet give an uncertain sound who shall prepare himself for battle?'. If the momentum of my offensive is to be kept up to the maximum I must receive confirmation that the Italian campaign is to be backed. If on the other hand it is decided to go all out for ANVIL then I must know so that I can recast my present plan. In the event of the latter decision I have proposed that I should fly home and take certain proposals aimed at producing the best results my emasculated forces will be able to achieve in support of the war effort.\"\n\nThe battles for the Trasimene line may be considered as having lasted from 20th to 30th June. They were most severe in the centre where the Germans opposed 10 and 13 Corps; on the west coast, although the American advance was considerably slowed down, as compared with the first two weeks after the fall of Rome, the Germans were unable to prevent a steady gain of ground. IV Corps on the left, with 36 and 1 Armoured Divisions leading, captured Follonica on 24th June and Piombino on the 25th. Then stiffer resistance was met, particularly inland where 1 Armoured Division, opposed by a skilful enemy and difficult country, lost seventy-one tanks in the course of these ten days. The stiffest resistance was at Cecina, at the mouth of the river of the same name; the battle for the town lasted from 29th June to 1st July and cost 34 Division, which had relieved the 36th, fairly heavy casualties. 16 S.S. Division had been brought in here to strengthen the German defence and fought with skill and fanaticism. The French, directed on Siena, were held up from the 22nd to the 26th June on the River Orcia and were able only to make an advance of some two miles. On the night of the 27th, however, the Germans began to withdraw and only delaying actions were fought south of Siena, which was entered on 3rd July. By the 7th, with the capture of Colle di Val d'Elsa, the whole of Route 68, from its junction with Route 2 to the sea, had been secured.\n\nThe rolling hill country either side of Lake Trasimene, vine-clad and thickly cultivated, offered a wealth of alternative positions to the defenders and imposed a severe delay on 13 and 10 Corps. Eighth Army's task was to secure the general area of Florence, Bibbiena and Arezzo as quickly as possible as a base for operations against the Northern Apennines. For the attainment of this purpose the routes forward were limited: in the Army sector only one road appeared capable of carrying the weight of a highly mechanized Corps, Route 71 which skirts the western shore of Lake Trasimene and runs up the Chiana valley to Arezzo. There is a secondary road running up the west side of the valley through Sinalunga to Arezzo but east of the lake there is no route forward until the Tiber valley is reached and the road here, through Perugia and Umbertide to Sansepolcro, is narrowly confined in the river valley and unsuitable for a rapid pursuit. Looking further ahead Arezzo was likely to prove a bottleneck in the advance on both Bibbiena and Florence. The original Eighth Army plan was to send 10 Corps up Route 71 and 13 Corps by the Sinalunga road; but it was soon seen that the latter road would be quite inadequate for the task and the inter-Corps boundary was therefore altered to run through the centre of the lake. This meant that the two Corps could not give mutual support and, after the north end of the lake had been reached, their axes would again diverge.103\n\n13 Corps had the more important task, the easier and more direct route, and met the stronger opposition. It had three divisions, 6 South African Armoured, 4 and 78 Infantry and two armoured brigades, 9 and I Canadian. 78 Division was due to be relieved at the end of June and leave the theatre for a short rest and reorganisation in the Middle East. It would be difficult to reinforce, should that be necessary, for all Army reserves had been left behind near railhead, for ease of administration; it was intended, however, to bring up gradually 10 Indian Division from 5 Corps. Facing 13 Corps were three German divisions, 1 Parachute, 334 Infantry (four regiments strong) and Hermann Goering, and part of a fourth to the west, 356 Infantry. Their chosen position was anchored on the east on the lake and on the west on a ridge of high ground extending north-west from Chiusi; the latter town, an ancient hilltop city of the Etruscans, was held as a strongpoint by the Hermann Goering Division. West of Chiusi the hills are steep and badly roaded and there was no chance of the French in Radicofani exercising any pressure to their right. Our attack would have to come between Lake Trasimene and Lake Chiusi and here the Germans had prepared a series of defences in depth based on small woods and farms on the north bank of the small River Pescia which proved a useful anti-tank obstacle. In front of the Pescia they held a line of outposts, the southernmost of which were the villages of Sanfatucchio and Vaiano.\n\nWe made contact with the forward positions on 20th June, when 78 Division attacked Sanfatucchio and Vaiano at the south-western corner of the lake and the South Africans began to work their way up the lower slopes of the hill crowned by Chiusi. By next day the nature of the enemy resistance became clear, and 13 Corps' Commander decided to commit his reserve division, 4 British. 78 Division succeeded, in very fierce hand-to-hand fighting, in clearing Sanfatucchio on the 21st but they had made no progress against Vaiano and the South Africans met most violent resistance in their attack on Chiusi. Only the Armoured Brigade was forward; they managed, after three days of heavy fighting, to get a company into the centre of the town early on the 23rd but the Germans counter-attacked and by the end of the day were again firmly in control. 78 Division now decided to put in a full-scale attack on the lower ground on their right, to carry the defences of the Pescia and exploit to Castiglione, in the centre of the west shore of the lake. The attack went in on the morning of the 24th and by the evening had secured a small bridgehead over the Pescia; but heavy rain delayed the armour which was to have supported the leading troops. As a result progress was slow on the 25th and by the 26th it was necessary to call a halt until 4 Division could close up on the left flank. They had had a hard struggle for Vaiano, which was not cleared until the 25th, and did not draw level until the 26th. In the meantime, however, the divisional reconnaissance regiment had pushed round the north shore of Lake Chiusi and in face of this threat the Germans withdrew from the town; the South Africans entered on the morning of the 26th but were held up by very extensive demolitions on all the exit roads.\n\nThe direct route up the west shore of the lake was still blocked by the strong defences of the line running west-south-west from Castiglione and 73 Division was unable to make any progress here. This meant that 4 Division would have to force the pace. It took a consolidated attack by four battalions to carry Frattavecchia in the centre of the line. By the end of 28th June the major part of the ridge north of the Pescia had been cleared and the Germans had been driven off the Trasimene Line. They had won a welcome respite, though at heavy cost in casualties which had severely depleted the 1 Parachute and 334 Divisions. They now had to fall back fairly rapidly on their next delaying position, covering Arezzo, but the flooded condition of the Val di Chiana would give them reasonable time for this and allow them to make firm dispositions. They could remain a little longer in the more broken ground immediately west of the lake and gave 4 Division a hard fight for Petrignano on the 30th. On 2nd July 78 Division cleared the northern shore of Lake Trasimene.\n\nEast of the lake 10 Corps could do little more than maintain pressure and keep level with 13 Corps' advance. The strong mountain positions north of Perugia, extending almost to the east shore of the lake, were unsuitable for operations by 6 British Armoured Division; the Germans rapidly appreciated this and were able to withdraw 15 Panzer Grenadier Division to the west side of the lake to oppose 13 Corps. They also pulled out 94 Infantry Division and sent it back to North Italy to re-form completely with fresh drafts. On 26th June 10 Corps regrouped; 10 Indian Division arrived and 6 Armoured was sent across to reinforce 13 Corps. The same day 8 Indian Division scored a gratifying success by the capture of Monte Pilonica, east of the Tiber. Between the river and the lake the Germans now began, on 27th June, to fall back as a result of their failure to hold 13 Corps. 10 Corps followed up, advancing as rapidly as their means permitted into the mountains either side of the Tiber. On their right the Poles, who came under command of Eighth Army on 29th June, continued to make preparations for the assault on the German position behind the Chienti but discovered that the general withdrawal on the night of the 29th applied to their front also; they therefore proceeded, although their concentration was by no means complete, to pursue across the river.\n\n#### New Plans of Campaign.\n\nSo far I had been conducting operations on the assumption that the forces which had been withdrawn provisionally for ANVIL, or which were still to be withdrawn, might yet be returned to my command for the exploitation of the Italian campaign if the decision went against ANVIL. As the time lengthened during which that decision hung in the balance it became urgent to plan what could be done with the forces available on either hypothesis. I therefore called a conference of my Army Commanders on 23th June and explained what my plans would be if I were assured the same forces as at present. The object of operations in Italy must be to invade southern Germany by an overland advance through north-eastern Italy and the Ljubljana gap. By this means we should strike directly at territory which it was vital for the Germans to defend, even at the cost of diverting strength from other fronts, and have the possibility of joining hands with the southern wing of the Red Army and with Marshal Tito's partisan forces. The alternative, an advance into Southern France across the Maritime Alps, would be less profitable and more difficult. I appreciated that the enemy intended to hold the Northern Apennines until driven from that position in overwhelming force but, with the troops then available to him, he would be unable to do so and would be risking certain disaster, provided we could bring our whole strength against him. Coming down to tactical details, I considered that the \"Gothic\" line should be attacked in the centre both for topographical reasons, which I shall discuss later, and because that would lead most directly to the important objectives in Northern Italy. The conference agreed to the plan as outlined but took note that if ANVIL were launched it would not be practical. In particular the administrative organisation of the Allied Armies in Italy would be \"hamstrung\", in General Robertson's expression. General Clark also made the point about the bad effect of the present state of indecision on the morale and efficiency of the troops now engaged.\n\nIt is interesting to speculate what would have happened if I had been allowed to carry out this plan and had appeared with two strong armies on the southern frontier of Germany and at the gates of the Danube basin in the autumn of 1944. The effects would probably have been considerable, not only militarily but also politically. My plan was, however, fated to be stillborn though the final decision was not taken until the beginning of July and the discouraging feeling of uncertainty continued to hang over the battlefield. The demands of ANVIL had grown: the troops to be withdrawn included not only the whole French Corps and three United States divisions but also a considerable number of American Corps and Army troops.\"104 I was informed that our air strength would also be reduced, probably by about seventy per cent. I expounded my views on what could be done with what was left in a letter to General Wilson on 23rd June. My forces would be much reduced, and unbalanced in infantry, but I came to the conclusion that an advance into north-eastern Italy would still be possible, though at a reduced tempo, and must be attempted.\n\nEnemy strength was reckoned at the equivalent of about fourteen full-strength divisions; reinforcement from elsewhere might bring it up to the equivalent of between eighteen and twenty-one divisions. His intentions were correctly appreciated as to continue to withdraw fighting to the Apennines and to defend the, \"Gothic\" line. Our troops, assuming there were no further withdrawals than those already ordered, would amount to just over fourteen infantry and four armoured divisions, with seven independent armoured brigades. For a successful assault on the \"Gothic\" line, carried to the Po, a total of eighteen divisions would be required, of which not more than two or three should be armoured; to follow this up as far as the Piave would again require eighteen divisions and to force the Piave and exploit to the Ljubljana gap also eighteen divisions. It would obviously be impossible, however, although the Allied strength available just equalled eighteen divisions, to use the same divisions for all these assaults, even if the r\u00f4les of offence and defence were rotated; a reserve of at least a third, or six additional divisions, would be required. Various suggestions were made as to the source from which this additional strength could be derived. In the event all the major formations I asked for proved unobtainable though some of the minor ones were made available; but a more fruitful suggestion was there commendation that we should raise, arm and equip some Italian formations. For each phase of the attack a certain number of divisions had a purely defensive r\u00f4le, and for this the Italian \"Gruppi di Combattimento\" which we later raised proved most useful.\n\nThe decision to proceed with operation ANVIL was communicated by the Combined Chiefs of Staff to Allied Force Headquarters on 2nd July. As a result of the decision a new directive was issued by General Wilson on 5th July in the following terms:\n\n> 1. My previous directive was cancelled and, from receipt of the telegram, operation ANVIL was to have priority of all Mediterranean resources. This priority was to hold good until the build-up of forces in the South of France reached ten divisions.\n> \n> 2. I was to be informed from time to time what resources were allotted to operation ANVIL and I was to take all necessary steps to have them available at the required place and time.\n> \n> I was told, as a guide, that as the plan now stood not more than four French and three American divisions plus their appropriate Army, Corps and Service troops were to be taken from my command for this purpose. I was to be allotted 92 (Coloured) United States Infantry Division and also a Brazilian Infantry Division organised and equipped on the American basis. Firm dates would be notified later but for planning purposes approximate dates would be 15th September for 92 Division and 30th October for the Brazilians.\n> \n> 3. The destruction of the German forces in Italy continued to be my task. I was therefore-\n> \n> ( _a_ ) To advance over the Apennines and close to the line of the River Po securing the area Ravenna - Bologna - Modena to the coast north of Leghorn. If possible I was to seize Piacenza, an important road centre.\n> \n> ( _b_ ) Subsequently to cross the Po to the line Venice - Padua - Verona - Brescia. It was thought that with the advance of our forces in Southern France up the Rhone Valley and my advances as outlined above all German formations would withdraw from north-west Italy thus making an offensive in that direction unnecessary.\n> \n> 4. I should receive further instructions after reaching the line defined in paragraph 3 ( _b_ ) above.\n> \n> 5. All available resources in the Mediterranean less those required for operation ANVIL and for internal security would be made available to me for these operations.\n> \n> 6. Subject to the priority given to ANVIL the Air Commander-in-Chief was requested to give me maximum air support.\n\nIn order to be in a position to carry out this rather optimistic directive it was necessary to make contact, as quickly as possible, with the \"Gothic\" line. Now that we knew finally where we stood and what our resources would be we were at least free from the doubts and indecisions of the past month and could develop our strategy to suit our strength. The enemy was in no mood to accelerate his withdrawal, now that he was back \"on balance\" again; after being driven off the Trasimene line on 29th June he went back fairly steadily until 5th July but on that day he began once more to call a halt. The line selected ran from the west coast in the area of Rosignano, some six miles north of Cecina, to Volterra, thence across the Val di Chiana to the heights surrounding Arezzo; on the east coast Filottrano and Osimo were key points. The west coast was strongly defended by 16 S.S. Panzer Grenadier Division with 26 Panzer Division on its left. 19 Luftwaffe Field Division had been withdrawn from the line in this sector; it had suffered very heavy casualties and shortly afterwards it was disbanded and the survivors incorporated in its sister division, the 20th. Further east 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, with 20 Luftwaffe Field Division under command, defended the high ground around Volterra. From Poggibonsi to Arezzo, in the centre of the front, dispositions were much the same as they had been in the Trasimene line with, from west to east, 15 Panzer Grenadier, 334 Infantry, 1 Parachute, Hermann Goering and 4 Parachute Divisions. This was a formidable deployment and it was clear that we should have stiff fighting before we could drive these excellent troops from their positions. Their artillery support was better co-ordinated now, and a particular feature of the fighting here was the German use of their heavy artillery, especially the 17 centimetre gun, and of a reinforced strength in multi-barrelled rocket projectors. 305 and 44 Infantry Divisions, withdrawing from Perugia, had fallen back unhurriedly, the former closing in east of Arezzo. 114 Jaeger Division, moving up the centre of the peninsula, put in several counter-attacks to ease the pressure on its neighbours. On the Adriatic coast 278 Division, in its first major engagement, was fighting hard for Osimo and Filottrano and losing heavily.\n\nIV Corps on the left had a very bitter struggle for Rosignano, which the S.S. Panzer Grenadiers defended against 34 United States Division with the same stubbornness as they had shown at Cecina. The town is situated on a hill top, very compactly built of large masonry houses with an ancient castle in the centre. In these circumstances street fighting was bound to be a long job; it lasted in fact from 3rd July until 9th July. Naturally only part of our force was directed into the town itself and the remainder endeavoured to outflank it to the east, but here too resistance from 26 Panzer Division was strong. Further east 1 United States Armoured Division was relieved by 88 United States Infantry Division which on the 8th captured the \"far-famed hold\" of Volterra.\n\nArezzo presented a more complicated problem. The town itself lies in a flat plain but it is surrounded by mountains on three sides. The broad and fertile Val di Chiana leads up to it from the west side of Lake Trasimene but some three miles short of it the plain ceases and the road turns north-eastwards to enter the town through a comparative defile. The advance on Arezzo from the Trasimene line was relatively rapid both by 13 Corps and 10 Corps, though the latter was employing only one infantry division and an armoured brigade.13 Corps first met stiff resistance late on 5th July. The full strength of the German position was not immediately appreciated, for the exposed approaches and heavy shelling made reconnaissance difficult, and for the next three days the leading brigades continued to probe forward in the expectation that the Germans would turn once more to withdrawal under continued pressure without our having to mount a full-scale attack. 6 Armoured Division in the valley, having relieved 78 Division, attempted to press on by the direct route to Arezzo and succeeded in gaining a tenuous foothold on Monte Lignano, due south of the town on the right hand side of the defile. On the Corps' left 4 British Infantry and 6 South African Armoured Divisions tried to break through the enemy defences on the hills running parallel to the Arezzo - Siena road and thus break into the Arno valley west of Arezzo but though 4 Division succeeded in seizing one of the hills, Poggio all'Olmo, the main line held firm.\n\nIt was clear that further reinforcement would be needed before we could break through this line of defence. Our main weight must be developed in 13 Corps' sector, where the approach was easiest, but the three divisions which had fought their way through the Trasimene line were now stretched over a front of twenty-five miles and had no reserves.105 In 10 Corps 8 Indian Division had been fighting with only four days break since the crossing of the Rapido; 10 Indian Division had arrived to reinforce and had taken over almost the whole Corps sector to allow the 8th a partial rest. 4 Indian Division, which had had three weeks mountain training, was coming forward and the first brigade reached the Umbertide area by 7th July. However, even when thus reinforced, 10 Corps could have little effect on the battle for Arezzo as the country east of the town is very broken and badly roaded and the Corps' main task was to press up the Tiber valley to Sansepolcro. It was necessary, therefore, to reinforce 13 Corps and strike at Arezzo by the natural route, from the southwest. The nearest reserves were in I Canadian Corps which had 2 New Zealand Division under command; they had not been needed for the pursuit so far and had been left in the Liri valley for ease of administration and in order to give them time to rest, reorganise and prepare for the attacks on the \"Gothic\" line. The most readily available formation was the New Zealand Division at Frosinone and I decided to bring this up; to give it time to arrive the attack would have to be postponed until the 15th.\n\nThis decision was reached on 9th July and for the next four days the enemy attempted, by a series of counter-attacks on different points of 13 Corps' front, to gain the initiative and re-establish his positions where they had been endangered. These were all repulsed with heavy losses and on our side an attempt to increase our hold on Monte Lignano, the main bulwark of the defence south of Arezzo, was also unsuccessful. In the meantime 10 Corps was able to make a gratifying and unexpected advance. 4 Indian Division was employed west of the Tiber, where a large mountain mass, culminating in the three thousand five hundred foot peak of Monte Favalto, blocks all access from the Tiber valley to Arezzo; there were no roads across this _massif_ in either direction and shortage of bridging material meant that the divisional routes of access were severely restricted. Trusting in this inaccessibility the enemy held the ground here relatively lightly. But 4 Indian Division had already a fine reputation in mountains and recent training had polished up its knowledge; with I\/9 Gurkhas in the lead it pushed resolutely into the tangled mass of ridges and peaks and by the 13th Monte Favalto was in our hands. The Army Commander, taking advantage of this, ordered the division to press on north across the Arezzo - Sansepolcro road, capture the Alpe di Poti and threaten Arezzo from the east. It was a difficult task, as the Indians had completely outstripped their road communications, and before this threat could be fully developed the Germans had been forced out of Arezzo; but the capture of Monte Favalto was undoubtedly a strong contributing factor in that success. 13 Corps' attack on Arezzo was launched at 0100 hours on 15th July. The New Zealand Division attacked in the hills south of the town, Monte Lignano and Monte Gavino, and 6 Armoured Division on their left along the lower western slopes of Monte Lignano. Maximum artillery support was given from half an hour before midnight and at dawn the fighter-bombers joined in the battle. The enemy guns were for the most part silenced by the weight of this attack but the infantry in their strong positions still resisted firmly. The New Zealanders on the high ground made little progress in daylight and I Guards Brigade, lower down, were checked after an early advance. Nevertheless the balance of the day was in our favour; the New Zealanders were firm on Monte Lignano, which they captured before dawn, and 6 Armoured Division had driven a threatening wedge into the centre of the enemy's positions. That night the Germans broke contact everywhere. In the plain our armour went through and 16\/5 Lancers entered Arezzo at 0945 hours on the 16th. On their left 2 Lothians, after a dashing advance at full speed, were rewarded by the capture of an intact bridge over the Arno.\n\nLast light on the 16th saw the end of the battle for Arezzo; Florence was our next objective. The former was to be the administrative base and the latter the operational base for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line. I ought to mention here that we had been considerably hampered administratively by the stubborn German defence of Arezzo; it had been nominated as Eighth Army's main roadhead and eventual railhead and, in anticipation of its capture, the roadheads at Terni and Narni had been only lightly stocked. Railheads had been opened north of Rome in the general area of Orte and Civita Castellana at the end of the first week in July and we were pressing on with the construction of the line to Arezzo. We calculated that when that area was opened and developed we should be able to maintain a total of thirteen and a half divisions from Florence forwards. In the meanwhile the Germans, by delaying us for ten days in front of Arezzo, had gained that much more time for the completion of their \"Gothic\" line defences.\n\nWhile Eighth Army was thus having to put forward its best efforts in the centre of the peninsula we were pressing attacks on both flanks to win the vital ports of Ancona and Leghorn. The Poles on the Adriatic captured Osimo on 6th July, inflicting severe losses on 278 Division; so severely was this division weakened that Kesselring began to move over 1 Parachute Division to its support.106 General Anders then began preparations for the final attack on Ancona. IV Corps on the left was driving on Leghorn, which it planned to take by an enveloping movement from the east. The French, on Fifth Army's right, had celebrated 14th July by capturing Poggibonsi, on the direct route from Siena to Florence. The time for their relief was now, however, rapidly approaching; on 22nd July their sector was taken over by 8 Indian Division and in part by the New Zealanders, coming under command of 13 Corps. It was with very real regret that I saw the departure of the French Corps. They had most worthily upheld and reinforced the reputation of French arms in the country where Bayard and Gaston de Foix had first brought them fame. A marble tablet in the ancient city of San Gimignano, captured by 4 Mountain Division on 13th July, recalls their great advance from the Garigliano.\n\nThe Germans, having now made us deploy and fight hard for the two ports and Arezzo, initiated a programme of gradual withdrawal to the Arno based on a series of phase lines known by girls names in alphabetical order.107 Their forces were now well balanced and there was little chance of seriously disrupting this programme. On 16th July Arezzo fell, on the 18th IV Corps reached the Arno east of Pisa, on the same day the Poles captured Ancona and on the 19th the Americans entered Leghorn. The Poles had had heavy fighting at Loretto and Filottrano; it took six days of fluctuating attack and counter-attack to clear the latter and the main attack was delayed thereby till the morning of the 17th. IV Coups had to beat off a final counter-attack on Rosignano on 10th July, and for the next two days progress to the east of the town was still slow. From the 13th to the 15th the advance was more rapid as the Germans fell back to their next delaying positions. 91 Division was the first unit in IV Corps to reach the Arno, capturing Pontedera on 18th July, but on the left 34 Division was held further south in the hills behind Leghorn and first entered the city at 0200 hours on the 19th. The Germans had devoted greater efforts than ever to render the port unusable. The dock area was heavily mined and booby-trapped, all the quays had been cratered and the harbour entrance was almost wholly blocked by sunken ships. By 23rd July 34 Division had captured the southern part of Pisa. All bridges over the Arno had been destroyed and the enemy was firmly posted on the north bank all along the Corps front. Leghorn harbour remained under fire from long-range artillery.\n\nFifth Army's sector was now reduced to a front of four divisions with IV Corps left and II Corps right; by the 23rd it ran along the Arno from the mouth to Empoli. The two Corps in the centre of Eighth Army's front meanwhile continued to press on up the mountainous centre of the peninsula to seize the bases for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line. 13 Corps was now directed on Florence and 10 Corps therefore took over the area due north of Arezzo and advanced on Bibbiena by the parallel axes of the upper Arno and the upper Tiber. Between these two rivers is a great roadless _massif_ known as the Alpe di Catenaia and west of the road from Arezzo to Bibbiena is the equally roadless, longer and slightly higher _massif_ of the Pratomagno. 10 Corps now had two Indian infantry divisions, 4th and 10th, and an armoured brigade and on its extreme right two armoured car regiments, 12 Lancers and the Household Cavalry, operating in the tangled country between Gubbio and Fabriano. On 17th July 4 Indian Division captured the Alpe di Poti, north of the Arezzo - Sansepolcro road and on 18th July 4\/10 Baluchis of 10 Indian Division cleared Monte Cedrone, west of Citta di Castello in the Tiber valley, a strong position which had delayed our advance here since the 13th. Citta di Castello fell on the 22nd. 4 Indian Division now took up the running on the heights of the Alpe di Catenaia and the weight of 10 Corps shifted to its left. On 5th August, after a swift advance across the trackless mountains, with the divisional engineers building a jeep track behind them at full speed, 3\/5 Mahrattas captured the summit of Monte Il Castello. This was 10 Corps' high-water-mark. The plan for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line had now been changed and on 7th August, reduced in strength to 10 Indian Division only, the Corps went onto the defensive.\n\n13 Corps in the meanwhile was operating north-westwards against Florence. It had five divisions under command, two of them armoured, but with the imminent disappearance of the French Corps it was about to take over a front of some forty miles. The original plan was to make the main effort on the right, up both sides of the valley of the Arno with 6 British Armoured Division, and along the west side of the Monti di Chianti, through Radda and Greve, with 4 British Infantry and 6 South African Armoured Divisions, the latter in the lead. 6 British Armoured Division had the advantage of the bridge over the Arno which they had captured intact the day Arezzo fell and were able to make some progress between the river and the heights of the Pratomagno. 4 Division paralleled this to the west of the river but by the 19th the Germans, now on their \"Irmgard\" delaying line, were able to impose a halt. The South Africans in the thickly cultivated Chianti hills had captured Radda in Chianti on the 18th. By the 20th, however, it became clear that the enemy intended to resist particularly strongly on our original line of advance, the Arno axis, with two and a half divisions east of the river and one, 715 Infantry, re-formed and brought up to strength after its disaster at Anzio, between the river and the crest of the Chianti mountains. The Corps Commander therefore decided to make his main effort on the left of his sector and employ both 8 Indian and 2 New Zealand Divisions to relieve the French Corps and press up the axis of Route 2.\n\nBy 22nd July the relief of the French was completed and the South Africans and New Zealanders were able to make good progress to the west of the Chianti chain. By the end of the 25th both were facing squarely up to the \"Olga\" line which ran roughly east and west through San Casciano, ten miles south of Florence. This advance loosened up the defence in the Arno valley and on the same day the right of the South Africans, and 4 British Division, were in contact with the enemy positions on Monte Scalari and Monte Moggio, the south-eastern bulwarks of the defence of Florence. This was the \"Lydia\" line; \"Olga\", on Route 2, was held by 4 Parachute Division. Leaving \"Lydia\" to 4 Division, 13 Corps grouped the South Africans and New Zealanders for the attack on \"Olga\". There was stiff fighting on the 26th but the next day the New Zealanders captured San Casciano and the parachutists withdrew to \"Paula\", the last line covering Florence. 4 Division had very heavy fighting, lasting three days, for Monte Scalari, which was finally cleared on the 29th. On the left of the Corps front 8 Indian Division had reached the Arno east of Empoli.\n\nWe wanted Florence as quickly as possible, not for the sake of the name but because it is a centre of communications and the best operational base for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line. We planned, if possible, to capture the city by an outflanking movement on both sides of it, with our main strength on the west. The Germans were making promises to treat it as an open city but by this they appeared to mean that, while using its communication facilities themselves, they expected us to refrain from doing so when we should capture it; at any rate they had concentrated large forces immediately south of the city. From Figline on the upper Arno to Montelupo west of the city four and a half divisions, strong in artillery and heavy tanks, now confronted 13 Corps, with three and a half divisions forward. The German formations included 4 Parachute, 29 Panzer Grenadier and part of 3 Panzer Grenadier Divisions. 13 Corps decided to concentrate the New Zealanders on a narrow front west of Route 2 and breakthrough the \"Paula\" line by capturing the ridge of Pian' dei Cerri, which runs roughly east and west from the main road three miles south of Florence to the Arno opposite Signa, exploiting to the river west of Florence. East of the road the South Africans would make diversionary attacks and 4 Division would protect the Corps' right flank. The attack went in on 30th July and fierce fighting continued until the late evening of 2nd August, when the New Zealanders captured the crest of La Poggiona, at the eastern end of the enemy's ridge position. This was the turning point of the battle; the roads now led downhill into Florence and the enemy began to withdraw back across the Arno. They fought a stiff rearguard action on the River Ema which crosses Route 2 some two miles south of the Arno and on the night of 3rd August disengaged again over the Arno.\n\nThe local German commander had apparently been allowed discretion about demolishing the Arno bridges and exercised it by blowing up all but the Ponte Vecchio. The Ponte della Trinita, by many considered the most beautiful in the world, was a particularly severe loss; the Ponte Vecchio, though it has a certain charm of antiquity, is not so fine a work of art and in any case is too weak for all but the lightest traffic. It has been suggested that it was spared because it reminded the nostalgic parachutists of Nuremberg; but to ensure that military requirements were not unduly sacrificed to sentiment the ancient buildings at both ends were blown up in order to block the approaches. We were not, in fact, hampered militarily by all this destruction for we never intended to fight in Florence and, once the city was cleared, could build as many bridges as we wanted without loss of time or efficiency.\n\nWith the entry into the southern part of Florence on 4th August the campaign in central Italy came to an end,108 and it was on the same day that the new plan for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line was decided on, a plan which involved a radical regrouping by Eighth Army. From the Garigliano to the Arno is two hundred and forty miles as the crow flies; by the shortest road it is two hundred and seventy miles. We had covered this distance in sixty-four days, breaking through three lines of prepared defences south of Rome and fighting two major battles, the Trasimene line and Arezzo, between Rome and Florence. I consider this a very satisfactory speed in Italian terrain, and the more so when it is remembered that, after the fall of Rome, I was being forced to make detachments to other fronts while Kesselring was being strenuously reinforced. I had admittedly the advantage of operating in a country whose inhabitants were well disposed. This was especially noticeable in Tuscany, where the local population frequently gave valuable information to our troops on matters of tactical importance, such as the location of enemy minefields. When we entered Florence some of the population engaged in skirmishes with supporters of the Fascist Republican Government and assisted our troops with information on German dispositions north of the river. I should also like to pay tribute to the courage and constancy of many hundreds of brave Italians, of all classes, who at the risk and sometimes forfeit of their lives, sheltered and protected Allied prisoners of war, crashed airmen and liaison officers operating behind the enemy lines. But it was a hard-fought struggle all the way, except for the first two weeks in June, and one which is infinitely to the credit of the troops of all nationalities under my command, for the German is a master in retreat and can seldom be hustled or panicked. I was determined to employ the minimum troops in the pursuit, to have the maximum strength for the attack on the Apennines. The result was that they were hard driven, and only the greatest enthusiasm and skill could have made the plan a success. I should like to mention particularly my three armoured divisions 1 United States, 6 British and 6 South African. Central Italy is not really cavalry country; it offers, on the contrary, innumerable opportunities for the anti-tank gun embuscade; but these three divisions gave a superb demonstration of that dash in the attack and tenacity in retention of captured objectives which have in this war distinguished the armoured descendants of the old mounted arm.\n\n### PART IV. THE GOTHIC LINE BATTLES.\n\n#### The \"Gothic\" Line.\n\nIn the region of the upper Tiber the Apennines, which have hitherto formed the backbone of Italy, turn north-west and run across the peninsula to join the Maritime Alps on the French border, thus cutting off Central Italy from the basin of the Po. This sudden bend has always interposed a sharp line of division, political and economic, between the thickly populated plains of Lombardy, intensively cultivated and at the same time highly industrialized, and the mountainous peninsula whose urban centres and industry are more widely dispersed on historically important river sites. From the military point of view the barrier is a first-class strategic obstacle. An army advancing from the south finds that what has hitherto been its best and broadest avenue of approach, the western coastal plain, comes suddenly to a dead end when it reaches the Magra river, just east of La Spezia. The eastern coastal belt, hitherto by far the less useful, now comes into its own for it continues round the angle of the bend and offers the only passage on the level into the plains of the Po valley. In spite of this great advantage, however, it retains the characteristics which have made it inferior hitherto, as a route for an army, to the western coastal route. It would be truer to say that the coast road, Route 16, offers the only passage on the level, for the spurs descending from the central chain run right down to the coast in the form of a continuous series of ridges, not high, at least near the sea, but not easy for the passage of troops. The soil, too, is heavy and movement is difficult after rain. The few roads which run parallel to Route 16, all of them narrow and badly surfaced, switchback up and down these ridges through small villages. More important still, the whole foothill region is intersected, at right angles to the direction of advance, by numerous water obstacles, some quite large rivers and some mere torrents but all liable to sudden flooding from the proximity of their mountain sources. They give a foretaste of the still more serious obstacles which face the attacker round the elbow of the mountains where broad embanked rivers flow north-eastwards across his path through the muddy plains of the Romagna.\n\nBetween the two narrow coastal belts the mountains present an unbroken front about a hundred and forty miles long and fifty to sixty miles deep. There are no natural routes across them but the historical importance of the cities of the Arno valley on the one hand and the Po valley on the other has been such that no less than eleven roads, of all classes, have been constructed to link the two districts. Not all of these can be considered for military use. The two routes which lead from Viareggio through Aulla to Parma and Reggio, Routes 62 and 63, run through the wildest and deepest part of the Apennines; this disadvantage is not so serious as the fact that access to their starting point at Aulla is almost impossible, for the two mile coastal belt is commanded by a towering mountain wall on its right. Two roads lead from Lucca to Modena, one up the Serchio and down the Secchia and the other, Route 12, over the Abetone Pass, four thousand three hundred feet high; the former is particularly bad but both are tortuous and difficult and the latter runs for eighty-five miles through the mountains which are here still very broad. From Pistoia Route 64 leads to Bologna, with a branch on the north side of the mountains to Modena. This is a reasonably good road, just over sixty miles long. Florence is the most important road centre with two roads leading to Bologna, one via Prato and the other over the Futa Pass - the latter with a branch to Imola _vi\u00e2_ Firenzuola - a road to Faenza _vi\u00e2_ Marradi and one to Forli _vi\u00e2_ Dicomano. The most important is Route 65, the direct route to Bologna. The distance between the two cities is sixty-seven miles but the main chain of the Apennines begins at the Sieve river so that the actual distance through the mountains is only fifty miles. The highest point on the road is the Futa Pass, two thousand nine hundred feet, and the Pass of Il Giogo, on the lateral road to Firenzuola to the east, is a little lower. From the upper Arno valley, at Bibbiena Route 71 leads to Cesena; it is difficult of access and of inferior quality but is only fifty-five miles long. Its disadvantage is that, like Route 67 from Florence to Forli, it leads into a corner of the Romagna, well away from any important objective.\n\nAll these roads are artificial, cut into the sides of valleys to lift them over passes which in winter are snowbound and for a large part of the year are subjected to heavy rains. They are magnificent feats of engineering, recalling the fact that a genius for road building is one of the few undoubted inheritances of the Italians from the Romans, but for that very reason are peculiarly susceptible to demolition. The latter is a craft at which the Germans, after their experience in this war, can probably claim to be world masters; Kesselring himself had ordered his troops to carry out demolitions \"with sadistic imaginativeness\" and they had always proved themselves equal to this demand. The greater number of roads are in the western half of the area, between Florence and the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the shortest routes lead due north from Florence. In the eastern half there are only the two roads which lead to Forli and Cesena and both these run north-east instead of due north. Lateral communication is infinitely better on the northern side of the mountains than on the southern. On the latter movement from east to west is limited to a few poor roads across the mountains but on the Germans' side the Via Emilia, Route 9, runs along the whole length of the position. It is a broad, straight road on the flat, with numerous short roads leading off it into the mountains, for the crest line is nearer the southern than the northern edge and the secondary road system on the latter is therefore much more developed. This is an enormous advantage to the defender, for in the defence of a line it is vital to be able to move forces rapidly from one sector to another where the threat is greatest.\n\nThe original German plan for Italy, as Hitler told Mussolini at the Feltre conference in July, 1943, was to hold nothing south of the line of the Northern Apennines so that the preliminary reconnaissances for the \"Gothic\" line were probably carried out about that time. Work appears to have begun in September, 1943. The first work was done at the two ends, in the coastal plain south of La Spezia and behind the Foglia river on the Adriatic, and in the centre, where elaborate defences were constructed on the Futa Pass. Italian forced labour and a Slovak Technical Brigade were used; but as the winter of 1943 progressed most of the labour force was diverted to work on the \"Gustav\", \"Hitler\" and \"Caesar\" lines, and it was not until the fall of Rome that priority was restored to the \"Gothic\" line and the work was pushed ahead at the highest pressure. It was principally to gain more time to allow for the \"Gothic\" line to be completed that Kesselring fought the battles of Lake Trasimene and Arezzo. At one time it was expected that it would be ready by 30th June but in fact our attack on the Adriatic on 25th August found many of the defences on the Foglia still unfinished while in some of the more inaccessible mountain sectors they were only in the early stages of development.\n\nThe total length of the line of defences was about two hundred miles. In the west the approaches to La Spezia and the valley of the Magra were barred by a system of anti-tank defences in depth with two artificial obstacles seven miles apart; this was the only example of defence in depth in the system. From the region of Carrara the line swung south-east through the Apuan Mountains to a strongpoint at Borgo a Mozzano, astride the two routes north from Lucca to Modena. This was the first of a series of strongpoints blocking all the routes north; they were connected with each other by a continuous line of positions running through the mountains, with subsidiary strongpoints at places of particular importance. The main blocking positions were at Porretta, north of Pistoia, the Vernio Pass north of Prato, and the Futa and Il Giogo Passes north of Florence. From here the line ran south-east, following the crest of the Alpe di San Benedetto, with strongpoints at the Casaglia and San Godenzo Passes on the Faenza and Forli roads, until it reached the Alpe di Serra where strongpoints at Serravalle and Valsavignone blocked the two roads to Cesena from the upper Arno and upper Tiber valleys. From here it turned roughly east again, following the course of the River Foglia, until it reached the sea at Pesaro. For the last thirteen miles, where the foothills are lower, the line was particularly strong, and the defences included anti-tank ditches, extensive minefields, bunkers and various types of built-in tank turrets. Attention had also been paid to the seaward flanks of the line to guard against an amphibious outflanking. This was scarcely a danger at the western end, but the defences of La Spezia were strengthened. On the Adriatic a line of cliffs runs from Pesaro to Cattolica and this was supplemented by defences extending as far north as Ravenna.\n\n#### Early Plans for the Attack on the \"Gothic\" Line.\n\nAfter the great victories of the spring offensive, with Rome in our hands and the Germans withdrawing rapidly through Latium and Tuscany, pursued with the utmost vigour by my two Armies, it seemed likely that the Northern Apennines would prove merely an incident in our pursuit, which would carry on almost unchecked across them into the plains of the Po valley. Even if this proved too optimistic a hope it was reasonable to expect that we should quickly be able to bring such forces to bear in a frontal attack as would ensure the piercing of the mountain barrier; the success of the French Corps in the Aurunci mountains had shown the way and proved that the Germans could no longer place such confidence for their defence as previously in the difficulties of the Italian terrain. But before the end of June these hopes were dashed by the withdrawal of seven divisions from our side and the arrival of eight reinforcing divisions for Kesselring. Encouraged by this the German troops, who in the early days of June were speaking gloomily of the Brenner as their next stop, were able to rally and convert our pursuit into a hard-fought advance. The withdrawal of forces for the operations in Southern France represented not merely a quantitative loss to my Armies of over twenty-five per cent. but also a qualitative loss, for the French Corps had the greatest experience and training in mountain warfare of all the troops under my command and included my only regular mountain division.\n\nThis considerable reduction in my strength did not at first alter my plans for dealing with the \"Gothic\" line, which were to attack it in the centre on a front from Dicomano to Pistoia and debouch into the Po plains at or near Bologna. From the topographical point of view the choice was narrowed down to two sectors, the centre and the extreme right, and there was little to choose between them. On the axis of Route 65 the mountains are higher but Bologna, the most important objective south of the Po, is nearer. On the east coast the ground is much lower but the ridges are at right angles to the direction of the advance and there are a number of serious water obstacles. It was, however, largely on considerations of timing that I rejected the idea of an attack up the east coast. It was vital not to allow the enemy a day more than was unavoidable to strengthen his defences and reorganise his formations. The bulk of my forces was advancing up the centre of the peninsula and the west coast by routes which would bring them to the Arno in the area of Florence and Pisa so that it would be both easier and quicker to concentrate for the attack round Florence than anywhere else. In the days when I still had my full forces I expected to be able to rush the Apennines almost without stopping; in my present situation some slight pause would be necessary but I was determined to reduce it to the minimum.\n\nThe plan involved a simultaneous attack by Fifth and Eighth Armies on parallel axes, each with their main strength on their contiguous wings. Eighth Army would be able to bring forward for the attack two fresh Corps, 5 and 1 Canadian, with five divisions between them, to be reinforced by 1 British Armoured Division which was arriving in the country. For the moment, until arrangements for forward maintenance could be perfected, these forces were to concentrate in the general area of Assisi with some elements to the west near Siena. On 17th July Eighth Army Headquarters produced a detailed appreciation. The conclusions were that the attack should be made by two Corps, each with two divisions forward, operating up the axes Florence - Firenzuola and Florence - Bologna. The Poles were to hold on the Adriatic coast and would be connected with the central front by a Corps with a defensive r\u00f4le. A cover-plan had already been put into force by my headquarters on 3rd July to suggest to the enemy that the main attack would come on the Adriatic coast.\n\nIt was more difficult to decide on the r\u00f4le and capabilities of Fifth Army which had now been reduced to one armoured and four infantry divisions, all of which had seen heavy and continuous fighting recently. On 19th July, in a letter to General Clark, I outlined the position as I saw it and my proposals for his actions preliminary to the main attack on the line. I suggested that it would almost certainly prove too costly to attempt to force a crossing of the Arno west of Pontedera, where the great Monte Pisano feature gave the enemy commanding observation, and proposed that he should hold the line from Pontedera to the sea with light forces and cross between there and Empoli, exploiting to capture Lucca and Pistoia. This would give us the desired start line for an attack from Pistoia arid the front from Pistoia to the sea could be held as a defensive flank with reduced forces. General Clark fully concurred with these plans and issued orders to that effect on 21st July; he estimated that D-day for the operation would be between 5th and 10th August and ordered measures to be taken in the meantime to ensure a thorough rest for all troops. At the same time Fifth Army took energetic steps to increase their potentiality by creating new defensive formations from the exiguous forces left by ANVIL. The most striking was the creation of \"Task Force 45\". This force, of roughly divisional strength, was made up from five American Light Anti-Aircraft battalions, a British Light Anti-Aircraft regiment, an American Tank battalion, part of two Tank Destroyer battalions, part of a divisional reconnaissance battalion and some miscellaneous service units; it was divided into three regiment-sized groups. Up to 24th July these units were still being employed in their original r\u00f4les, and had only a very short period of intensive training before taking over part of the line on the Arno from 34 Division. The success of this remarkable effort at conversion was very encouraging and \"Task Force 45\" remained for many months a valuable part of Fifth Army's order of battle, used for holding defensive fronts.\n\nOn 26th July I sent an appreciation on future operations to both Army Commanders. My general plan was divided into four phases and described as follows: \"To penetrate the centre of the 'Gothic' line roughly between Dicomano and Pistoia; to thrust forward over the Apennines to secure the general line Imola - Bologna - Modena; to complete the destruction of the enemy forces south of the Po by rapid exploitation across the Po valley; to secure a bridgehead over the Po north of Ferrara and if possible at Ostiglia as well\". Plans for Eighth Army's attack were unchanged and the main subject for decision was the task of Fifth Army, for the weakening of that Army was the chief new factor which had been introduced. General Clark would be unable to produce more than a Corps of two divisions plus for the attack. If Eighth Army was to attack up the main routes north from Florence on Bologna Fifth Army must clearly attack towards Modena, from either Lucca or Pistoia. On full consideration of topographical factors, which I need not detail here, the latter axis was clearly preferable. I calculated that Fifth Army would probably be strong enough to seize and secure Modena but that it could not be called on for any more than to exploit to a radius of some ten or fifteen miles from that objective. Eighth Army would therefore have to be responsible for the advance up to and across the Po. After bearing the brunt of the attack in the mountains it would probably only be able to exploit to the Po on one axis, to Ferrara, though it would be most desirable, if at all practicable, for it to seize a bridgehead also in the Ostiglia area.\n\nFrom this appreciation it seemed clear that, after fighting our way through the mountains we should arrive in the plains too weak to exploit rapidly northwards. This conclusion I had reached some time before and I therefore decided to implement the plan which the Air Forces had already made for the destruction of the bridges over the Po. This operation, given the code-name MALLORY MAJOR, was first studied after the fall of Rome and an operational directive for it was issued on 17th June. The object given was \"to disrupt the enemy's flow of supplies into northern Italy by the destruction of six rail bridges over the Po river and one across the Trebbia river, supplemented by the destruction of the Recco or Zoagli viaduct\" (this was a long and vulnerable viaduct on the coastal line east of Genoa). The date of the operation was to be decided by me, to fit in with the situation on the ground. As originally conceived this was a part, but an especially important part, of the general plan then in force for disrupting the enemy's lines of communication; as I have already explained, it had been found by experience that the destruction of bridges caused very much more embarrassment to the enemy than the previous policy of attacking marshalling yards. This was, however, just that period in the first week of June when it seemed likely that we should be able to force our way rapidly through the Apennines and still have sufficient force to exploit into northern Italy on a large scale, and for this we wanted to have the chance of seizing a bridge over the Po. I was in fact planning an airborne operation for this very purpose using 2 Parachute Brigade which was shortly afterwards, unfortunately, withdrawn from me for use in the South of France. I therefore decided to cancel MALLORY MAJOR; but the decision to mount ANVIL put a very different complexion on the situation. The Po would now probably be the limit of our possible exploitation after we had broken through the mountains. The Air Force plan offered an opportunity of making a virtue of this necessity; I decided to pin my hopes on being able to bring the Germans to a decisive battle between the Apennines and the Po and drive them against the obstacle of a bridgeless river. In the meantime the enemy's maintenance would suffer from the interposition of this dramatic line of interdiction.\n\nOrders for the operation went out on IIth July; its scope was extended and all bridges, both road and rail, were to be destroyed. During the first four days of the operation, 12th to 15th July, medium bombers concentrated on the nineteen bridges from Piacenza to the sea. Favourable weather contributed to the success of the attacks. In the first two days eleven bridges were rendered impassable and by the 15th the line of interdiction was complete. In some cases, however, the damage was not considered extensive enough and repeated attacks were made until, by the 27th all bridges over the Po east of and inclusive of the one at Torreberetti, north of Alessandria, were cut.\n\n#### Change of Plan.\n\nOn 4th August I recast the plan for the attack on the \"Gothic\" line. The principal difference was in the r\u00f4le of Eighth Army; instead of exerting its main strength on its left and driving at the centre of the line side by side with Fifth Army it would now carry out a swift but secret transfer of strength to its right and strike at the extreme eastern end of the line in order to roll up the enemy's left at the point where he was least protected by the terrain. When this attack was well under way, and depending on the extent to which the enemy had weakened his centre to meet it, Fifth Army would launch a subsidiary attack up the axis Florence - Bologna. In order to strengthen this blow and make Fifth Army more nearly equivalent in strength to Eighth Army, and to what it had been before the recent withdrawals, I proposed to place under General Clark the British 13 Corps, of one armoured and two infantry divisions.109 Thus Fifth Army once more regained its character of an Allied Army, which had distinguished it from the start.\n\nThe new plan, which was given the codename OLIVE was decided on at a short and informal conference on Orvieto airfield. There were only three of us present, General Leese, General Harding, my Chief of Staff, and myself and we sheltered from the sun under the wing of a Dakota while General Leese explained the reasons which led him to urge a reconsideration of our previous intentions. The proposal for a redirection of our attack was largely his idea and arose from his judgment of his Army's capabilities and the manner in which it could be best employed. I was already concerned at the prospect of extensive operations in mountains without my best mountain troops, the French. General Leese shared this concern and represented frankly that, although he was prepared to exert his utmost endeavours to carry out whatever strategy should seem best, he had not that confidence he would like to have in his ability to break through the centre of the Apennine position. With very small exceptions Eighth Army had no troops trained in mountain warfare and, of course, no organized mountain divisions; provision of pack transport trams and other vital necessities for this kind of operation was only improvised at present and the Army as a whole had had comparatively little experience of large-scale operations in mountains. On this line of attack, moreover, it would be unable to develop to the full extent its superiority in armour and artillery, the use of which in combination had been the mainstay of its successful African operations and which had recently given proof of its effectiveness in the Liri valley. The east coast route, on the other hand, appeared to provide much more the kind of battlefield to which Eighth Army was accustomed. It would have fewer mountains to contend with and the chance of employing its artillery in controlled and concentrated \"set-piece\" attacks, and the hope of flat country ahead beckoned to its desert-trained armour.\n\nEighth Army's preference for the east coast route of attack was based, it will be seen, on reasons both strictly military and also psychological. The latter reasons; as a well-known dictum of Napoleon's lays down, are as much military factors as the former and in a case where the courses available were fairly equally balanced it was obviously preferable to choose that course which inspired the greater confidence in those who were to carry it out. It was anything but certain that our heavy blow in the mountains of the centre would take us through to our objective and if the first attack there fell short of expectations the advantage would be all with the defenders. He had by far the easier lateral communications so that, once it was clear that all our strength was concentrated at one point, he could very rapidly build up a counter concentration. On the new plan we should be able to employ what I call the strategy of the \"two-handed punch\" or, more orthodoxly expressed, the strategy of attacking two points equally vital to the enemy (i.e., Ravenna and Bologna) either simultaneously or alternately in order to split the reserves available for the defence.\n\nPlans to implement this decision were made in the greatest secrecy and only the minimum was committed to paper. In the order I issued to both Armies on 6th August, giving the preliminary operations to be carried out, I laid down \"The scope and object of operation OLIVE have been settled in discussions between the Commander-in-Chief and Army Commanders and will not be referred to in writing at present.\" The greater part of the planning was left to Eighth Army who were faced with a tremendous task in transferring their strength to their right wing. The mounting of the operation involved complicated and difficult moves over an inadequate road-net, carried out in conditions of great secrecy, a large-scale cover plan (and the cancellation of the cover plan previously in force) and considerable preliminary engineer work. The plan of the attack, as given in orders issued on 13th August, provided for a simultaneous assault by three Corps in line. 2 Polish Corps, on the right, was to attack and seize the high ground north-west of Pesaro; this was all the Poles could do in their present weak state and after completion of this task they would revert to Army reserve. 1 Canadian Corps, in the centre, was to attack on the left of the Poles to capture the high ground west of Pesaro and from there, squeezing out the Poles, to reach the main road at Cattolica and drive up the road along the coast directed on Rimini. 5 Corps, on the left, was to advance on an axis to the west of Rimini, directed on Bologna and Ferrara. The movement across to the east coast began on 15th August on a heavy scale and was completed, by a triumph of organization, by 22nd August. 25th August was decided on as D-day. It was not expected that we should be in contact with the \"Gothic\" line on that date but this was no disadvantage as we intended to press up to and through the line in one motion. This would be of assistance in the matter of surprise. 13 Corps came under command of Fifth Army on 18th August. Between its right and the left of 5 Corps the mountainous central sector was the responsibility of 10 Corps, commanding only 10 Indian Division and a scratch brigade group, mainly of dismounted armoured car regiments.\n\nThere was little of interest in the preliminary operations before the offensive opened. On the left the Fifth Army front was quiet. II Corps had now taken over the right of the Army sector, with 91 Division; the 85th and 88th were in rear areas resting and training. West of Empoli there was no change along the line of the Arno. In Florence the Germans withdrew on the night of 10th August back from the north bank of the river to the line of the Mugnone canal, running through the northern outskirts of the city. Further to the right, however, on the Adriatic coast, there were considerable advances made as the Polish Corps pressed on to clear the high ground between the Cesano and Metauro rivers. By the 23rd the Poles were established on the right bank of the latter river from the sea to Fossornbrone, some fifteen miles inland, and with that the stage was set for the assault on Pesaro.\n\n#### Orders for the Offensive.\n\nThe orders for the offensive were issued on 16th August. I defined my intention as \"to drive the enemy out of the Apennine positions and to exploit to the general line of the lower Po, inflicting the maximum losses on the enemy in the process.\" Eighth Army was to have the predominant r\u00f4le in the opening phases and to have priority in all requirements needed to obtain its object. Its task was to break through into the valley of the Po and exploit to seize Ferrara and Bologna. Fifth Army was to assist the first phases of the offensive by carrying out ostentatious preparations to simulate an imminent attack by both Armies on the front between Pontassieve and Pontedera, which was the sector originally chosen for the main attack. While these manoeuvres were in progress Fifth Army was to prepare an attack to break through the enemy's centre on the axis Florence - Bologna, using II and 13 Corps. This attack would be ordered by me as soon as it appeared that the enemy had weakened his centre sufficiently to meet Eighth Army's attack. It was naturally impossible to forecast when this would be, but General Clark was to be prepared to attack at twenty-four hours' notice, if possible, from D plus 5 of the Eighth Army attack, i.e., 30th August. The cover plan for the attack had to be radically altered and was now designed to persuade the enemy that our main blow was coming in the centre and that the Adriatic coast operations were a preliminary feint by our surplus armour.\n\nThe objectives for exploitation were given in summary form in this operation order. Eighth Army, on reaching the Ferrara area, was to secure a bridgehead over the Po in the general area north of Ferrara. Fifth Army was to secure Modena and exploit north and north-west of it as far as practicable with the resources available after returning 13 Corps to command of Eighth Army. It will be remembered that these were the eventual objectives foreseen in the original plan and the change in Eighth Army's plan made no difference to them. I dealt with further possibilities for exploitation more fully in a paper on future operations on 27th August, after the attack had begun. The new factor in the situation was the rapid advance of the invading armies in the South of France. The German resistance there had been so weak and had turned so quickly to a full withdrawal that by that date Toulon, Marseilles and Grenoble had all been captured and the Allies were pursuing at full speed up the Rhone valley. In these circumstances it seemed clear that if the Apennine line were pierced the enemy would be obliged to withdraw his forces from north-west Italy back to a line based on the Alps to Lake Garda, the Mincio and the Po, in order to avoid the risk of encirclement. This would mean that Fifth Army would be relieved of any threat to its left flank and could concentrate its weight on the right in a thrust across the Po at Ostiglia directed on Mantua and Verona. Eighth Army's main task on arriving in the plain must be to capture Venice, for until we could obtain the use of its port our lines of communication would be stretched to the limit and maintenance of any large force made most difficult. This would mean an advance on the axis Ferrara - Padua -Treviso, forcing in succession the Po, Adige and Brenta, and would certainly require the employment of all available formations, including 13 Corps. It is interesting to note that the axes of exploitation here given were those on which the Armies advanced after the great victory of Spring 1945.\n\n#### Disposition of Opposing Forces110\n\nWhen the attack opened the forces under Kesselring's command totalled twenty-six German divisions and two Italian; they were fairly well up to strength, for drafts in June, July and August amounted to some sixty thousand. There had been certain changes in the order of battle. At the end of July the Hermann Goering Panzer Division, which had been active in the Mediterranean theatre ever since it was formed, and first saw service in Tunisia, had been withdrawn to the East Prussian front. To replace it Kesselring received, in August, 98 Infantry Division which had been re-forming in the Zagreb area after its severe losses in the Crimea. In August two more mobile divisions, 3 and 15 Panzer Grenadier, were withdrawn for the western front; the two infantry divisions to replace them did not arrive until September. The Allied invasion of Southern France added two more German divisions to the order of battle in Italy, 148 Infantry and the 157 Mountain111 Divisions. These were originally in Nineteenth Army but the rapid advance up the Rhone cut them off from their parent formation and they fell back on the Maritime Alps, coming under Kesselring's command. This invasion had, in its early stages, had the effect of weakening the forces opposing us. On getting wind of the preparations for the assault, which it was impossible to conceal, Kesselring decided that the blow was about to fall on the Ligurian coast. He therefore hastily moved 90 Panzer Grenadier Division to Genoa. It arrived there on 13th August, but when the real invasion came, two days later, it was re-directed to the Franco-Italian frontier.\n\nIn the two armies opposing us on the main battle front there were nineteen divisions. Tenth Army held the eastern half of the line, from the Adriatic to the inter-army boundary just west of Pontassieve, with LXXVI Panzer Corps left and LI Mountain Corps right; these Corps Headquarters had recently exchanged sectors. LXXVI Corps, from the sea to the area of Sansepolcro, had three divisions forward and two in reserve, all infantry and one, the 71st, at only half strength. 278 Infantry Division, on the seaward flank, after fighting a continuous withdrawal all the way up the Adriatic coast since June, had been badly shaken by the Poles in the heavy fighting from Ancona to the Metauro. Of the two divisions in reserve 162 (Turkoman) Infantry Division was not of high quality but the other was the famous 1 Parachute Division. This was resting in the rear of 278 Division on the coast and it was intended that the latter should withdraw through it for a badly needed rest in a quieter sector of the line. The mountainous sector of LI Corps, from Sansepolcro to Pontassieve, was held by five infantry divisions, mainly those which had suffered most in the retreat from Rome, such as the 44th, 114th and 334th. There was one infantry division, the recently arrived 98th, in Army reserve near Bologna. Fourteenth Army, from Pontassieve to the coast, had eight divisions, also divided between two Corps, 1 Parachute left and XIV Panzer right with the inter-Corps boundary at Empoli. The former had 4 Parachute and two infantry divisions, the latter 26 Panzer, 16 S.S. Panzer Grenadier and one infantry division. Army reserve consisted of 29 Panzer Grenadiers, north of Florence, and 20 Luftwaffe Field Division, which had now finally absorbed the remains of 19 Division, on the coast between the western end of the \"Gothic\" line and Viareggio.\n\nIt is more difficult to adduce these dispositions as a definite proof of the success of our cover plan than in the case of the spring offensive but they do show a tendency to concentrate on the defence of the central sector rather than the east coast. Particularly significant is the fact that, of the three divisions in Army reserve, one was near Bologna and a second, the only mobile reserve, was between Florence and Bologna.112 The enemy's order of battle on the east coast was not impressive except for the parachutists and the event soon showed that it would need heavy reinforcements if this sector of the front was to beheld. It also showed, unfortunately, the inevitable limitations of any cover plan: the two sectors which alone it was logical to threaten were, on the German side though not on our own, so closely connected by good lateral communications that reserves intended for the one could very rapidly be diverted to the other.\n\nIn northern Italy the Italians were now coming a little more into the picture. Marshal Graziani, Commander-in-Chief of the Fascist Republican Forces, was given command of a mixed Italo-Germany \"Army of Liguria\" of two Italian and two and a half German divisions. With these he was responsible for the coast from the French frontier to Spezia; the more important sectors, on the French border and covering Genoa and Spezia, were held by German troops. After the Allied invasion of France this command was increased by the addition of the two divisions from Nineteenth Army and 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, raising the Army of Liguria to a total of seven divisions. It played, however, a purely defensive r\u00f4le throughout. In the northeast, under Army Group command, the Germans had a reserve mountain division and one infantry division, the 94th, which was re-forming after its serious losses.\n\nAgainst these forces we had twenty divisions and eight brigades. Eighth Army accounted for eleven divisions, all but two of which were in the three attacking Corps. On the right was the Polish Corps with 3 and 5 Divisions and an armoured brigade along the Metauro from the Adriatic on a front of about seven miles. Next, on a narrow front of just over two miles, covered by a screen of Polish units, was the Canadian Corps with 1 Infantry and 5 Armoured Divisions, supported by a British tank brigade. To the west, covering about twenty miles of front, was 5 Corps, the strongest of the attacking Corps, with two infantry divisions, 46 and 4 Indian, in the line and 1 Armoured and 4 and 56 Infantry Divisions, plus two armoured brigades, in reserve.10 Corps covered lightly, with 10 Indian Division and a mixed brigade group, the area stretching from the upper Tiber valley to the Army boundary on the Pratomagno. In Army reserve was 2 New Zealand Division, to be reinforced by 3 Greek Mountain Brigade when the latter arrived from the Middle East. At the time the attack went in the New Zealanders were moving from the Siena area to concentrate between Falconara and Iesi.\n\nFifth Army had three Corps in line, accounting for the remaining nine divisions, four of them British. 13 Corps, on the right of the Army front, held the area from the Pratomagno range to about two miles west of Florence. In the line were 1 infantry, 6 Armoured and 8 Indian Divisions, supported by 1 Canadian Armoured Brigade. II Corps held a narrow sector of about four miles immediately on the left of 13 Corps; it had three infantry divisions under command, the 34th, 88th and 91st. All these were in reserve and the front was held by an independent Japanese-American Regimental Combat Team. On its left was IV Corps, responsible for the line of the Arno from due south of Prato to the sea; under command were the 1 Armoured and 85 Infantry Divisions, a Regimental Combat Team of 92 (Negro) Infantry Division, which was in process of arriving, and \"Task Force 45\", the improvised formation I have already referred to. 6 South African Armoured Division was moving to come under command of IV Corps to relieve 85 Infantry Division, which was to pass to II Corps. Like Eighth Army, therefore, Fifth Army had its greatest strength on its right; IV Corps duplicated the r\u00f4le of 10 Corps in holding a long defensive sector with minimum forces.\n\nAs will be seen, we had all our goods in the shop window and it was impossible for me to create a central reserve with which to influence the battle. This was less important than it might seem, however, in view of the nature of the plan. The two Armies were fighting, in the opening stages, essentially separate battles and each of them had a strong striking Corps, 5 and II Corps, with plenty of reserves. In a sense, Fifth Army might be regarded as the Army Group reserve, for in the two-handed strategy which I planned its blow would be held back until the moment seemed right.\n\n#### Opening of the Offensive.\n\nEighth Army's attack went in as planned an hour before midnight on 25th August. The opening stages were silent but a barrage was fired at midnight to cover the advance from the bridgeheads over the Metauro river. By dawn on the 26th all the five assaulting divisions were deep across the river, more or less without opposition. It soon became obvious that we had caught the Germans in the middle of a fairly complicated withdrawal and regrouping movement; their intention was to pass 278 Division back through 1 Parachute Division and bring it across to the western flank of LXXVI Corps where it would relieve 5 Mountain Division which was to move to the French frontier to relieve 90 Panzer Grenadier Division. The enemy was, therefore, prepared to yield ground and the fact that he was falling back voluntarily as we advanced made it difficult for him to detect the greater weight of our attacks on this occasion compared with the following-up attacks by which the Poles had up to now been pressing him back up the Adriatic coast. Eighth Army's secret concentration had completely escaped his notice; the presence of some new troops in the former Polish sector had indeed been established but, having overestimated the Polish casualties in the battle for Ancona, where his own losses had been heavy, he had in any case been expecting the Poles to be relieved. Moreover, there was still some twelve miles to go before the \"Gothic\" line was reached and the Germans probably expected us to delay our formal attack until we had actually reached it.\n\nThe effects of this German misappreciation lasted for some time and it was not until the 29th that the German Corps Commander issued a strong Order of the Day which showed that he had at last realized that a serious attempt at a break-through was intended. In spite of this on the 30th elements of both 5 Corps and the Canadians crossed the River Foglia and captured the advanced positions of the \"Gothic\" line before the enemy had time to man them. On 31st August and 1st September a further advance gave us a stretch of the main defences some twenty miles long, from the coast to Monte Calvo. The works were not manned, many of the minefields were still carefully marked and set at safe and in one case some recently arrived troops were actually captured while sweeping out the bunkers which they were to occupy. The parachutists, all of whom had acknowledged, by initialling, an order from Kesselring stating that the \"Gothic\" line was the last hope in Italy before the Brenner and that they were to hold their positions for three weeks, pulled out of Pesaro on the night of 1st September and raced back behind the Conca. In the fighting so far they had suffered very heavily, up to half the strength with which they went into action; it was only their hasty retreat which prevented them from being encircled by an outflanking move of the Polish Corps.\n\nAs always the Germans were quick to recover from their surprise. By 29th August a regiment from 26 Panzer Division, brought across from west of Empoli, had arrived and gone into action on the River Foglia; it was soon followed by the rest of the division. This was a standard manoeuvre; we had seen before, for instance in the Anzio crisis, the rapid transference of this division, now Kesselring's only armoured division, from one flank of the Army Group to the other, but this time it was committed so hastily and so unprepared that it suffered unduly heavy losses. At the same time 98 Division was committed from Army reserve. It fought with great vigour in this its first action in Italy and its casualties too were heavy. A regiment from 162 Turkoman Division was a less useful reinforcement. Finally, with that readiness to accept risks which had marked Kesselring's strategy throughout the campaign, and had gone far to retrieve the initial disasters to German arms which his invariable misreading of our intentions always incurred, the enemy Commander-in-Chief now removed his last reserve from the centre and left, 29 Panzer Grenadier Division, and despatched it in haste eastwards. The first elements of the division were in action by 4th September, but the bulk did not arrive until the 6th. On the latter day also a regiment of 5 Mountain Division, which had been taken out of the line on its way to the French frontier, was halted and brought back into the line.\n\nIt had been a great success for Eighth Army. By a combination of surprise in preparation and dash in the attack they had swept through a fortified line which had been twelve months in preparation almost as though it were not there. Only two assets now remained to Kesselring to retrieve the situation: the excellence of his lateral communications and the fact that the \"Gothic\" line had been built on the forward slopes of the range. The importance of the former factor in allowing a rapid reinforcement I have already emphasized; the latter meant that there was still one more ridge between the Allies and the plains, known from the village on its summit as the Coriano ridge. The Canadians were already over the Conca, on 2nd September, and 5 Corps were about to pass I Armoured Division through in a dash for the flat country beyond. Just in time Kesselring succeeded in manning the Coriano ridge with 1 Parachute, 26 Panzer and 29 Panzer Grenadier Divisions; these three excellent divisions, aided by very heavy rain from 5th to 7th September, resisted all attacks between the 4th and the 12th both on the ridge itself and on its southern flank at Gemmano.\n\nAs Eighth Army's offensive developed its full extent the enemy was forced to economize strength on the remainder of his front by withdrawing into the \"Gothic\" line. This was essential if he were to be able to make further reinforcements available for his left; it was also a natural measure of precaution in case a real break-through was achieved for, apart from LXXVI Corps, now engaged with Eighth Army, the rest of the German troops were still well south of the watershed of the Apennines. The withdrawal began on 30th August. LI Mountain Corps, between Urbino and Pontassieve, moved straight back into the line on a timed programme, releasing one division for the central sector, and 10 Corps, following up, made contact with the line on 3rd September. At the same time the enemy opposite Fifth Army began to pull back. On the extreme right they went back almost directly into the \"Gothic\" line. Opposite 13 Corps, however, the enemy stabilized on 3rd September on the line of hills north of Florence: Monte Morello, Monte Senario, Monte Calvana and Monte Giovi. IV Corps followed up across the Arno on 31st August and II Corps on 1st September. Little resistance was met and we were able to occupy the northern part of Pisa on the 2nd, Lucca on the 6th and Pistoia on the 12th.\n\nThis enemy withdrawal made it easier to concentrate forward the Fifth Army troops which were to launch the second punch of my two-handed attack on the \"Gothic\" line. Moreover, in the course of the withdrawal Kesselring still further weakened his centre, from which he had already removed 29 Panzer Grenadier Division, by relieving 356 Infantry Division and sending it over to the Adriatic. I decided, therefore, that the time was almost come for the Fifth Army attack to go in. I visited Eighth Army front on 8th September and it was clear to me from what I saw there that we could not continue our advance on to Rimini until we had driven the enemy off the Coriano ridge. This would need full preparation and would probably take two or three days more. I explained the situation in a signal next day, 9th September, and concluded by saying that for these reasons I had decided to unleash Fifth Army who would now go ahead with their offensive in the centre. The enemy's forces there were as weak as we could ever expect them to be and he was obligingly withdrawing from the high ground north of Florence without serious resistance, which saved us time and trouble. As soon as Fifth Army had forced the enemy back to the \"Gothic\" line they would launch a full-scale attack to break through and by that time I hoped Eighth Army would be just about ready for their attack on the Rimini positions and that we should be able to prevent Kesselring from shifting reserves from one Army front to another by keeping up a series of heavy blows by our two Armies in turn. The weather had improved and I hoped for a fine spell - another reason for launching Fifth Army then.\n\nAll preparations for Fifth Army's attack had been made by 8th September. The main blow was to be delivered by II Corps but, in order to gain surprise, its concentration was to be secret and it was to be launched into the attack through 13 Corps. The plan was that 13 Corps should attack first with 8 Indian Division to capture the line of hills from Monte Morello to Monte Giovi, already mentioned, then, in the second phase, II Corps would pass through the left of 13 Corps with its four divisions (34th, 85th, 88th and 91st) and advance up the axis Florence - Firenzuola. 13 Corps would shift its main thrust to the right and continue to advance up the two roads Dicomano to Forli and Borgo San Lorenzo to Faenza. IV Corps was to exert the maximum pressure in its area with 6 South African Armoured Division, a Negro Regimental Combat Team and \"Task Force 45\" and release I Armoured Division for Army reserve to be used if a chance of exploitation arose.\n\nThis plan could not be carried out in its original form, for on 8th September the enemy withdrew voluntarily from the line of hills which was to have been 13 Corps' objective in the first phase. This was gratifying in itself and represented a further gain in that it gave us the chance of launching an attack on an enemy already engaged in withdrawing which, as Eighth Army's experience had shown, was one of the surest means of obtaining surprise. On 10th September, therefore, 91 and 34 Divisions of II Corps passed through I British Infantry Division on the left of 13 Corps, astride Route 65, and began an advance directed on the \"Gothic\" line north of the River Sieve. Considerable gains were made on the 10th and IIth as both Corps pressed on across the Sieve in face of little resistance, capturing Dicomano, Borgo San Lorenzo and Scarperia. The Germans offered only delaying resistance as they drew back into the \"Gothic\" line but the weight of the Allied attack surprised and disconcerted them and pushed them back quicker than they had expected or were prepared for. It was not until the strong position of Monte Calvi was captured on the 12th that it became clear that this was not merely an attack to gain contact with the line but to break through it.\n\n#### Simultaneous Attacks by Fifth and Eighth Armies.\n\nOn the night of 12th September Eighth Army reopened its attack on the Coriano ridge and in the early morning of the 13th Fifth Army began the assault of the main \"Gothic\" line positions in the centre. This marked the beginning of a week of perhaps the heaviest fighting on both fronts that either Army had yet experienced. The Canadians on the right and 5 Corps on the left of Eighth Army succeeded in getting onto the Coriano ridge in their first attack, capturing over a thousand prisoners on the first day. The second phase was to exploit across the River Marano. The Germans, though shaken, were clearly determined to expend every effort to deny us Rimini and concentrated strong forces on a line running from the mountain on which is perched the small republic of San Marino to the sea in front of Rimini; on the coast the front was protected by the River Ausa and in the centre of the position by a strongpoint on the hill crowned by the village of San Fortunato, the last piece of high ground before the plains. Reinforcements continued to arrive. Before the battle for Coriano, Kesselring had brought over three divisions to the Adriatic sector from his centre and right; he now took another infantry division from the centre, the 356th, and another from the right, 20 Luftwaffe Field Division, and on the 19th added a regimental group from 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, brought from the French frontier. Kesselring had thus doubled the strength of his forces originally facing Eighth Army by the transfer of the equivalent of five divisions, but shortly after the attack on Rimini began he had to withdraw entirely two divisions to re-form. The importance which he attached to the Adriatic sector was based largely on the fact that, if he were driven off the Apennines, he would have to withdraw in a north-easterly direction to avoid being penned up against the Swiss and French frontiers, and this sector would be the vital hinge on which to swing back his exposed right. The transfer of 20 Luftwaffe Field Division113 was particularly significant for, as it passed behind the centre of the front, the first strongpoints of the \"Gothic\" line on the direct road to Bologna were already falling.\n\nIn spite of these reinforcements Eighth Army continued to make steady progress. They won a bridgehead over the Marano and by the 15th had advanced nearly three thousand yards north of it. The New Zealanders were now brought into the battle and a full-scale attack was launched on the 18th. After a desperate three day struggle San Fortunato was cleared on the 20th and the same night the Greeks, under command of I Canadian Division, entered Rimini. I was glad that this success had so early brightened the fortunes of that heroic country which had been the only ally to fight by our side in our darkest days and that a new victory in Italy should be added to the fame won in the mountains of Albania. More disheartening was a sudden fall of torrential rain, also on the night of the 20th, undercover of which the enemy withdrew across the broad and swollen Marecchia river. Only one bridge survived, the bridge built by Tiberius, nineteen hundred years ago, which had outlived the drums and tramplings of many conquests, and now carried troops from the Antipodes across the river onto the Via Emilia. As our patrols pushed forward on the 21st into the plains so long hoped for and so fiercely fought for the deluge foreboded a future of clogging mud and brimming watercourses.\n\nII Corps' main offensive on the \"Gothic\" line began on the morning of 13th September when 85 Division moved forward to the attack through I British Infantry Division. The strongest enemy defences were at the Futa pass on the watershed crossed by the main road from Florence to Bologna, Route 65; General Clark had therefore decided to make his principal thrust to the east of this road up the Firenzuola road, using the Giogo pass. 13 Corps was to apply its main weight simultaneously to assist II Corps and to open the Marradi road. As I have already explained, the Germans had seriously weakened their force in this sector but the fanaticism and skill of 4 Parachute Division made up for this and initially little progress was made. On the centre of 13 Corps front, however, 8 Indian Division advanced across the trackless mountains, operating by night, and by the 15th had broken through the line in their sector and reached the watershed on the Alpe di Vitigliano, looking down on the Marradi road. This was the first breach of the \"Gothic\" line in the centre. On the 17th combined attacks by I British and 85 United States Divisions, directed against the junction of the enemy's Tenth and Fourteenth Armies, captured Monte Pratone, and on the same day the enemy resistance at last broke under the weight of our attack. Poggio Signorini, Monte Altuzzo, Monte Verruca and Monticelli were all occupied, and with these heights went possession of the Giogo Pass. Now it was time for Kesselring to scrape up reinforcements for yet another part of his front. He drew them from the right of the line and from the sector between the two Allied thrusts; from the former came 362 Division, which arrived on the 19th to cover Firenzuola, and from the latter 44 Division on the 21st to take over the sector of the Firenzuola - Imola road.\n\nFifth Army had now, by 18th September, got both its attacking Corps firmly on to the watershed. The terrain which there faced them presented a totally different picture from that in which they had been operating hitherto. So far they had been climbing up a steep ascent where the mountains offer a nearly continuous wall running east and west at right angles to the line of advance; once the line of the passes is reached the whole grain of the country is reversed and the mountains begin to trend north-eastwards in gradually descending spurs separated from each other by the valleys of swift rivers which drain into the plains of Lombardy. For the greater part of their course in the mountains these rivers run through deep gorges which offer no scope for deployment or manoeuvre but in a few places, as at Firenzuola on the upper Santerno, the valleys open out and it is possible for artillery and transport to deploy. The mountain spurs, as I said, descend gradually, and for nearly half their total length their height is very little less than that of the watershed, with isolated higher peaks offering good command of the surrounding terrain. There was little advantage, therefore, in the fact that we were now going, according to the map, \"downhill\"; the immense difficulties of supply to the forward troops and deployment of our strength in artillery still remained. So bad and so scanty were the forward routes that our lines of communication, the more we advanced, became more of a drag on our progress while the enemy, as his lines shortened, reaped proportionate advantages.\n\nIn spite of the enemy reinforcement Fifth Army still retained sufficient momentum from its capture of the Giogo pass to press down into the valley of the Santerno. On 21st September, 85 Infantry Division captured Firenzuola, and, pressing on north, stormed the strong position of Monte la Fine, west of the Imola road. On its right II Corps had put in, on the 21st, its last fresh division, 88 Infantry, with the task of clearing the east side of the Imola road. The 88th pressed on over desperately difficult country and on the 27th seized Monte La Battaglia, a great mountain mass dominating the Senio and Santerno valleys on either hand and only ten miles from Imola and the Emilian plain. The enemy now reacted with great vigour and began a series of most violent counter-attacks with elements of four divisions; these and the increasing difficulties of our communications brought a halt to our advance on Imola. 13 Corps during this time had had the task of protecting II Corps' right; it had still the same three divisions forward with which it had fought its way up from the Arno valley. Its sector of operations was dictated by the road-net and its main efforts must be down the roads to Faenza and Forli. On 24th September it captured Marradi on the former and San Benedetto on the latter. Meanwhile the left of II Corps had also been making good progress where 91 and 34 Divisions were advancing up the direct routes from Florence to Bologna. On the 21st the fate of the strong Futa Pass positions was sealed by the capture of Monte Gazzarro (or Guzzaso) on its eastern flank and by the 28th Route 65 was clear as far as the northern end of the Radicosa Pass, the second main pass on the Florence - Bologna road. On the Prato - Bologna road 34 Division had kept level until, on a change of corps boundaries at midnight 28th-29th September, they were relieved by the South Africans when just short of Castiglione dei Pepoli. Between them and the coast the task of IV Corps was to follow up the enemy; this had brought us by the 28th to a line some five miles north of Pistoia and running from there over the mountains north of Lucca to the coastal plain about three miles short of Massa where the western end of the \"Gothic\" line was secured by strong defences anchored on the sea. Viareggio was entered on 16th September by a British converted anti-aircraft battery of \"Task Force 45\". 6 Regimental Combat Team of the Brazilian Expeditionary Force took over a sector of the line on 16th September. This was the first contingent of an Allied South American state to see action in this war. While it was gaining battle experience it played a valuable r\u00f4le in holding an important part of the defensive front.\n\nThe \"Gothic\" line was now completely turned at its eastern end and pierced over a wide front in the centre. By the end of September the enemy had decided to abandon such of the prepared positions as still remained in his hands except for a small sector in the extreme west. In thus depriving the enemy of the permanent defences on which he had worked so long the Allied Armies in Italy had scored a great success, won at a great price, but it was difficult to exploit. The furthest advance had been made, as was intended, by the Eighth Army, which had advanced some thirty miles in twenty-six days. In a letter to me summing up the results of the action to date, written on 21st September, General Leese said he considered the fighting to have been as bitter as at Alamein and Cassino. The German artillery fire was very heavy and well-directed and the many counter-attacks were made in considerable strength; one village changed hands ten times. Eighth Army claimed to have \"severely mauled\" eleven German divisions and taken over eight thousand prisoners. The cost was over fourteen thousand casualties, of which over seven thousand in British infantry units, and two hundred and ten tanks lost. The tanks were easily replaceable, but the men were not and I was forced to take very unwelcome measures to keep up the strength of formations. I British Armoured Division, which had played a distinguished part in so many battles in Africa, was to be disbanded in less than three months after its arrival in Italy. A brigade of 56 Division was be reduced to a cadre basis. Finally, all United Kingdom infantry battalions were to be reorganised at once on the basis of three rifle companies.114 Yet, although the price had been heavy, no one in Eighth Army doubted that a real victory had been gained, for it was confidently expected that, after breaking into the flat country of the Romagna, we should be able to exploit rapidly to the Po. It was not long, however, before, as the Eighth Army historian puts it, \"the tactical implications of the local agricultural methods were realized\" and the continuous water lines were found to be more serious obstacles than the mountains.\n\nNot only the Eighth Army replacement situation but the general manpower situation of the Allied Armies in Italy was such as to give rise to anxiety. I explained the main features to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff on 21st September. After the loss of seven divisions to the invasion of Southern France the promised reinforcements to Italy, after deducting other subsequent decreases, had only amounted to one and a half divisions, including 78 Division, which would not be available until the first week in October. On that date, therefore, the net loss would be five and a half divisions. The enemy, on the other hand, had continued to reinforce Italy. Since May Kesselring had lost to other fronts three of his original twenty-three German divisions and had disbanded one other. In return he had received from elsewhere ten divisions and three divisions' worth of extra replacements; one of the new arrivals had now been likewise disbanded which left him with twenty-eight German divisions all told.115 To this should be added two Italian divisions which were at least useful for internal security duties. Even without counting the Italians the net German gains were five divisions, or eight if the three \"shadow\" divisions, incorporated as replacements in three of the original divisions, are counted. Summing up I said:\n\n> \"To put it briefly, we shall have to continue the battle of Italy with about twenty divisions, almost all of which have had long periods of heavy fighting this year, and some for several years, against the twenty German divisions committed to the battle front, with the prospect of four more German divisions, and probably two Italian divisions, joining in the battle at a later stage. We are inflicting very heavy losses on the enemy and are making slow but steady progress, but our losses are also heavy and we are fighting in country where, it is generally agreed, a superiority of at least three to one is required for successful offensive operations. It will be small wonder, therefore, if we fail to score a really decisive success when the opposing forces are so equally matched\".\n\nI was naturally fully conscious that by thus battling on against odds we were fulfilling our function in the grand strategy of the war, whatever the cost and even though we were to make no progress on the ground at all. I was repeatedly reminded that this was the crisis of the war and that now more than ever it was vital to hold down the maximum forces in Italy, away from the vital theatres in east and west.116 From this point of view the balance of strength in Italy was definitely in our favour and I was determined to keep it so; but I could not help considering the question of how long I could keep up the pressure. With the present relationship between the opposing forces, even though enemy casualties exceeded ours, it would be impossible to continue hammering away at full stretch indefinitely, and to suspend operations, if the suspension were long extended, would be to renounce the whole object of the campaign. The first relief I could expect would be from the newly formed Italian Combat Groups; they were still an unknown quantity but would at least be useful in a defensive r\u00f4le. The first was expected to be ready by the end of October, the second by the middle of November; two more by the middle of December and two by January. In the event only five were formed; Cremona, Mantova, Folgore, Legnano and Friuli. Cremona was the first to see active service, in January 1945. The Brazilians were also an unknown quantity, though they were well equipped and in good strength. They gave a good account of themselves in the final offensive of the following spring. The coloured troops of the United States 92 Infantry Division proved unsuited for modern combat conditions; the division was eventually reorganized, and made into an effective formation by incorporating one Japanese-American and one white American Regimental Combat Team, the latter formed from converted anti-aircraft gunners.\n\n#### Eighth Army enters the Romagna.\n\nI have already alluded to the difficulties of operations in the Romagna and the fact that water was now the main obstacle to Eighth Army's advance rather than high ground. The whole area is nothing but a great reclaimed swamp - and not wholly reclaimed in some parts - formed by the lower courses of numerous rivers flowing down from the Apennines in their new north-easterly direction. The principal rivers are, in order from east to west, the Uso, the Savio, the Ronco, the Montone (these last two after their confluence take the name of Fiumi Uniti), the Lamone, the Senio, the Santerno, the Sillaro and the Idice; these are only the principal rivers and there are hundreds of smaller streams, canals and irrigation ditches in between them. By these, and by canalization of the main rivers, the primitive swamp had been drained after centuries of patient effort and, as the water flowed off, so the level of the ground sank; the river beds were thereby left higher than the surrounding ground and as soon as they descend into the plain all these rivers need high banks on either side to keep them in their course and to guard against the sudden rise of level which heavy rainfall in the mountains invariably causes. Even in the best drained areas the soil remembers its marshy origin and when rained on forms the richest mud known to the Italian theatre. It will be seen, therefore, that under autumn conditions we should have difficulty in making full use of our armoured superiority. Tanks were hampered also by the intensive cultivation, and in particular by the vineyards. The Germans had prepared fieldworks and well-studied plans for defence on all the main waterlines and were determined to offer the most stubborn resistance in this vital sector. To Kesselring his eastern flank was the pivot which, if a withdrawal was forced on him, he would have to hold firmly in order to swing back his right into a position blocking the approaches to Austria through north-eastern Italy, whether that position was based on the line of the Po and Ticino or the Adige. The pivot was not, however, in serious danger until he was forced back to a line between the Valli di Comacchio, a large lagoon on the Adriatic shore, south of the Po, and Bologna in the south-west. Before that position was reached he had reason to hope that the cumulative effect of so many opposed river crossings and the deterioration of the weather would bring Eighth Army's offensive to a standstill.\n\nThe Canadians crossed the Marecchia by Rimini on 21st September and the next day the New Zealanders passed through I Canadian Division to exploit up the coast. 5 Corps also reached the river on the 22nd, having mopped up the Coriano area, and on the 23rd exploited forward to make contact with the ridge between the Marecchia and the Uso. By the 25th the enemy was generally back behind the Uso but not in very good order and advances were made all along the Army front. In the plains we had cleared the whole eastern bank of the Fiumicino by 29th September but the enemy was still holding out in the foothills south of Route 9 when the rain descended with great violence for four successive days. All the fords over the Marecchia and Uso became impassable and the approaches to the bridges, necessarily more congested, were in very bad condition; the Fiumicino, normally a shallow trickle, swelled to a width of thirty feet and its speed and depth made it impossible for infantry patrols to cross. Going off the roads became quite impossible. The enemy took heart from this to maintain a steadfast resistance and it was not until 5th October that the Fiumicino was reached all along the 5 Corps front.117\n\nDuring the period while Fifth and Eighth Armies were developing their main attacks 10 Corps, acting as the connecting link between the two forces (but under command of Eighth Army), had been following up and hastening the enemy's withdrawal on the axis of Route 71; the Arezzo - Cesena road. Its frontage was very extensive for its small strength but the enemy also was weak in this sector. On 24th September the watershed was gained after a stiff fight for the Mandrioli Pass, for which the enemy put up a strong defence. After this heavy rains prevented further operations until 30th September; the division and the armoured brigade under command were transferred to the Adriatic sector and replaced by I Guards Brigade Group and 2 Anti-Aircraft Brigade from Fifth Army for use as infantry. With these forces, reinforced by three dismounted armoured car regiments and three independent infantry battalions, it was impossible to force the pace. The enemy, however, continued to withdraw and by 6th October 10 Corps had gained a position astride Route 71 on the upper reaches of the Savio, not much more than fifteen miles from Cesena.\n\n#### Fifth Army resumes the Attack on Bologna.\n\nThe furthest point in Fifth Army's advance down the Imola road had been reached with the capture of Monte La Battaglia on 27th September. While the enemy was expending his strength in vain counter-attacks to recapture this vital position, attempts which continued until they died down from exhaustion on 6th October,118 General Clark decided to take advantage of the progress made by the left wing of II Corps to concentrate the main weight of the Corps on the axis of Route 65, the direct road to Bologna. The factors which had militated against the choice of this axis for the original attack no longer applied, since we had now left well behind the strong defences and difficult terrain of the Futa Pass and were over the Radicosa Pass as well. Accordingly 13 Corps were to take over responsibility for the Imola axis and were to relieve 88 Division on Monte La Battaglia. I felt that this new drive would be the climax of our operations in the mountains; the season was already far advanced and the break in the weather had come earlier than usual;119 unless we could get through now we were likely to be stuck in the mountains for the winter. In order, therefore, to give the maximum weight possible to the attack, and since all three divisions in 13 Corps were very tired after continuous fighting, I decided on 2nd October to reinforce it with 78 Division, my only fresh formation, just back from a restful tour of duty in the Middle East. Even with this addition, as I reported on the same date, I feared that \"we may not be quite strong enough to carry it through\". General Clark's plan was to continue to press forward with the troops already in the line, resting one regiment from 85, 88 and 91 Divisions and then to bring in these rested troops on 10th October in a concentrated attack. 13 Corps was to conform by attacking on the right of II Corps with its existing forces and then, relieving 88 Division with the 78th, to attack in concert with the Americans down the Santerno valley onto Route 9 northwest of Imola.\n\nII Corps' new drive had started on 1st October with 85 Division advancing east of Route 65 and the 91st on the road itself, supported by diversionary attacks by 88 and 34 Divisions on the right and left flanks respectively. On 2nd October the relief of 88 Division on Monte La Battaglia began, in the first place by I Guards Brigade. The badness of the roads and tracks in rear of the position severely hampered the relief; the rain also continued remorselessly. On the left of II Corps good progress was made. On 2nd October 91 Division captured the village of Monghidoro, twenty-five miles by road from Bologna, and on the 3rd 34 Division captured Monte Venere, a commanding height to the west of the large village of Loiano. On the right 85 Division had reached the head waters of the River Idice. By the 4th II Corps had made good an advance of some four miles in two days against strong resistance and in abominable weather. Loiano, twenty-two miles from Bologna, fell to 91 Division on the 5th. On the same day 6 South African Armoured Division came under direct Fifth Army command with the task of operating on the left of II Corps up the Prato -Castiglione road; it had under it 24 Guards Brigade, an an independent Indian battalion (6\/13 Frontier Force Rifles) and Combat Command \"B\" of I U.S. Armoured Division.\n\nSlowly the advance on Bologna continued, with gains of the nature of two thousand yards in a day; for although we had now left the \"Gothic\" line defences far behind and were attacking, in a sense, downhill, the complexities of the mountain structure, the rain and the fanaticism of the defenders made every advance a hard fought struggle. The attack increased in intensity on 10th October when 88 Division, now completely relieved by 13 Corps, attacked simultaneously with 85 Division to the east of Route 65 and with 91 Division on the axis of the road itself. The enemy was now reinforcing fast.120 65 Division had already been brought round from the western sector and put in in a narrow sector on the Bologna road and, on the 13th, 44 Division, which had been taken out for a rest, was re-committed. The troops were encouraged by a personal order from Hitler, read out to all ranks on 6th October, that the Apennine position was to be held at all costs. On the 14th Vietinghoff decided to run risks in his vital left sector and began to bring across 29 Panzer Grenadier Division from the front opposite Eighth Army. In spite of this our advance continued. On the 12th 85 Division captured Monte delle Formiche, a two thousand foot peak to the east of the main road and level with Livergnano, a village only twelve miles by road from Bologna. Fighting continued for Livergnano itself from the 10th to the 15th. On the same day 34 Division, which had been relieved on the left of the Corps by I Armoured Division, took over a new sector between 91 and 85 Divisions, to strengthen the attack east of Route 65.\n\nThe climax of the assault was reached between 20th and 24th October. On the 20th 88 Division attacked and seized the great _massif_ of Monte Grande and Monte Cerere. On the 22nd the same division captured La Costa, only four miles from Route 9 and on the 23rd 34 Division captured Monte Belmonte, about ten miles east of Route 65 and nine miles from the centre of Bologna. That same night 78 Division stormed Monte Spaduro for which the Irish Brigade had been struggling since the 20th. This was Fifth Army's finest effort of the winter campaign. For the Germans it was a real crisis, for a relatively small advance would put the Allies on Route 9, behind Tenth Army; the front would be split and even an immediate withdrawal might lead to disaster. The only course was to hope that we might be so exhausted by the struggle in the mountains as to be incapable of that supreme effort. As he had done at Cassino, Vietinghoff decided to hold on in that hope and to make the parallel still closer and strengthen the hope he brought across from opposite Eighth Army the two divisions famous for the defence of Cassino, 90 Panzer Grenadier and 1 Parachute Division. With the arrival of the remainder of 29 Panzer Grenadier Division the three best divisions in Italy barred the way to the plain. Assisted by torrential rains and winds of gale force, and by Fifth Army's exhaustion, the German line held firm. On 27th October I agreed to General Clark's assumption of the defensive.\n\nTo be robbed of a decisive success after so long and sanguinary a struggle was the more bitter in that the price already paid would have been heavy even if paid for victory. I cannot sufficiently express my admiration for the way in which the troops of Fifth Army, in spite of the most arduous and exhausting conditions, in mud and snow, returned again and again to the attack on one mountain position after another, regardless of the heavy and continuous losses which thinned their ranks. Casualties had been mounting steadily during the long drawn-out offensive, more particularly in II Corps, and, as with Eighth Army, a serious replacement crisis had arisen. On 9th October General Clark informed me that by 1st November, at the present rate of wastage, he would be eight thousand infantry short for his United States divisions which would mean a shortage of seventy-five men per rifle company. He had already asked General Devers,121 Deputy Supreme Commander, if he could be allotted replacements from the pool scheduled for Seventh Army, which was in the theatre. General Devers did not feel able to comply with this request and on 15th October, as a last resort, I signalled personally to General Eisenhower to ask him if he could allot Fifth Army three thousand replacements from the resources of the European Theatre of Operations. This was rather a roundabout method, as replacements for Seventh Army, i.e. France, were then sailing from Naples and it would have been quicker to have diverted them northwards than to fetch fresh ones from France. General Eisenhower at once undertook to examine the matter urgently and replied on the 21st that he was proceeding to despatch our three thousand men immediately by air. It was a fine example of General Eisenhower's ready grasp of the big strategic picture and his willingness to cut through red tape to assist a friend in need. It also illustrates the advantage the Allies drew from our command of the facilities of air transport.\n\n#### Eighth Army's Advance from the Fiumicino to the Ronco.\n\nOn 1st October General McCreery assumed command of Eighth Army in succession to General Leese, who had been appointed to command Allied Land Forces in Southeastern Asia. It was a well-deserved promotion for one who had worthily carried on the traditions established by General Montgomery and who had made his mark on the campaign in Italy by his handling of large forces in the Liri valley battles. General McCreery had commanded 10 Corps since the first landings at Salerno. That operation might be said to typify the kind of task in which he had ever since been engaged, the achievement of vital results with limited resources, by hard fighting in difficult terrain where a scientific adjustment of means to ends called for constant changes of tactics and all the craft of generalship. The first crossing of the Garigliano, and the operations east of Arezzo, are further examples of his successful use of the strategy of deception. I was well acquainted with General McCreery's qualities as a scientific soldier with a gift for the offensive from the time when he had been my Chief of Staff for the Alamein campaign and onward to final victory in Tunisia, and was therefore particularly pleased to have him as one of my Army Commanders.\n\nThe plan for the continuance of the advance on the Adriatic sector called for a full-scale offensive by 5 Corps and I Canadian Corps on an axis parallel to and north of the Rimini - Bologna road; weather permitting this was to be launched on the night of 6th\/7th October. The weather did not permit; rain was continuous and of extraordinary violence, paralysing any movement in the plains. In the higher ground on the left the effect was not so serious and 10 Indian Division was able to exploit its bridgehead over the Fiumicino and to capture on 7th October Monte Farneto. This started a series of manoeuvres which were to characterize the next period: ground was gained on the left flank in order to turn from there the series of river lines. It was natural that this policy should commend itself to General McCreery, for he had recently been operating with very small forces in these mountains, while commanding 10 Corps, and had found them less of an obstacle to an advance than the continuous water lines of the deceptively attractive plains. The Germans were also surprised by our successes here and moved across 29 Panzer Grenadier Division to this sector from north of Route 9. It was not left there long, however, for on 14th October it began to transfer to the central front to meet Fifth Army's attack on Bologna. The result was that by the 16th both Corps had reached the line of the river Pisciatello.\n\nOn 17th October 2 Polish Corps, which had taken over the sector on the left of 5 Corps previously under 10 Corps (and commanded in the interim by the Headquarters of the disbanded I Armoured Division) opened an attack to improve our communications in the mountains. The principal object was to clear the minor road which leaves Route 71 at San Piero in Bagno and joins Route 67 at Rocca San Casciano, crossing the valleys of the Bidente and Rabbi. Possession of Route 67 would be of the greatest importance for improving communications between the two Armies. The Poles made good progress in the mountains. Galeata, commanding the upper Bidente valley, fell on 19th October and Strada, in the valley of the Rabbi, on the 21st; here the enemy showed signs of an intention to resist more strongly. Meanwhile in the plains Cesena had been entered on 19th October and on the 20th 4 Division seized a precarious but tenaciously defended bridgehead over the Savio in the neighbourhood of Route 9. Further to the south 10 Indian Division established two more bridgeheads and in the southernmost built up rapidly for an assault on Monte Cavallo, on the watershed between the Savio and the Ronco. By the21st there were no enemy forward of the Savio except in the coastal sector, where they still held Cervia.\n\nIntentions now were for the Poles to press down the valley of the Rabbi towards Forli while 5 Corps advanced on the same objective on the axis of Route 9. The Polish attack began on 22nd October but made little progress until the 25th. 5 Corps also met heavy resistance to attempts to break out from its Cesena bridgehead over the Savio. 10 Indian Division captured Monte Cavallo and began to thrust northwards. Resistance ceased on the 24th, however, when the enemy carried out his sole voluntary withdrawal on this front. The tactical situation, in particular the threat from Monte Cavallo, would indeed have forced a withdrawal in the near future but an even more pressing reason was the situation on the Fifth Army front where the crisis of the defence of Bologna had now been reached. Three first class divisions, 29 and 90 Panzer Grenadiers and 1 Parachute Division, had been withdrawn in succession to the central sector and it was vitally necessary to reduce the front of LXXVI Corps to allow for this reduction in strength. The line chosen was the river Ronco. By the 25th both the Canadians and 5 Corps had made contact with this line but the rain, which was at that very time foiling Fifth Army's attack on Bologna, now reached a new high pitch of intensity. On the 26th all bridges over the Savio, in our immediate rear, were swept away and our small bridgeheads over the Ronco were eliminated and destroyed. The Poles continued to advance and on the 27th captured Predappio Nuova. The situation remained more or less unchanged, like the weather, until the 31st when the enemy was forced back opposite 5 Corps to a switch line from the Ronco at Forli airfield to the Rabbi at Grisignano.\n\nThis was a most discouraging period for Eighth Army. The weather was abominable and the country difficult. Every river and canal was subject to sudden rises and floods which not merely made the seizing of a bridgehead in face of opposition desperately difficult but was liable also to interrupt at any moment maintenance and the movement of reinforcements. Some miles of waterlogged ground were gained but despite our best efforts it was impossible to prevent the enemy, making full use of these natural advantages, from withdrawing sufficient troops to block Fifth Army's advance. The capture of Cesena and Forlimpopoli, and even of Mussolini's birthplace at Predappio, were not sufficient recompense for the failure to capture Bologna. Eighth Army's strength was now also, declining, for early in October it had to release 4 Indian Division and the Greek Mountain Brigade Group to go to Greece. This was the beginning of a process which was to cost British troops in Italy eventually two more divisions.122\n\n#### Plans for the Winter Campaign.\n\nOperations in Italy in the winter of 1944 to 1945, the bitter and continuous fighting in the Apennines and in the waterlogged plains of the Romagna, can only be properly understood against the background of the general strategic picture of the war against Germany on all fronts. The main factor determining the situation was the decision by General Eisenhower, as Supreme Allied Commander in the West, that it would be necessary to fight a winter campaign on that front the effect of which would be either to bring about directly a German collapse or at least, by the attrition caused, to ensure that result next spring. The Italian campaign from its very inception had been designed to second and supplement the invasion of the west, even before that invasion was launched, and the Allied Armies in Italy were therefore now called on once more to make a direct contribution to the winter campaign on the Western front. I considered four possible courses to make that contribution: to transfer troops from Italy to the west, to employ troops from Italy in Jugoslavia, to continue the offensive on the Italian front at full stretch to the limits set by exhaustion and material shortage or to halt the offensive now and build up for a renewal in greater strength at a later date. All these courses were judged solely by the criterion of which would have the greatest effect on operations in the west. The first was rejected because there was, on the current programme, no need for extra troops in France and the current maintenance situation would not allow any from Italy to be accepted as yet. To transfer troops to Jugoslavia was a project which I was then actively considering; it would have certain advantages, as I shall show, if we could first drive the enemy in Italy back to the Adige line, but it would have no effect on the Western front and would only begin to have one on the Eastern front next spring. Of the two courses which involved continuing to use our full resources in Italy the one which General Eisenhower considered more advantageous to him was the continuance of the offensive. I thoroughly appreciated this reading of the situation. It was for this reason that operations were pressed on in Italy despite all the difficulties of climate and terrain, of deficient manpower and material.\n\nThe consequences of this policy were expounded in a letter to both Army Commanders dated 10th October. For the reasons given the offensive must be continued, but it was already necessary to plan ahead and consider the question of when to call a halt; that it would be necessary to call a halt was deduced from the fact that there was no certainty of the war against Germany ending in 1944 and that a major offensive in 1945 would therefore be necessary. In order to meet that requirement it was vital, in view of the close approximation of the opposing strengths, to make a pause at some time to rest, reorganize and train our own troops. During this pause Eighth Army was to plan, and prepare to carry out, operations across the Adriatic. If northwest Italy were cleared it would be occupied by a British District Headquarters with one division under command (6 South African Armoured Division was tentatively nominated). The conclusions drawn were: that active operations with all available forces should continue as long as the state of our own troops and the weather permitted in the hope that by then we should have at least succeeded in driving the enemy back to the general line of the Adige and the Alps and in clearing up northwestern Italy. Secondly, when full-scale operations ceased, there should be a period of active defence during which the minimum forces would be committed against the enemy and the maximum attention paid to the rest, reorganisation and training of all formations in preparation for a renewal of the offensive as soon as the weather should permit.\n\nThis appreciation was brought up to date on 23rd October in a further letter to Fifth and Eighth Armies. In this, operations in Jugoslavia were brought more into the foreground for the major r\u00f4le in the proposed spring offensive and the question of when to halt the offensive in Italy was more closely studied. Between 10th and 23rd October the fiercest fighting on Fifth Army front had left us still short of Bologna, the exhaustion of our troops had increased and the lack of replacements, both British and American, had made itself felt. In this second paper, therefore, it was assumed that we were unlikely to have driven the enemy back to the line of the Adige by the time that it became necessary to halt the offensive; instead our immediate objectives were limited to the capture of Bologna and Ravenna. The plan proposed was that Eighth Army should continue their offensive with all available forces at least until 15th November in order to capture Ravenna and, to draw off the enemy from Fifth Army. The latter was to go on to the defensive forthwith (this was ordered on 27th October), withdraw forces from the line to rest and prepare them for one more offensive effort and then launch them as secretly as possible in a final attack on Bologna. If this plan was unsuccessful, then we should have to accept the best winter position that could be managed; Eighth Army must endeavour, however, to capture Forli and open Route 67 to improve lateral communications between the two Armies. I held a conference at my Headquarters to discuss this plan on 29th October. The principles of the plan were agreed to but I decided to advance the date at which the offensive efforts of both Armies must cease from 15th November to 15th December; Fifth Army's final attempt to capture Bologna was accordingly postponed until about 30th November. Eighth Army was to continue to attempt the capture of Ravenna and should be in a position to launch an attack with that object also by 30th November. I laid down, however, that the offensives were only to be launched if the weather was favourable and there appeared to be a good chance of success.\n\nA critical shortage of artillery ammunition was among the other difficulties of this period. To a force which relied so much on artillery, the only effective superiority we possessed for a campaign in an Italian winter, this was a most serious matter, the more so as it was not an isolated phenomenon but a world-wide shortage both on the British and United States side. It had naturally been aggravated by our heavy expenditure during the \"Gothic\" line battles. The root cause, however, as I was informed by a signal from the War Office on 17th August, was a reduction in ammunition production all over the Allied-controlled world. This was a condition of affairs which could not hastily be unproved and, although I was on 20th October authorized to draw on the Supreme Allied Commander's reserve up to the full extent which the operational situation might necessitate, there was a serious danger that not only would current operations be severely limited but there might not be sufficient stocks on hand for the spring offensive. I drew this conclusion in a letter to General Wilson on 13th November:\n\n> \"As far as I am able to forecast I have just enough British ammunition for the current operations of Eighth Army and for an all-out offensive in December lasting about fifteen days. American ammunition is, however, only sufficient for about ten days intensive fighting between now and the end of the year. Deliveries in the first quarter of 1945 in the case of both British and American types are so limited that it will be necessary to exercise the strictest economy for several months to build up large enough stocks to sustain a full-scale offensive in 1945\".\n\nI have referred to plans for operations in Jugoslavia as part of our proposed spring offensive and although the necessity for such operations did not arise the plans themselves are of interest in illustrating the strategic problems which faced us in the autumn of 1944. If we were wholly successful in our attack on the Apennine positions we should be faced with a situation resembling that of September, 1943, before the German decision to stand south of Rome: that is the enemy would be withdrawing at his leisure to a prepared position in rear and we should be unable to make him stand in Italy. Just as in the preceding September, therefore, I turned my eyes to the other side of the Adriatic, where we could be certain of bringing the Germans to battle on ground of our choosing rather than theirs. From the point of view of containing the maximum number of German divisions, the line of the Apennines on which the Germans found themselves in October was the best suited to my purpose. Once driven off that, any other line they could stand on, or at least any other line north of and including the line of the Po, would require less troops to hold. It was considered that, once Bologna fell, the enemy would withdraw to a line based on the rivers Po and Ticino, abandoning north-west Italy, and that he was not likely to delay long on that river line but, under pressure, when and if we could apply it, he would withdraw to the Adige.123 Once back on the Adige he would be able to spare divisions from Italy and instead of our containing him, he would be containing us.\n\nLooking ahead to such a possibility, at a time when we seemed likely to break through the Apennines, I thought it advisable to consider other employment for the forces which would become surplus on our side as well as on the German, for if the Germans, on our calculations, would only need the equivalent of eleven divisions to hold the Adige line soon the Allied side we could probably only use one Army against that position. The Balkans once more offered an obvious and attractive field. The Russians were advancing in eastern Hungary and approaching Jugoslavia (Belgrade fell on 20th October) and the Partisans were clearing the ports of southern and central Dalmatia. Ever since the fall of Rome I had borne in mind the possibility of forcing an entry into Austria through the Ljubljana gap, a stroke which might even lead us to Vienna. Before the withdrawal of troops for the invasion of Southern France it had seemed likely that this could be achieved by an overland advance through northeastern Italy, possibly assisted by an amphibious operation against Istria or Trieste. With our present reduced strength, and especially after the losses and exhaustion incurred in the battles for the Apennines, it would be impossible, after breaking through into the Po valley, to be certain of destroying the enemy south of the river and I should have to face a succession of hard fought frontal attacks against a still powerful enemy on the many river lines of Venetia: the Adige, the Brenta, the Piave, the Tagliamento and the Isonzo.124 Rather than accept this it would be better to make a two-handed attack up the two opposite coasts, designed to meet at the head of the Adriatic. This would undoubtedly tie down more German forces than a frontal attack on the Adige and would give more scope for a flexible strategy and a greater chance for a decisive success.\n\nI first brought forward the plan on 2nd October, at a conference attended by General Wilson, and it was elaborated at several subsequent conferences. In its final form it proposed that, after the Germans had been driven back to their Adige line. Fifth Army should become wholly responsible for operations in Italy, taking under command the Polish Corps, whose employment in Jugoslavia might have been politically embarrassing. Eighth Army should prepare a base in the area of the ports of Split, Sibenik and Zadar, occupying them with light forces, and then, in early spring, bring in their main forces, in the strength of at least six divisions, for a rapid advance on Ljubljana and Fiume. I would retain a Corps of two Indian divisions in Army Group reserve, ready to support either Army. A good deal of detailed planning was done to prepare for this but in the event the plan turned out to be unneccesary and was cancelled on 4th February, 1945. The main reason was the failure to capture Bologna, which meant that we continued to keep the enemy in Italy still stretched to the maximum extent. A further reason was the withdrawal, in early 1945, of the whole of the Canadian Corps to join the Canadians on the Western front and the diversion to the West of 5 Division which was intended to return to my command from the Middle East. It is interesting to speculate on what the results might have been if the plan had been carried into effect. The terrain of Dalmatia is rugged and unpromising for operations and the maintenance of the force would have met serious difficulties. On the other hand the relatively weak and inexperienced German troops would probably have offered only an ineffectual resistance to six veteran divisions of Eighth Army, assisted by strongly reinforced Partisan formations, and an entry into Austria might have been possible before the general capitulation. But the conditions which would have rendered operations in Jugoslavia possible and profitable failed to eventuate; the Germans continued to hold their extended line in the mountains and it was neither necessary nor practical for us to open a new front on which to contain them.\n\n#### Final Winter Operations.\n\nOn 31st October Eighth Army crossed the Ronco near Forli but the weather again intervened and the town did not fall until 9th November. We then had a week's fine weather and were able to drive the enemy back to the line of the Montone and Cosina by the 16th. Route 67 was now open at last but the collapse of a vital bridge prevented our using it until 21st November. A further offensive by 5 Corps and 2 Polish Corps between 20 and 25 November brought us to the line of the river Lamone but another break in the weather prevented exploitation into Faenza. In the meantime Fifth Army had been resting and regrouping its troops according to plan, I Division of 13 Corps relieved 88 Division on Monte Grande and II Corps took advantage of this to pull out for a rest as many troops as could be spared. Unfortunately the line we were holding was so extended that periods spent out of the line could only be very short although the discomforts of the mountainous terrain and the severe Italian winter were very great. During this period, the remainder of 92 Division and a second regiment of the Brazilian Expeditionary Force arrived; it was not practicable, however, to employ these troops in the important II Corps sector.\n\nPlans for the resumption of the offensive were studied in an appreciation produced by my Headquarters on 19th November, to serve as a basis for an Army Commanders' conference on 26th November. It was calculated that Eighth Army had enough artillery ammunition for about three weeks' offensive. They had one armoured and three infantry divisions resting and training in preparation for this; one infantry division at present engaged, however, (the 4th) was due to be withdrawn shortly to go to the Middle East and its relieving division (the 5th) was not due to arrive until January.125 This strength should be sufficient to reach the Santerno river and, possibly, secure bridgeheads across it. An offensive with this object in view was to be launched on 21st November, as already provided for, and it was estimated that it would hardly have reached its objective before the first week in December.126 This determined the timing for Fifth Army. By 5th December it would have completed its programme for the relief, rest and training of the four American infantry divisions in II Corps; 13 Corps had only been able to rotate their forces so that only a limited offensive effort could be called for from them. American artillery ammunition was sufficient for not more than about fifteen days' full-scale offensive operations. In view of that fact and the other considerations which made it inevitable that this should be the last major offensive before the spring of 1945 it was essential that every chance should be calculated to ensure its success and I directed that the actual timing of the offensive, which would be some date after 7th December, must be dependent on the weather and, if necessary, it must be postponed until the weather was propitious.\n\nThe outline plan was as follows. Eighth Army was to develop its present operations so as to reach the line of the Santerno, and, if possible, secure bridgeheads across it, as early as enemy resistance and the weather permitted. Fifth Army was to prepare to carry out an offensive with all available resources up Route 65 and to co-operate with Eighth Army by an attack from the Monte Grande position against Castel San Pietro, on Route 9 south-east of Bologna. The plan and proposed timings were agreed at an Army Commanders' conference in Florence on 26th November. Orders for the operation were issued on 28th November. The second paragraph showed the reasons for the offensive as I have already described them; my intention was \"To afford the greatest possible support to the Allied winter offensive on the Western and Eastern fronts by bringing the enemy to battle, thereby compelling him to employ in Italy manpower and resources which might otherwise be available for use on the other fronts.\"\n\nBefore these plans could be carried into operation I was appointed, on 12th December, Supreme Allied Commander in the Mediterranean Theatre. General Mark Clark took over from me the tactical direction of the two Armies with a small operational staff under the name, revived for the purpose, of Fifteenth Army Group. Headquarters, Allied Armies in Italy, was disbanded; part came with me to Allied Force Headquarters and part, in particular the operations and intelligence staff, went to General Clark's headquarters. I should like to express here my appreciation of the work of my staff throughout the campaign. This narrative will have made it clear that our successes were never won by force of numbers, never by a simple marshalling of overwhelming resources, but always by stratagems, secret concentrations and surprise moves. It is the task of the Commander-in-Chief to think out the broad lines of such a strategy but it is for his staff to evolve the detailed orders and arrangements which will carry his conception into effect. In this my staff, headed by General Harding and his American deputy, General Lemnitzer,127 thoroughly fulfilled all demands made on them and ensured the smooth working of a complicated and intricate machine. This achievement was the more remarkable as the staff was composed in almost equal proportions of representatives of two different nationalities. This is an extraordinary fact to which, in my opinion, too little attention has been paid. It might have been expected, on a \"realistic\" view of human nature, that a mixed headquarters of this nature commanding a mixed group of Armies would tend to split in its approach to day to day operational problems on national lines, a British staff officer favouring, even if only subconsciously, the Eighth Army and an American staff officer, similarly, the Fifth Army. Nothing of this kind occurred. All branches and all individuals worked as parts of one integrated machine, loyal to the common cause and, I take justified pride in claiming, to their Commander-in-Chief.\n\nMy administrative staff was headed by General Robertson whose experience in this vitally important branch of the military art reached back to the early days of Abyssinia and the Western Desert. I have referred from time to time in the earlier parts of my Despatch to various particular difficulties which faced us in the supply of our troops in Italy and if I have not referred to these problems since then it is because so firm a foundation had been laid down that subsequent problems were solved almost automatically by the existing organisation. The proverb calls that land happy which has no history and certainly an administrative machine can be known to be working at its best when nothing is heard of it either for good or evil. It must not be imagined that the basic and permanent difficulties of the Italian scene were abolished; the blocked and mined ports, the demolished roads and bridges, the railway lines torn up by special machines, all these remained and presented a yet more difficult appearance as the Germans grew more experienced at the work of destruction. The merit of the administrative staff is that they took them in their stride and the proof is that, instead of recounting a series of achievements, it is only necessary to record that operations were never hamstrung and operational plans never radically altered because of any administrative considerations.\n\nFor the faultless working of the operational and administrative machinery the achievements already recorded will provide sufficient evidence. The successes of military intelligence have appeared less frequently and from their very nature they are much more difficult to record; there is also the difficulty that that nature is very widely misunderstood by a public whose mind, especially in wartime, is occupied by stories true or false of spies and secret agents. In actual fact espionage can never play anything but the most minor r\u00f4le in military intelligence and certainly in Italy it produced no information of any importance. Military Intelligence is a more prosaic affair, dependent on an efficient machine for the collection and evaluation of every sort of item of information, a machine which extends from the front line troops right up to the Army Group staff in which hundreds of individuals all play a vital part. But if its methods of working are humdrum its achievements have been dramatic. For me in Italy the result was that the \"fog of war\" was dispersed and the enemy's strength and dispositions were always clear and obvious. It will be apparent how useful this knowledge was in enabling me to economize forces and achieve important results with the minimum effort and avoiding casualties and losses.\n\nMy relations with the Naval and Air Forces grew closer and more intimate as the campaign progressed. Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, whose name had been associated with the hardest and most glorious days of naval warfare in the Mediterranean, was succeeded on 23rd October, 1943, by Admiral Sir John Cunningham.128 The latter's period of command, in the absence of any enemy fleet to contest our supremacy on the open sea, was devoted almost exclusively to the support and assistance of land operations. In this task I always received from him the fullest and most understanding co-operation. If I should single out any one incident it would be to recall the Anzio operation where the Allied Navies uncomplainingly accepted a burden both greater in degree and of longer duration than had been expected and maintained a force which by May had grown to over seven divisions through a harbour no bigger than a fishing port and under continuous fire.129 I must mention also the r\u00f4le of the Allied Air Forces in support of the Army. Air Marshal Coningham,130 to whom I owe so much and to whom I have referred in my Despatch on the Conquest of Sicily, returned to the United Kingdom as part of the OVERLORD team and was succeeded, as Commander of the Tactical Air Force, by General Cannon131 of the United States Army Air Force. General Cannon showed from the start a thorough acquaintance with the problems of co-operation between ground and air. Our headquarters were always together and relations between us were so close and constant that I could be certain that the operations of our respective forces would blend into a perfect three-dimensional whole. I cannot speak too highly of General Cannon's gifts as a leader or of the encouragement which his assistance and support always gave me. The measure of his achievement can be seen in the complete immunity we enjoyed from enemy air attacks, the close and effective support enjoyed by the ground forces, and the long lines of destroyed enemy vehicles, the smashed bridges and useless railways found by my Armies wherever they advanced into enemy territory.\n\nGeneral Clark was the obvious choice to succeed me at Army Group Headquarters; he was the senior of my two Army Commanders and General McCreery, now commanding Eighth Army, had previously served under him when he commanded 10 Corps. This is a good opportunity to record my gratitude and appreciation of General Clark's achievements in Italy since the landing in the Gulf of Salerno in September, 1943. Although his operational experience up to that time had been slight I had the greatest confidence in his capacity and as the campaign developed was glad to see that judgment fully confirmed. He was quick to learn the difficult art of warfare in a mountainous region, keen to profit by every experience of his own or of other commanders and resourceful in the conduct of complex battle situations both in good and evil days. To all the mental resources of a trained soldier he united great gifts of leadership. Just as he had had under his command both American and British troops, and other nationalities also, to whom he stood in a mutual and reciprocal relationship of confidence and loyalty so I found him a most loyal subordinate, unquestioning in obedience and eager to give the utmost co-operation to the common design. It is strange for me to think, and gratifying to recollect with hopes for the future of cooperation between our two nations, that just as I had myself taken orders from an American commander so I could give orders to an American subordinate, involving the lives of thousands of American soldiers, in the certainty that they would be implicitly executed. It was something new in the history of war and the fact that custom soon made it matter of course should not be allowed to obscure its value.\n\nIt proved impossible to launch the offensive in December. The requisite precondition on which I insisted, an adequate spell of good weather, was never fulfilled. Had we undertaken an offensive in the weather that prevailed it would almost certainly have fallen short of success and the resulting expenditure of ammunition would have meant the postponement of the offensive of next spring. Eighth Army took advantage of some fitful spells of clear weather to improve its positions; Ravenna fell on 4th December and Faenza on the 16th and by 6th January our line was on the river Senio and touching the southern shore of the Valli di Comacchio. Here the advance was halted and both sides settled down to an uneasy lull. It is surprising to note that, up to this time, the Germans had shown clearly their intention to maintain their strength in Italy. Two infantry divisions were hastily despatched in November to meet a crisis in Hungary but were immediately replaced; one of the new formations was a division from Norway which had travelled all the way through western Germany at the time when Rundstedt's Ardennes offensive was raging without being drawn into it. At the end of the year, therefore, Kesselring still had twenty-seven131 German divisions, four Italian divisions and a Cossack cavalry division. Though we had failed to break through the Apennines we had succeeded in our mission. The Germans found themselves obliged by the very measure of their success in the winter fighting to await our attack in the following spring on an extended and uneconomical line and I was able to accomplish what I had feared impossible the previous autumn, the effective destruction of the enemy armies south of the Po.\n\n#### The Final Victory.\n\nThe full story of the battles which brought us complete victory in the spring of 1945 is given in my Despatch as Supreme Allied Commander, forwarded to the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Before proceeding, however, to my concluding evaluation of the Italian campaign it will be as well to complete the picture of the over-running of Italy from Cape Passero to the Brenner by giving in broad outline the events which led up to the final capitulation. It is unnecessary to be detailed, for the stage had been set by the events of the winter and the action proceeded according to the plans laid down then. The problem was to disrupt the enemy's defences in the valley of the Po by attacks at two separate points, to surround as much as possible of the forces disposed between the two points of rupture and to exploit with the utmost speed to the Po both in order to forestall any attempt to reorganize the defences of the river line and to cut off and destroy the maximum number of enemy south of the river. There were two axes on which to operate, each of them capable of serving for the advance of an army: Route 12 (Modena - Ostiglia - Verona) for Fifth Army and Route 16 (Ferrara - Rovigo - Padua) for Eighth Army. On the former route the problem for Fifth Army was to break out of the mountains where they had been locked up since the previous winter; once in the plains their advance would go with the grain of the country. The obstacles facing Eighth Army were, as in the previous winter, a series of water barriers, especially the fortified lines of the rivers Senio, Santerno, Sillaro and Idice. Above all the road to Ferrara was narrowed to a heavily defended defile by extensive artificial flooding in the area of the town of Argenta. This defile, known to us as the Argenta Gap, loomed large in all our appreciations; in order to advance rapidly to the necessary crossing sites on the Po we must either force it or outflank it and the latter looked the more difficult, and certainly the more time-wasting, of the two possible courses. North of the Po the enemy had constructed defence lines based on the rivers Adige, Tagliamento and Isonzo, and behind them was the final line of the Alps. I was less concerned with these, as if we were successful in our battle south of the Po the enemy would have no troops left to man them.\n\nIt will be seen that the Germans had made most elaborate preparations for a protracted defence in Italy and it may well be asked why, when the Thousand Year Reich was clearly crumbling to ruin nine hundred and eighty-eight years short of its proposed span, great masses of slave labourers should still be toiling to throw up defences in the plains of Venetia. The answer must probably be connected with the Nazi plan for a \"National Redoubt\". For the sake of the example for the future, and because the armies were still firm in the hand of a man who was determined never to surrender, it was still necessary to plan as if there were some hope left. The only prospect which appeared to offer any chance for protracting resistance was to abandon the defence of the open country of North Germany and concentrate on holding for as long as possible the mountains of the south in the area of Tyrol, Salzburg and Western Carinthia. It was questionable how long, if at all, this fortress could be held and there must have been many commanders who doubted but, such as it was, this represented the only future plan which could be contemplated. To carry it out the forces fighting in Italy were absolutely essential; they represented the only large coherent body of men left in the spring of 1945. They were in a position to withdraw straight into the southern face of the redoubt; they might, moreover, retain for at least a time the food-producing and industrial areas of Northern Italy. Undoubtedly if they had been able to withdraw across the Po in good order they would have given a very good account of themselves in the defence of the Alps; it was more than ever necessary, therefore, to ensure their destruction south of the river.\n\nThe armies facing us were still strong132 well equipped and in good heart. Four divisions, by no means the best, had been transferred to the Eastern front between January and March to balance the transference of the Canadian Corps and 5 British Division from my command but General von Vietinghoff, who succeeded Field-Marshal Kesselring on 23rd March, on the latter's transfer to the Western front, commanded on that date a force of twenty-three German and four Italian (German-equipped) divisions.133 Furthermore, by contrast with other fronts, the divisions which faced us in Italy were real divisions and not the scratch battle-groups which usurped the name elsewhere. Reinforcements had continued to arrive and a vigorous comb-out of rear areas and a considerable reduction in all but essential services had maintained fighting strength. The parachutists, for example, were particularly strong - I and 4 Parachute Divisions went into action with sixteen thousand and nearly fourteen thousand men respectively - and so were the mobile divisions; in fact the average strength for German divisions was eleven thousand five hundred, slightly over the standard war establishment strength for infantry divisions at that period of the war.134 The troops were well rested and had spent the period of the lull in intensive training. Morale was astonishingly good. In spite of the desperate situation of German arms in the homeland itself the Germans in Italy continued to show the same resolute spirit of resistance and dash in counter-attack which had distinguished them hitherto. It was not until they had been driven against the Po, and had lost all their heavy weapons in the vain attempt to cross it, that any large-scale surrenders were recorded.135 To oppose this force I had in Italy seventeen divisions, four Italian Combat Groups and six armoured and four infantry brigades.136\n\nThe spring offensive began with Eighth Army's attack on 9th April on the enemy's left. It was a resumption of the battle of the previous winter, for the enemy were still on the same defence line and had been forbidden, by Hitler, to make even the smallest withdrawal. But the weather was now dry and favourable and our troops, though diminished in numbers, were thoroughly rested; the speed and weight of their blows were such that the enemy was unable to occupy any of his prepared alternative positions. The Senio and Santerno lines were breached and by the 17th Argenta had been captured and we were about to debouch through the Gap on to Ferrara. Meanwhile on the 14th Fifth Army had begun its drive on Bologna, after a two day postponement due to weather. By contrast with Eighth Army, which in the plain had been able to maintain a steady rate of progress, Fifth Army had first to burst out of the mountains. For a week the German defenders contested every height with the greatest stubbornness until the battered survivors were pushed off the last ridge of the Apennines down into the plain. Then the cost of this stubborn resistance was seen; unable to form any coherent line of defence the troops of Fourteenth Army were swept back to the Po in full flight and Fifth Army, after its slow and painful struggle in the mountains, was able to race ahead in sweeping thrusts. Bologna fell on the 21st, entered simultaneously by the Poles of Eighth Army and II Corps of Fifth Army. On the evening of the 22nd 10 United States Mountain Division reached the Po at San Benedetto and next day 5 Corps reached the river in strength either side of Ferrara. Between them these two thrusts had trapped and immobilized thousands of German troops and the number of prisoners was mounting to embarrassing proportions. From the Po northwards it was a pursuit, pressed with the utmost vigour against an enemy who had received a mortal blow and lost almost all his heavy weapons, but who still resisted, where he could, with the same determination and skill.\n\nIndeed the last battle in Italy was as hard fought as the first. I was not faced with a broken and disintegrating army, nor was the outcome influenced in any degree by demoralization or lack of supplies on the German side.137 It was a straightforward military operation which, by first enveloping the enemy's left wing in a classical outflanking manoeuvre and then breaking through with a sudden blow his weakened centre, drove him against the Po and annihilated him there. The capitulation of 2nd May only sealed a fate which had already been decided. An army of half a million men had been destroyed and all forces remaining in Italy and Austria laid down their arms in unconditional surrender.\n\nFor just under two years, since the invasion of Sicily in 1943, Allied troops had been fighting on Italian soil. In this period of twenty-two months the troops under my command had four times carried out an assault landing, the most difficult operation in war. Three great offensives with the full force of an Army Group had been launched, in May and August, 1944, and in April, 1945. From Cape Passero to the Brenner is eleven hundred and forty miles by road; except for the plains of Lombardy, reached only at the end of the long struggle, that road led almost everywhere through mountains. In the course of the fighting we inflicted on the enemy casualties in killed, wounded and missing which have been estimated, largely from German figures, at five hundred and thirty-six thousand;138 Allied casualties were three hundred and twelve thousand. But statistics, however striking,139 are barren materials for an evaluation of the results of a campaign which must rather be considered against the background of the whole strategy of the war. In an attempt to set the campaign against that background I feel it would be least invidious to change the point of view and to consider the importance of the struggle in Italy from the German side.\n\nFrom the beginning both Germans and Allies regarded Italy as a secondary theatre and looked for the main decision to be given on either the Eastern or the Western front. Both sides were therefore bound above all to consider whether this admitted \"side-show\" was making a positive contribution to the main object of strategy and whether it was making it at the cheapest possible cost. The Allies' avowed intention, laid down in May, 1943, and never varied, was not to occupy any particular territory but to bring to battle the maximum number of German troops; it was also the main German object (but not their only object) to contain as many Allied troops as possible and weaken by that amount the strength which could be brought to the assault of the West Wall and the Rhine. At every minute of the campaign, therefore, I had to pose to myself the question, who was containing whom in Italy? This was the vital question for the Germans also, and to them the answer can never have been satisfactory.140 In all forty-five German divisions were employed in Italy, together with four Italian regular divisions, one Cossack division and miscellaneous formations of Czechs, Slovaks and Russians. The Allies employed in Italy a total of forty divisions of which eight were transferred to Western front in 1943 and ten in 1944 and followed by three diverted to the Balkans. Like us the Germans never employed this whole force at once but the details of opposing strength at each stage of the campaign show the same advantage on the Allied side. In October, 1943, there were nineteen German to fifteen Allied divisions, and in December twenty-one to fifteen and a half. Next May the numerical balance shifted slightly in our favour with twenty-seven to twenty-three but with this minor superiority we were able to inflict such losses on the enemy that by August they had been obliged to reinforce to a total of twenty-five (and two Italian) against our twenty. When the final attack begin in April, 1945, we had seventeen divisions to their twenty-three German and four Italian. Nor should we restrict our survey solely to the divisions contained in Italy, for our forces in that country represented such a threat to the whole of the southern coastline of Europe that strong garrisons had to be maintained in Southern France, and the Balkans; in the summer of 1944 for example, the most critical moment of the war when the main effort of Great Britain and the United States was launched against the beaches of Normandy, the presence of our forces in Italy tied down fifty-five divisions in the Mediterranean area.141\n\nIt was the Germans therefore, who were contained in Italy and not the Allies; the Italian campaign drained their strength more than ours. The reasons why the Germans decided to fight in Italy rather than withdraw to the Alps I have already discussed; they were not, or at least the more important were not, military reasons but political. Perhaps the future German historian, if he is as eager as his predecessors have always been to extol the virtues of Prussian military science, will admit the folly of protracted resistance in Italy and, throwing the blame on a megalomaniac Fuehrer, will seek consolation by pointing to the bravery and stubbornness in defence of the German soldier. He will be justified in so doing; but a still finer theme will be that of the historian who describes how that stubborn defence and the barrier of so many mountains and rivers were triumphantly overcome by the Allies.\n\n## APPENDIX \"A\"\n\n## NATIONALITIES IN ITALY\n\nTroops representing the following nationalities served in the Allied Armies in Italy:\n\n#### Allied\n\nAmerican142, French143, Polish, Nepalese, Belgian, Greek, Brazilian, Syro-Lebanese, Jewish, Jugoslav.\n\n#### Imperial\n\nBritish, Canadian, New Zealand, South African, Newfoundland, Indian, Ceylonese, Basuto, Swazi, Bechuana, Seychellois, Mauritian, Rodriguez Islanders, Caribbean, Cypriot.\n\n#### Co-Belligerent\n\nItalian.\n\n## APPENDIX \"B\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF GERMAN FORCES IN ITALY AND SLOVENIA\n\n_As at 3rd September, 1943_\n\nI. MAIN BATTLE FRONT (Kesselring's Command)\n\n_C.-in-C. South_  \n(Field-Marshal Kesselring)\n\n_Tenth Army_  \n(Colonel-General Vietinghoff)\n\n_XIV Panzer Corps_ (General Hube)  \n16 Panzer Division  \nHermann Goering Panzer Division  \n15 Panzer Grenadier Division\n\n_LXXVI Panzer Corps_ (General Herr)  \n29 Panzer Grenadier Division  \n26 Panzer Division  \n1 Parachute Division\n\n_XI Flieger Corps_ (General Student)  \n3 Panzer Grenadier Division  \n2 Parachute Division\n\n2. SARDINIA AND CORSICA\n\n90 Panzer Grenadier Division  \nSS Assault Brigade \"Reichfuehrer SS\"\n\n3. NORTHERN ITALY (Rommel's Command)\n\n_Army Group \"B\"_  \n(Field-Marshal Rommel)\n\n_LXXXVII Corps_ (General Lemelsen)  \n76 Infantry Division  \n94 Infantry Division  \n305 Infantry Division  \n24 Panzer Division\n\n_LI Mountain Corps_ (General Feuerstein)  \nSS Panzer Division \"Adolf Hitler\"  \n65 Infantry Division  \n44 \"Hoch und Deutschmeister\" Infantry Division  \nMountain Brigade Doehla\n\n_\"Corps Witthoeft\"_  \n _L. of C. Units_\n\n_Adriatic Coast Command_  \n _71 Infantry Division_\n\n## APPENDIX \"C\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ALLIED ARMIES IN ITALY144\n\n_As at 22nd January, 1944_\n\nFIFTEENTH ARMY GROUP | REMARKS  \n---|---  \n2 N.Z. Div. | Concentrated Termoli area. Passed from under command Eighth Army 19th January.  \nFIFTH (U.S.) ARMY |   \n1 (U.S.) Armd. Div. (less C.C.B.) | Reverted to Army control 12th January.  \n45 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Relieved by 3 (Alg.) Inf. Div. 10th January.  \n1 S.S.F. | Relieved 17th January and moved to Caserta area.  \n1 Italian Mot. Gp. |   \n2 S.S. Bde. | Sorrento area.  \n_II (U.S.) Corps_ |   \n34 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Diversionary attack Cassino area 20th January.  \n36 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Attack across R. Rapido started night 20th January.  \nC.C.B., 1 (U.S.) Armd. Div. | Mignano area.  \n_VI (U.S.) Corps_ |   \n3 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Landing in Anzio area during early hours of 22nd January.  \n1 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n_French Expeditionary Corps_ | Took over VI Corps' sector 3rd January.  \n2 Moroccan Inf. Div. | Attacked 0630 hours 22nd January and captured S. Croce and other points.  \n3 Algerian Inf. Div. | Took over 45 Div. sector 10th January.  \n3 & 4 Gp. Tabors |   \n2 Tk. Gp. |   \n10 (Br.) _Corps_ | Assault on R. Garigliano started 2100 hours 17th January.  \n5 (Br.) Inf. Div. | From Eighth Army to Fifth Army 6 January, on left of line in Minturno area.  \n46 (Br.) Inf. Div. | Attacking across R. Garigliano.  \n56 (Br.) Inf. Div. | Castelforte and Damiano areas.  \n23 Armd. Bde. | On R. Garigliano.  \nEIGHTH ARMY |   \n3 Carpathian Inf. Div. | Not in Army area.  \n5 (Cdn.) Armd. Div. | Moving to Army area - came under command 13 Corps 25th January.  \n1 _(Cdn.) Corps_ | Not in Army area.  \n5 _(Br.) Corps_ |   \n1 (Cdn.) Inf. Div. | Approaching Tollo.  \n8 (Ind.) Inf. Div. | East of Orsogna.  \n2 Para. Bde. | Under command 8 Ind. Div. 16th January.  \n1 (Cdn.) Armd. Bde. |   \n13 _(Br.) Corps_ |   \n4 (Ind.) Inf. Div. | Relieved 2 N.Z. Div. 16th January.  \n78 (Br.) Inf. Div. | North of Agnone.  \nII (Cdn.) Inf. Bde. Gp. | Under command 4th Ind. Div. 20th January.  \n4 Armd. Bde. | Moving to U.K.\n\n## APPENDIX \"D\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ARMY GROUP \"C\"\n\n_As at 22nd January, 1944_\n\nTENTH ARMY REMARKS\n\n_LXXVI Panzer Corps_ |   \n---|---  \n1 Parachute Division | Hermann Goering Armoured Reconnaissance  \n26 Panzer Division | Battalion was acting as link between 1 Parachute and 26 Panzer Divisions.  \n334 Infantry Division | Regimental Group from 65  \nInfantry Division |   \n3 Panzer Grenadier Division (less one regiment). | Moving into Corps Reserve.  \n_GruppeHauck_ |   \n305 Infantry Division | A G.H.Q. High Mountain Battalion under command.  \n_XIV Panzer Corps_ |   \n5 Mountain Division | Supported by a regiment of 3 Panzer Grenadier Division, two battalions of 15 Panzer Grenadier Division and a G.H.Q, High Mountain Battalion.  \n44 (Hoch und Deutschmeister) | Two regiments of 71 Infantry  \nInfantry Division. | Division under command.  \n15 Panzer Grenadier Division | Less two battalions detached to 5 Mountain Division.  \n94 Infantry Division |   \nHermann Goering Panzer Division |   \n29 Panzer Grenadier Division |   \n90 Panzer Grenadier Division | Less elements.  \n_1 Parachute Corps_ |   \n4 Parachute Division | Still incomplete. Assault Regiment (Sturm. Regiment) still forming at Perugia.  \n92 Infantry Division  \nMiscellaneous G.A.F. Units. | Cadre only.\n\nRemainder 90 Panzer Grenadier Division moving in from Adriatic Sector.\n\nFOURTEENTH ARMY\n\n_LXXXVII Corps_ | Liguria and N. Tuscany.  \n---|---  \n65 Infantry Division | Genoa.  \n356 Infantry Division | Spezia - Leghorn.  \n16 SS Division | Elements Leghorn; remainder, still forming, Ljubljana.  \n_LI Mountain Corps_ | Romagna and Marches.  \n278 Infantry Division | Forming at Bologna.  \n362 Infantry Division | Rimini area.  \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n188 Reserve Mountain Division | Trentino.  \n162 (Turkoman) Infantry Division | North of Fiume.\n\n_Build-up of enemy forces in the Anzio bridgehead (22nd January - 16th February)_\n\nFOURTEENTH ARMY (Arrived about 29th January)\n\n_1 Parachute Corps_ |   \n---|---  \n4 Parachute Division | Elements arrived 23rd\/24th January.  \n65 Infantry Division | Arrived from Genoa before 30th January.  \n715 Infantry Division (mot.) | Arrived from Southern France by 4th February.  \n114 Jaeger Division | Arrived from Jugoslavia by 10th February.  \n_LXXVI Panzer Corps._ (Arrived from Adriatic sector by 1st February.) |   \n3 Panzer Grenadier Division | Elements arrived with a Regiment of 15 Panzer Grenadier Division by 23rd January.  \n26 Panzer Division | Almost complete in line before 30th January.  \nHermann Goering Parachute  \nPanzer Division | Complete in line before 30th January, with elements of 1 Parachute Division.  \nBattle Group 16 S.S. Panzer  \nGrenadier Divsion | Placed under command of Hermann Goering Division in early February.  \n362 Infantry Division | In Army reserve by 30th January, elements committed on 16th February.\n\nIn addition the following Independent Regiments arrived before 16th February:\n\nInfantry Lehr Regiment (three battalions)\n\n1027 Reinforced Panzer Grenadier Regiment (two battalions)\n\n1028 Reinforced Panzer Grenadier Regiment (two battalions).\n\n_Total German Divisions in Fourteenth Army before 16th February_ , 1944\n\nArmoured Divisions | 2  \n---|---  \nMotorised Divisions | 1  \nParachute Divisions | 1  \nInfantry Divisions (of which two semi-motorised) | 4  \nTotal nominal Divisions | 8\n\nWith three Independent Regiments, an S.S. Battle Group and miscellaneous Luftwaffe ground troops, the total of German forces in the Anzio bridgehead area by 16th February was equivalent to nine divisions.\n\n## APPENDIX \"E\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ALLIED ARMIES IN ITALY\n\n_As at 11th May, 1944_\n\nHEADQUARTERS, ALLIED ARMIES IN ITALY | REMARKS  \n---|---  \n5 (Br.) _Corps_ | Adriatic Coast sector.  \n4 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n\";D\" Force (H.C.R., C.I.H., II K.R.R.C., 9 Manch.) |   \n10 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n23 Armd. Bde. |   \n7 Armd. Bde. Gp. | Not yet in Corps area.  \nFIFTH (U.S.) ARMY |   \nH.Q. IV (U.S.) Corps |   \n36 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Army reserve, later moved to Anzio beachhead.  \n909 Para. Bn. |   \n_II (U.S.) Corps_ | Garigliano sector.  \n85 (U.S.) Div. |   \n88 (U.S.) Div. |   \n1 Armd. Gp. |   \n_VI_ ( _U.S_.) _Corps_ | Anzio beachhead.  \n3 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n34 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n45 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n1 (U.S.) Armd. Div. |   \n1 S.S.F. |   \n1 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n5 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n_French Expeditionary Corps_ | Aurunci Mountains sector.  \n1 Mot. Inf. Div. |   \n2 (Mor.) Inf. Div. |   \n3 (Alg.) Inf. Div. |   \n4 (Mor.) Mtn. Div. |   \n1 Gp. Tabor |   \n3 Gp. Tabor |   \n4 Gp. Tabor |   \n2 Armd. Gp. |   \nEIGHTH ARMY |   \n6 (S.A.) Amid. Div. (less 12 S.A. Mot. Bde.) | Came under command 1st May - under command 1 Cdn. Corps 31st May.  \n10 _(Br.) Corps_ | Apennine sector.  \n2 N.Z. Div. |   \n12 (S.A.) Mot. Bde. | Under comd. 5th - 23rd May, To 6 S.A. Armd. Div. 3Ist May.  \n24 (Br.) Gds. Bde. |   \n2 (Br.) Para. Bde. |   \nHermon Force (K.D.G., 12 L.) |   \nItalian Mot. Gp. |   \nII Cdn. Inf. Bde. Gp. | Relieved by 12 (S.A.) Mot. Bde. and moved to under comd. 5 Cdn. Armd. Div. 5th\/6th May.  \n13 (Br.) _Corps_ | Cassino and R. Rapido sector.  \n6 (Br.) Armd. Div. |   \n4 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n1 (Br.) Gds. Bde. |   \n78 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n8 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n1 Cdn. Armd. Bde. |   \n1 _Cdn. Corps_ | Moved to south of Mignano 9th May; assumed command of 8 Ind. Div. sector 2230 hrs. 16th May.  \n5 Cdn. Armd. Div. | North of Capua - concentrated west of R. Garigliano 20th May - passed through 3 Cdn. Inf. Bde. 24th May.  \n1 Cdn. Inf. Div. | Moved to S. Agata area 5th May - started to relieve 8 Ind. Div. night 15th\/16th May; under comd. 13 Corps till 2230 hrs. 16th May.  \n25 Tk. Bde. |   \n2 _Polish Corps_ | Took over Monte Cassino sector  \n27th April.  \n3 Carp. Inf. Div. |   \n5 Kres. Inf. Div. |   \n2 Polish Armd. Bde. |\n\n## APPENDIX \"F\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ARMY GROUP \"C\"\n\n_As at 11th May, 1944_\n\nTENTH ARMY | REMARKS.  \n---|---  \n_\"Gruppe Hauck\"_ |   \n305 Infantry Division |   \n334 Infantry Division |   \n114 Jaeger Division |   \n_LI Mountain Corps_ |   \n5 Mountain Division | Two G.H.Q. High Mountain Battalions under command.  \n44 (Hoch und Deutschmeister) |   \nInfantry Division |   \n1 Parachute Division |   \n_XIV Panzer Corps_ |   \nBode Blocking Group | Regimental Group from 305 Division.  \n15 Panzer Grenadier Division | Elements in Liri valley, bulk in reserve.  \n71 Infantry Division | Three battalions of 44 Division under command.  \n94 Infantry Division |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n90 Panzer Grenadier Division |   \nFOURTEENTH ARMY |   \n_LXXVI Panzer Corps_ |   \n362 Infantry Division |   \n715 Infantry Division |   \n26 Panzer Division | In Corps reserve.  \n_1 P_ arachute Corps |   \n3 Panzer Grenadier Division |   \n65 Infantry Division |   \n4 Parachute Division |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n29 Panzer Grenadier Division |   \n92 Infantry Division |   \nARMEEGRUPPE VON ZANGEN |   \n_LXXV Corps_ |   \nHermann Goering Division |   \n162 (Turkoman) Infantry Division |   \n356 Infantry Division |   \n135 Fortress Brigade |   \n_Corps Witthoeft_ |   \nElements 278 Infantry Division |   \nL. of C. Units |   \n_Adriatic Coast Command (Adriatisches Kuestenland)_ |   \nBulk of 278 Infantry Division |   \n188 Reserve Mountain Division |   \n_Alpenvorland and Nordwest Alpen_ |   \nL. of C. Units only |   \n_Total German Divisions in Army Group \"C\"_  \nArmoured Divisions | 2  \nMotorised Divisions | 4  \nParachute Divisions | 2  \nMountain, Jaeger and |   \nInfantry Divisions | 14  \nTraining Divisions | 1  \nTotal | 23 Divisions\n\n## APPENDIX \"G\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ALLIED ARMIES IN ITALY\n\n_As at 25th August, 1944_\n\nA.A.I. | REMARKS  \n---|---  \nFIFTH (U.S.) ARMY |   \nH.Q. Brazilian Expeditionary Force |   \n6 Brazilian Inf. Regt. |   \n_II (U.S.) Corps_ | West of Florence.  \n34 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | In reserve.  \n88 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | In reserve.  \n91 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | In reserve.  \n752 (U.S.) Tk. Bn. |   \n755 (U.S.) Tk. Bn. |   \n760 (U.S.) Tk. Bn. |   \n442 (U.S.) R.C.T. |   \n_IV_ ( _U.S._ ) _Corps_ | West coast Pisa sector.  \n1 (U.S.) Armd. Div. | In reserve.  \n6 (S.A.) Armd. Div. |   \n85 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n370 R.C.T. (92 (U.S.) Negro Inf. Div.) | In reserve.  \n1 Armd. Gp. |   \n2 Armd. Gp. |   \n13 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | East of Florence.  \n1 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n6 (Br.) Araid. Div. |   \n8 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n1 Cdn. Armd. Bde. |   \nEIGHTH ARMY |   \n2 N.Z. Div. | Still west of Apennines near Siena.  \n3 Greek Mtn. Bde. |   \nC.I.L. | Italian force of about divisional strength.  \n1 _Cdn. Corps_ | Adriatic coastal plain.  \n1 Cdn. Inf. Div. |   \n5 Cdn. Armd. Div. |   \n21 (Br.) Tk. Bde. |   \nH.C.R. |   \n2 _Polish Corps_ | Adriatic coast  \n3 Carp. Div. |   \n5 Kres. Div. |   \n2 Polish Armd. Bde. |   \n7 Hussars |   \n2 Italian Bde. (ex-C.I.L.) |   \n5 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | Apennine foothills on Adriatic sector  \n1 (Br.) Armd. Div. |   \n4 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n4 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n46 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n56 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n7 (Br.) Armd. Bde |   \n25 (Br.) Tk. Bde. |   \n10 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | Central Apennines.  \n10 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n9 (Br.) Armd. Bde. |   \nK.D.G. |   \n12 L. |   \n27 L. |   \nLovat Scouts |\n\n## APPENDIX \"H\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ARMY GROUP \"C\"\n\n_As at 25th August, 1944_\n\nTENTH ARMY | REMARKS  \n---|---  \n_LXXVI Panzer Corps_ | Adriatic to area Sansepolcro.  \n278 Infantry Division |   \n71 Infantry Division |   \n5 Mountain Division | Being withdrawn to N.W. Italy.  \n1 Parachute Division | In Corps reserve on Adriatic coast.  \n162 (Turkoman) Infantry Division | In Corps reserve on Adriatic coast.  \n_LI Mountain Corps_ Area | Sansepolcro to Pontassieve.  \n114 Jaeger Division |   \n44 Infantry Division |   \n305 Infantry Division |   \n334 Infantry Division |   \n715 Infantry Division |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n_98 Infantry Division_ | _Bologna area._  \nFOURTEENTH ARMY |   \n_1 Parachute Corps_ | Pontassieve to Empoli.  \n356 Infantry Division |   \n4 Parachute Division |   \n362 Infantry Division |   \n_XIV Panzer Corps_ |   \n26 Panzer Division |   \n65 Infantry Division |   \n16 S.S. Panzer Grenadier Division |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n29 Panzer Grenadier | Division North of Florence.  \n20 Luftwaffe Field Division | Area Viareggio.  \nARMY LIGURIA |   \n_Corps Lombardy_ | Savona to La Spezia.  \n135 Fortress Brigade | La Spezia.  \nMonte Rosa (Italian)  \nMountain Division | La Spezia to Genoa (excl.).  \n42 Jaeger Division | Genoa.  \nSan Marco (Italian)  \nInfantry Division | Savona area.  \n34 Infantry Division | Italo-French frontier.  \n_LXXV Corps_ |   \n148 Infantry Division | Italo-French frontier, south.  \n90 Panzer Grenadier Division | Italo-French frontier, centre.  \n157 Mountain Division | Italo-French frontier, north.  \n_Directly under Army Group \"C\" Adriatic Coast Command_ |   \n94 Infantry Division | Area Udine.  \n188 Reserve Mountain Division | Istria.\n\n_Total Divisions in Army Group \"C\"_\n\n_German_ | _Italian_  \n---|---  \nArmoured Divisions |  1 | Mountain Divisions | 1  \nMotorised Divisions |  3 | Infantry Divisions | 1  \nParachute Divisions |  2 |  |   \nMountain, Jaeger and |  | **Total** | **2**  \nInfantry Divisions19 |  |  |   \nTraining Divisions |  1 |  |   \n**Total** | **26** |  |\n\nAdvance elements of a further Infantry Division arriving.\n\n## APPENDIX \"I\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF FIFTEENTH ARMY GROUP\n\n_As at 9th April, 1945_\n\nFIFTH (U.S.) ARMY | REMARKS  \n---|---  \n92 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | West coast sector.  \n85 (U.S.) Inf. Div. | Army Reserve, Porretta area.  \n_II_ ( _U.S._ ) _Corps_ | Monte Grande to Route 64.  \nLegnano Combat Gp. |   \n34 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n91 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n88 (U.S.) Inf. Div. |   \n6 South.African Armd. Div. |   \n_IV_ ( _U.S._ ) _Corps_ | Route 64 to east of Bagni di Lucca.  \n1 (U.S.) Armd. Div. |   \n10 (U.S.) Mtn. Div. |   \nBrazilian Expeditionary Force |   \n371 R.C.T. | Detached from 92 (U.S.) Inf. Div.  \n365 R.C.T. | Detached from 92 (U.S.) Inf. Div.  \nEIGHTH ARMY |   \n5 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | Adriatic to south of Lugo.  \n56 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \nCremona Combat Gp. |   \n8 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n78 (Br.) Inf. Div. |   \n2 N.Z. Div. |   \n2 Armd. Bde. |   \n9 Armd. Bde. |   \n21 Tk. Bde. |   \n2 Commando Bde. |   \n2 _Polish Corps_ | Astride Via Emilia.  \n3 Carp. Div. |   \n5 Kres. Div. |   \n2 Polish Armd. Bde. |   \n7 Armd. Bde. |   \n43 (Ind.) Lor. Inf. Bde. |   \n10 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | Excl. Route 9 to south of Imola.  \nJewish Inf. Bde. Gp. |   \nFriuli Combat Gp. |   \n13 ( _Br._ ) _Corps_ | South of Imola to Monte Grande.  \nFolgore Combat Gp. |   \n10 (Ind.) Inf. Div. |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n_6 (Br.) Armd. Div._ |   \n_2 Para. Bde._ |\n\n## APPENDIX \"J\"\n\n## ORDER OF BATTLE OF ARMY GROUP \"C\"\n\n_As at 9th April, 1945_\n\nTENTH ARMY | REMARKS  \n---|---  \n_LXXVI Panzer Corps_ | Adriatic to north of Route 9.  \n162 (Turkoman) Infantry Division |   \n42 Jaeger Division |   \n362 Infantry Division |   \n98 Infantry Division |   \n_1 Parachute Corps_ | Route 9 to Monte Grande.  \n26 Panzer Division |   \n4 Parachute Division |   \n278 Infantry Division |   \n1 Parachute Division |   \n305 Infantry Division |   \n_LXXIII Corps_ | Venice area.  \nMinor defensive units only |   \n_XCVII Corps_145 | North-eastern Italy.  \n188 Mountain Division |   \n237 Infantry Division |   \n_Army Reserve_ |   \n29 Panzer Grenadier Division |  Area Venice - Treviso.  \n155 Infantry Division |   \nFOURTEENTH ARMY |   \n_XIV Panzer Corps_ | Monte Grande to Route 64.  \n65 Infantry Division |   \n8 Mountain Division |   \n94 Infantry Division |   \n_LI Mountain Corps_ | Route 64 to coast.  \n334 Infantry Division |   \n114 Jaeger Division |   \n232 Infantry Division |   \nItalia Infantry Division |   \n148 Infantry Division |   \n_Army Group Reserve_ | S.W. of Modena.  \n90 Panzer Grenadier Division |   \nARMY LIGURIA |   \n_Corps Lombardy_ | Coast of the Gulf of Genoa.  \nSan Marco Infantry Division |   \nBattle Group Meinhold | Genoa.  \n_LXXV Corps_ | Franco-Italian frontier.  \n34 Infantry Division |   \nLittorio Infantry Division |   \n5 Mountain Division |   \nMonte Rosa Mountain Division |\n\n_Total Divisions in Army Group \"C\"_\n\n_German_ | _Italian_  \n---|---  \nArmoured Divisions |  1 | Infantry Divisions | 3  \nMotorised Divisions |  2 | Mountain Divisions | 1  \nParachute Divisions |  2 |  |   \nMountain, Jaeger and Infantry |  | **Total** |  **4**  \nDivisions | 18 |  |   \n**Total** | **23** |  |\n\n## APPENDIX \"K\"\n\n## ADMINISTRATION IN THE ITALIAN CAMPAIGN\n\n#### Planning\n\nAdministrative planning for the invasion of Italy was made unusually difficult by two factors; the flexibility of the operational plans and the remoteness of the base. The decision between the various plans for invasion which had been prepared was of necessity postponed until very shortly, comparatively speaking, before the dates on which they were due to be put into action. As a result it was impossible to prepare well in advance an overall plan for the administrative side of the campaign and the arrangements eventually come to had to be hastily made and advisedly provisional in character.\n\nThere were three major headquarters in the Mediterranean theatre, concerned with operations against Europe. Allied Force Headquarters at Algiers, Anglo-American in composition but working on the American staff system, was in general responsible for all directives and policy; for operations against Europe; it met all administrative demands for the forces operating in Italy either from its own resources in the Mediterranean or by demand on Washington and London. It was also responsible for mounting formations and units proceeding overseas from the area under its command, viz., North Africa west of Tripoiitania. General Headquarters, Middle East Forces, was a British headquarters located in Cairo. It was responsible for mounting all formations and units which came from its command i.e., the bulk of Eighth Army and 10 Corps, and assisting A.F.H.Q. with such resources as it could make available. Fifthteenth Army Group Headquarters, though originally intended to assume responsibility for administrative policy and co-ordination of general administration of the fighting forces, ground and air, did not in fact assume that responsibility for the campaign in Sicily and the early stages in Italy. This came about more by circumstance than by design. On the American side its responsibilities would inevitably have been small, since on the American system the Services of Supply, North African Theatre of Operations, worked direct to Army. On the British side there was already a headquarters administering the bulk of the forces, Tripoli Base under General Robertson,146 and Eighth Army planned to bring this over to Sicily as \"Fortbase.\" This had the advantage that the headquarters was already well acquainted with the formations to be administered and the existing channels of supply to the Middle East and had a close and confident relationship with the Commander and staff of Eighth Army. Both Armies thus had their own administrative organisations, and the function of Fifteenth Army Group was limited to general supervision and coordination and the rendering of advice to the Army Group Commander.\n\nNo base depots holding large buffer stocks were established in Sicily, nor was Sicily ever considered as a base for future operations. We did, however, dump fairly large stocks at Syracuse, Catania, Messina and Milazzo which were used to provide initial maintenance of the forces to be mounted from the island. After 25th August, 1943, supply convoys, which hitherto had come from North Africa and Middle East, began to arrive direct from the United Kingdom and United States. This shifting of the base back to the producer countries meant that it was necessary to submit long-term forecasts of requirements sometimes weeks before arrival. The effect was a loss of flexibility with a consequent waste of shipping and congestion of ports, due to convoys arriving with stores which were not immediately needed, or in excess of current requirements.\n\n#### Initial Maintenance\n\nAfter much study the administrative plans for the initial major landings were settled. Troops landing in the Reggio area would be supplied by coasters carrying standard loads from North Africa and Sicily, petrol and stores ships sailing direct from the Middle East and the United Kingdom, and landing craft ferrying stores from Sicily to the mainland. Up to D plus 14 detailed requirement demands were made by 13 Corps Headquarters, and after that date responsibility rested with Eighth Army; Army demands in turn were submitted by Fortbase to A.F.H.Q. thirty days before they would be delivered. The arrangements for SLAPSTICK, the landing by I Airborne Division at Taranto, were necessarily of a more improvised nature. It was agreed that the force should be maintained initially through Taranto itself, but that subsequently the ports of Brindisi and Bari would be opened and used. A programme was worked out based on the shipping available and an arbitrary calculation of requirements for six weeks' maintenance and fifteen days reserve. After the initial pre-loaded shipments had been exhausted demands would be made via Fortbase to A.F.H.Q. The landings at Salerno were to be maintained initially over the beaches, but it was planned to develop Naples and the adjacent ports as soon as possible after their capture. Fifth Army retained a line of communication that went back through NATOUSA147 and was exclusively American; while, to deal with British administrative matters, a British Increment was added to its headquarters.\n\nThe system of command and supply that had been thus hastily evolved showed certain practical difficulties when applied to operations. The absence of any large stocks close at hand and the congestion in the North African ports meant that the situation was bound to be delicate until considerable supplies had been built up on the mainland; and, until this was so, the situation there was ripe for a serious breakdown if an emergency arose before a satisfactory system of overall working had been evolved by trial and error. Such an emergency did occur very soon.\n\nThe initial Eighth Army landings went according to plan and rapid progress was everywhere made, troops in the Toe being maintained easily through the several small undamaged ports there. In the Heel matters were not so satisfactory, since there had been insufficient time to make adequate arrangements, and troops there had to be placed on short rations for a few days, but their capture intact of the major ports of Taranto and Brindisi was of the utmost importance and was shortly be to the means of averting the complete breakdown which otherwise might well have occurred. For, when it was apparent that the Fifth Army at Salerno was meeting heavy opposition, Eighth Army was ordered to move to its aid with all speed; and its subsequent advance across a country with poor communications - although justified by the operational results - yet inevitably caused a breakdown in the supply system. The decision was therefore taken to switch the Army's supply line to the Heel, where the existence of railways, better roads and far better ports offered security for the future. This decision, involving the transference of stocks from Calabria to the Taranto area at the same time as the Army had to be supplied in its continual advance, placed a very great strain on the services involved, but its advantages were considered to outweigh its drawbacks. By the end of September there were signs of improvement. The ammunition position was satisfactory but petrol - particularly cased petrol - remained in poor supply owing to the shipping situation, and there was a grave shortage of transport.\n\nFifth Army meanwhile had been experiencing difficulties of a different kind. The landings at Salerno had met stiff opposition, and the accumulation of supplies had to be made under enemy fire; but the administrative planning had been very thorough, and the arrangements made proved very satisfactory until bad weather on D plus 12 stopped all unloading for three days. Salerno port, though soon captured, was initially rendered unusable by enemy shellfire, and the harbour at Castellamare was found to have been so damaged as to be useless; but the small port of Torre Annunziata was captured in good repair by the end of September and this, with the use of Salerno and of various beaches, sufficed thereafter until the opening of the port of Naples. When this city was entered on 1st October it was found that the port had been most systematically obstructed and the facilities there destroyed. The resuscitation of the port was immediately put under way, with such ingenuity and to such good effect that by the second week of October it was already discharging 5,000 tons per day. This was sufficient to keep Fifth Army supplied with essential commodities but owing to the accelerated arrival of new formations and the partly unforeseen demands of the civilian population reserve stocks were not built up according to schedule.\n\n#### Reorganisation of Administrative Command\n\nThe necessity for some new organisation of administrative command was obvious. An actual breakdown seemed now to have been averted, but the margin of safety had been a very narrow one and Eighth Army was forced to halt on the Termoli line to allow its supplies to be built up. The solution decided upon was the establishment at Naples of an Advanced Administrative Echelon of A.F.H.Q., which on 24th October took over the functions of administration formerly exercised by Fortbase. Major-General Robertson, who had commanded Fortbase, was appointed to the command of the Echelon; he was instructed to co-ordinate all administration on the mainland of Italy, to make the necessary arrangements to support the operations of Fifteenth Army Group and the North-West African Tactical Air\n\nForces, and to act as personal administrative adviser to the Army Group Commander.\n\nThe primary task of the new headquarters was to undertake the reorganisation of our lines of communication. From the disposition of the forces at the time, it followed that Eighth Army should be supplied by the Heel ports and the east coast roads, while Fifth Army used Naples and roads on the west coast, each Army taking over additional ports as it moved north. It was not, however, possible to keep British and American lines of supply separate, as they had been in Sicily; for the Heel ports were not capable of supporting the whole British force and furthermore there was - and would be for a long time yet - at least one British Corps under American command near the west coast. Naples, with its large though damaged port, was clearly capable of being developed to accept a great tonnage; and so it was decided to establish a full complement of British depots there and in the Heel, resources being split equally between the two areas. At first sight this might appear wasteful in administrative resources; but it did allow a flexibility that was invaluable later when it came to switching large forces rapidly from one coast to the other.\n\nBy the end of the year the new headquarters had succeeded in its major reorganisation and there was a great change from the uncomfortable position of October. Although the build-up had not gone as fast as had at one time been hoped -due mainly to lack of transport facilities - the main commodities were, with the exception of ammunition148, in good supply. Port development was sound and Naples was unloading some 15,000 tons daily; on the east coast the position had weakened to some extent as a result of the German air raid of 1st December which had destroyed 17 ships and 40,000 tons of cargo at Bari, but there was still a daily turnover of from 10,000 to 11,000 tons per day. We could at last say that our base in Italy was now quite firm.\n\nA further reorganisation took place when General Eisenhower left the Mediterranean theatre. It was decided then that all responsibility for Italy should devolve as much as possible on Fifteenth Army Group. The obvious step then was to transfer the A.F.H.Q. Administrative Echelon entire to that Headquarters, renamed \"Headquarters Allied Armies in Italy.\" This transfer involved no change in the administrative system, and took place on 24th February, 1944. After this reorganisation the administrative side of the campaign presented no problems out of the ordinary.149 So successful was the basis which had been laid that the great regrouping of the spring of 1944 was carried out without a hitch and the pursuit from the Garigliano to the Arno proceeded without ever being embarrassed by shortage of supplies.\n\n## ANNEX I\n\n## _to Appendix \"K\"_\n\n### THE AMMUNITION SHORTAGE IN ITALY\n\nOn two occasions during the fighting in Italy - in the winter of 1943-44 and again a year later - operations were prejudiced by a shortage of gun ammunition. The first shortage was, initially, an artificial one and there were always enough rounds in the gun pits; but the fact that fighting was heavier than had been expected, that the arrival of the Strategic Air Force in Italy delayed the build-up of reserves, and that there was a general shortage of transport and harbour facilities meant that reserves at Army level were inadequate. To meet this local shortage, considerably aggravated by our commitment at Anzio early in 1944, it was necessary to ship to Italy all available surplus stocks from the Middle East, North Africa and Sicily and the result was a shortage of ammunition throughout the Mediterranean theatre so serious that in early February 1 flew home to the War Office in an attempt to obtain immediate shipments of ammunition and an increase in the general allotment. I managed to obtain a certain increase, after I had fully explained our difficulties, but I was forced to issue stringent orders that the expenditure of ammunition should be drastically rationed and, except when they were repelling an attack or supporting an offensive, 25 pounders would be limited to 15 and medium guns to 10 rounds per gun per day.\n\nThe ammunition crisis again came to a head in the late autumn of 1944, and this time it was not only a theatre shortage but was, in fact, world-wide and affected American as well as British stocks. The first notification we had of it came in a message from the War Office in August which said that a shortfall in production meant that future supplies would have to be cut down. This news, coming at a time when we were engaged in the \"Gothic\" line battles with their heavy expenditure of ammunition, caused grave concern. The immediate shortage was overcome by the use of A.F.H.Q.'s reserve but this unfortunately could be no widow's cruse and by mid-November the position was so acute that no large scale offensive could be considered for another four months. Again it was necessary to impose a strict system of rationing which was to remain in force until the final offensive began in the spring of 1945.\n\n## ANNEX II\n\n## _to Appendix \"K\"_\n\n### THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE ANZIO BRIDGEHEAD\n\nMy administrative staff regarded the commitment entailed by the Anzio bridgehead as very heavy. The plan relied on the continuous maintenance of a mixed force, requiring both British and American supplies, over open beaches for an indefinite time at a season when the weather was likely to be at its worst. It is very much to their credit that these serious difficulties were overcome.\n\nFifth Army was in charge of the detailed planning for the administration, which they considered to fall into four phases. Initially supplies had to be built up in the area of Naples, and a loading programme and convoy schedules had to be organised. Then, in the assault, the force would have to be maintained over the beaches and beach dumps built up. In the next phase maintenance would continue in the same way, but it was hoped that the port of Anzio could be used. Finally, when the bridgehead force linked up with the main front, maintenance would obviously be discontinued over the beaches and would be resumed through the normal channels.\n\nThe planning and the accumulation of supplies worked according to plan and when on 22nd January fine weather and calm seas enabled the unloading to be done without difficulty it was found that the dumps could be built up well inland and not just on the beaches as originally considered.150 Bad weather on D plus 2 prevented use of one beach, supplies for which were thereafter diverted to another. Anzio harbour had not been demolished at all; it was found to be usable in all weathers and its capacity was rapidly increased by our harbour engineers.151 Despite the bad weather that on two occasions caused hold-up and dislocation in the unloading, until the end of January a daily average of 7,400 tons was discharged.\n\nWhen, in early February, it became apparent that the maintenance of a force at Anzio would have to continue for a much longer time than had originally been considered, new steps had to be taken. Thereafter special Liberty ships were loaded in North Africa and sailed to Naples; there they were top-loaded with any special items needed in the bridgehead to which they sailed when called forward by the authorities there. These ships, however, were too large to be berthed in Anzio harbour, and had instead to discharge into smaller craft; and this fact, coupled with bad weather, lack of craft and the constant enemy fire entailed a very considerable drop in the rate of unloading and caused a serious backlog of Liberty ships waiting at Naples to be called forward. Under these circumstances severe economy was exercised by the troops in the bridgehead in order to cut down their requirements, and more stores than hitherto were carried there on loaded cargo trucks in Landing Ships, Tank; at the same time A.F.H.Q. was able to lay its hands on some more craft for us and these factors enabled us to build up supplies to so satisfactory a position that, in May, we were able to cut down on shipping requirements. When the troops at Anzio broke out of their bridgehead there were ample reserves of supplies to support them.\n\n## APPENDIX \"L\"\n\n## NOTES ON THE AIR IMPLICATION OF AN ASSAULT ON THE ITALIAN MAINLAND - NAPLES AREA\n\nTo AIR COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF\n\n1. _Distance from Fighter Bases_\n\nFor the purpose of these notes it is assumed that the assault will be made in the Salerno area which is the nearest point that an assault can be made to our air bases.\n\n_Distances to Salerno_\n\nMilo (Trapani) | 226 miles  \n---|---  \nGerbini | 224 \u2033  \nReggio | 184 \u2033  \nN.E. Sicily | 178 \u2033  \nVibo Valentia | 152 \u2033\n\n3. _Fighter Performance_ (including 10 minutes combat)\n\nP-38 with one long range tank | 350 miles  \n---|---  \nA-36 with one long range tank | 200 \u2033  \nSpitfire with one long range tank (90 gal.) | 180 \u2033  \nP-39 and P-40F with long range tanks (75 gal.) | 150 \u2033  \nBeaufighter | 300 \u2033\n\n4. _Probable Location of Axis Air Forces_\n\nFighter bombers and L.R. bombers | Airfields in the \"Heel\".  \n---|---  \n| Airfields in the Foggia area.  \n| Airfields in Sardinia.  \nFighters | Airfields in the Naples area.  \nL.R. Bombers | Airfields in Lombardy.  \n| REMARKS  \n---|---\n\n5. _Available Airfield Accommodation within Range of Assault_\n\n_(a)_ Gerbini | Sufficient airfield space (backed by port facilities) to accommodate such fighters as are capable of reaching Salerno. (Distance 224 miles.)  \n---|---  \n_(b)_ Reggio | 4 to 6 S.E.F. Sqns. can be augmented by strip farther north if ground in our possession. (Distance 184 miles.)  \n_(c)_ N.E. corner of Sicily | One small strip only reported. Probable that others can be constructed quickly. Estimate 4 to 6 S.E.F. Sqns. (Distance 178 miles.)  \n_(d)_ Milo (Trapani) | 2 good airfields would take 2 gps. T.E.F. (Distance 226 miles.)\n\n6. _Availability of Aircraft Carrier Support_\n\n_(a)_ Mediterranean | 1 carrier.  \n---|---  \nN.W. Scotland | 1 carrier.  \nPacific | 2 carriers.\n\n_(b)_ Auxiliary carriers are still considered unsuitable for air operations of this nature as they are still incapable of operating modern fighters of the Seafire class.\n\n7. _Availability of Fighters_\n\n3 Groups T.E.F. (day) | P-38's (augmented).  \n---|---  \n2 Groups F.B. | A-36's.  \n18 Squadrons S.E.F. | Spits.  \n4 Squadrons T.E.F. (night) | Beaufighters.\n\n8. _Airborne Operations_\n\nIt will be necessary to capture the airfield at Salerno at an early moment, and it may therefore be found essential to employ airborne forces for the purpose. If airborne forces are employed by day, or require part daylight fighter cover, the commitment will compete with long range fighter resources required for the assault.\n\n9. _Bomber Operations_\n\n( _a_ ) A-20's (Bostons, range 280 miles) with Doolittle tanks are the only light bombers capable of reaching enemy airfields in the \"Heel\", Naples and Sardinia.\n\n( _b_ ) While heavy bombers (B-17's) can reach all airfields, including those in Northern Italy, from which the enemy are likely to operate air forces, the mediums are capable of operating against the majority of airfields in the Rome\/Naples area, including the \"Heel\" - also Sardinia.\n\n10. _General_\n\n( _a_ ) Problem primarily one of producing long range shore based fighter cover to cover an assault in either the Naples or Salerno area. Assault in the Salerno area offers more attractive proposition from air point of view for following reasons:-\n\n(i) Spitfires with 90 gal. L.R.T. can reach it.\n\n(ii) A good airfield capable of taking 4 S.E.F. Squadrons is within 3 miles of assault beach and might therefore be brought into very early use.\n\n(iii) Is close to a good port which should fall into our hands quickly.\n\n( _b_ ) The Salerno assault suffers however from the bottleneck of Salerno town and harbour which must be kept free for land advance to Naples.\n\n( _c_ ) Long range tanks (90 gal.) may place a limitation on number of Spitfires employed, but suitable airfield accommodation within Spitfire range is more likely to be the bottleneck. Total stocks of long range (90 gal.) tanks at present within the theatre are estimated at 840.\n\n( _d_ ) Beaufighters would be able to provide night protection operating from airfields in Sicily (Gerbini).\n\nII. _Conclusion_\n\n( _a_ ) P-38 (Lightning) and A-36 (Mustang), and Beaufighters (night) can be used for cover of any of the projected assaults in the Naples area.\n\n( _b_ ) Spitfires with long range tanks can be used for an assault in the Salerno area only.\n\n( _c_ ) P-39 (Aircobra), P-40 (Kittyhawk and Warhawk) are unusable except for short range convoy cover.\n\n( _d_ ) All enemy airfields, including those in Northern Italy, can be reached by our heavy bombers, while the airfields in the \"Heel\", Naples area and Sardinia can be covered by the heavies and mediums, and a proportion of the light bombers.\n\n( _e_ ) Bombers would have to operate unescorted.\n\n( _f_ ) Employment of Spitfires will depend upon adequate landing strips for 18 Squadrons in N.E. corner of Sicily or the use of Reggio. About 10 days will be available in which to construct these landing strips and move up supplies.\n\nAir Plans | (Sgd.) A.C.  \n---|---  \n25\/7\/43 | G.\/Capt.\n\nNOTE I. - DAY FIGHTER SORTIE ANALYSIS\n\n(i) P-38 (Lightning) 3 Gps. | 9 \u00d7 18 = 162  \n---|---  \nA-36 (Mustang) 2 Gps. | 6 \u00d7 18 = 108  \nSpitfires 18 Sqns. | 18 \u00d7 12 = 210 _(Sic)_  \n|  **480**\n\n(ii) 480 aircraft. 2 sorties per day. 960 sorties.\n\n(iii)   aircraft sorties daily.\n\n(iv) Estimated time over patrol:\n\nP-38 | 1 hour  \n---|---  \nA-36 | 30 mins.  \nSpits | 20 mins.\n\n(v) Providing airfields can be produced in the N.E. corner of Sicily in time for these operations fighter cover will probably be adequate.\n\n### GLOSSARY OF ABBREVIATIONS USED IN THE APPENDICES\n\nA.F.H.Q. | = | Allied Force Headquarters.  \n---|---|---  \nAlg. | = | Algerian.  \nArmd. | = | Armoured.  \nBr. | = | British.  \nCarp. | = | Carpathian.  \nC.C.B. | = | Combat Command \"B\" (Armoured Brigade Group of about divisional strength).  \nCdn. | = | Canadian.  \nC.I.H. | = | Central India Horse.  \nC.I.L. | = | Corpo Italiano della Liberazione (Italian formation).  \nF.B. | = | Fighter\/Bomber.  \nG.A.F. | = | German Air Force.  \nGp. | = | Group.  \nH.C.R. | = | Household Cavalry Regiment.  \nInd. | = | Indian.  \nKres. | = | Kresowa.  \nK.R.R.C. | = | King's Royal Rifle Corps.  \nL. of C. | = | Lines of Communication.  \nL.R. | = | Long range.  \nManch. | = | Manchester Regiment.  \nMor. | = | Moroccan.  \nMot. | = | Motorised.  \nMtn. | = | Mountain.  \nN.Z. | = | New Zealand.  \nPara. | = | Parachute.  \nPol. | = | Polish.  \nR.C.T. | = | Regimental Combat Team (Infantry Brigade Group).  \nS.A. | = | South African.  \nS.E.F. | = | Single-engined fighter(s).  \nS.S.F. | = | Special Service Force.  \nT.E.F. | = | Twin-engined fighter(s).  \nTk. | = | Tank.  \nU.S. | = | United States.\n\n#### Footnotes\n\n_1_ _General of the Army Dwight D. Eisenhower. (The title of his appointment was \"Commander-in-Chief, Allied Force.\" Another title frequently used was \"Allied Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean Theatre\". On 9th March, 1944, when General (now Field-Marshal Lord) Wilson held the appointment, the title was altered to \"Supreme Allied Commander, Mediterranean Theatre\". For the sake of clarity the later title is used throughout the Despatch)._\n\n_2_ _Figures as of May 1943; the Italian Army remained at a round figure of some sixty divisions until it capitulated._\n\n_3_ _The formations eventually selected were: British 50 and 51 Infantry and 1 Airborne Divisions; United States 2 Armoured, 1 and 9 Infantry and 82 Airborne Divisions; 7 British Armoured Division was later added to this list._\n\n_4_ _War Office footnote:- Strategic attacks by the Air Forces which were later based on Italy, and other strategic aspects of the campaign, are described in the Supreme Allied Commander's Reports on the Italian Campaign (Part I - 8th January, 1944 to 10th May 1944; Parts II and III - 10th May, 1944 to 12th December, 1944) by Field-Marshal Lord Wilson._\n\n_5_ _The best alternative available was an invasion of the Balkans. To do this it would first have been necessary, for the sake of air cover, to break into the \"outer ring\" of islands from Crete to Rhodes, a difficult operation in autumn. Balkan terrain is even worse suited for offensive operations than Italian, and it must be remembered that our amphibious resources were destined to dwindle to the advantage of the Western Theatre. A final argument against this course was that the United States Government was most reluctant to become involved in a Balkan campaign._\n\n_6_ _Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham; now Admiral of the Fleet The Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, K.T., G.C.B., O.M., D.S.O._\n\n_7_ _Also known as Crotone, which, as nearer to the classical form, was favoured by Mussolini._\n\n_8_ _1 and 4 British Infantry Divisions for 5 Corps, to be supplemented later by part of 82 (United States) Airborne Division and 78 Division from Sicily; 7 Armoured, 46 and 56 Infantry Divisions for 10 Corps._\n\n_9_ _G\u00e9n\u00e9ral d'Arm\u00e9e Henri H. Giraud - Commander-in-Chief French Forces in North Africa and Joint President of the French Committee of National Liberation._\n\n_10_ _This was a correct reading of popular feeling, which was marked by complete apathy and inertia, but had failed to allow for a \"palace revolution\"._\n\n_11_ _Now Marshal of the Royal Air Force The Lord Tedder, G.C.B._\n\n_12_ _Throughout this Despatch, Corps printed with Roman numerals (e.g. VI Corps) are American Corps and those with Arabic numerals (e.g 10 Corps) are British Corps._\n\n_13_ _Enemy air strength within 110 miles of Salerno was calculated at 380 German and 225 Italian day fighters and 50 night fighters (German); reinforcement within two days at 140 Italian fighters from North Italy and up to 60 German from Sardinia; bomber strength at 270 German and 275 Italian aircraft plus 120 German bombers based in Sardinia. For factors governing our own air strategy see Appendix \"L\" - a memorandum by Air Plans, Allied Force Headquarters._\n\n_14_ _By contrast some of the Anzio beaches, for example, had gradients of worse than one in a hundred._\n\n_15_ _Now Field-Marshal The Viscount Montgomery of Alamein, K.G., G.C.B., D.S.O._\n\n_16_ _Lieutenant-General (later Sir Brian) Horrocks, K.C.B., K.B.E., D.S.O., M.C., had been wounded in an enemy air raid on Bizerta on 19 August. I requested the War Office to_ _despatch Lieutenant-General (now General Sir Richard) McCreery, G.C.B., K.B.E., D.S.O., M.C. by air to replace him; he had been my Chief of Staff in Middle East and at Eighteenth Army Group._\n\n_17_ _Major-General Ernest J. Dawley, United States Army, later replaced by Major-General John P. Lucas, United States Army._\n\n_18_ _The additional fighters provided in this way by the Fleet Air Arm made a most valuable contribution to our air cover but they could not have been relied upon to the exclusion of land-based fighters for they could only guarantee eighty sorties on the first day, the number dropping rapidly thereafter, and the effort could only be sustained for a little over three days. It is clear therefore that carrier-borne aircraft alone would have been inadequate to support a landing further north._\n\n_19_ _Provided the weather remained fine. Rain would have rendered unserviceable the hastily constructed strips in the Milazzo area and precluded the use of the land-based short-range fighters which were to provide the greater part of the fighter protection over the assault area. It was one more risk involved in the operation._\n\n_20_ _Before the assault naval forces, including battleships, heavily bombarded the coast defences. The assault was supported by three cruisers, three monitors, two gunboats and six destroyers. The naval operations were directed by Rear-Admiral (now Admiral Sir Rhoderick) McGrigor, K.C.B., D.S.O._\n\n_21_ _The Supreme Headquarters of the Armed Forces equivalent to our Chiefs of Staff or the German O.K.W._\n\n_22_ _Major-General (now Lieutenant-General) Walter B. Smith, United States Army and Major-General K.W.D. Strong, C.B., O.B.E. (G-2 = Intelligence branch.)_\n\n_23_ _There was, of course, the insurrection of 25 April 1945; but this was after the German armies had been destroyed in battle south of the Po, after they had opened negotiations for surrender and only a week before their final capitulation. I do not wish to disparage in any way the gallant efforts of the Italian Partisans but it is a fact that, up to this date, they did not present a serious military problem to the Germans and were kept in check mainly by second quality troops such as Czechs, Slovaks, Cossacks, etc._\n\n_24_ _For instance the time which elapsed between 18 August, our first contact with the Italians, 3 September, the signing of the armistice and 9 September, the Salerno landing, has been ascribed to our intransigent insistence on, and Italian reluctance to accept, the principle of unconditional surrender. In fact the Italians never, raised any difficulties on this; their delay was caused possibly by natural hesitation and certainly by their desire to discover our plans before committing themselves finally. The date of 9 September, of course, was determined by the availability of landing craft and the phases of the moon._\n\n_25_ _General Castellano has published an account of these negotiations under the title \"Come Firmai l'Armistizio di Cassibile\". It is strikingly factual and sober._\n\n_26_ _The former was sent, apparently on his own initiative, by General Roatta, Chief of the Army General Staff; Lieutenant-General (now Sir Adrian) Carton de Wiart, V.C., K.B.E., C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., a prisoner of war in Italy, was released as a pledge of good faith._\n\n_27_ _Marshal Badoglio wanted us to land also at Ancona. Amphibious operations are difficult for the non-expert to understand, as has been clearly demonstrated by the published works on the Italian campaign. It may give a better sense of proportion to point out that the seaborne assault force for the Normandy landings, the supreme effort of the United Kingdom and the United States, was five divisions._\n\n_28_ _One motorised and three infantry divisions and an armoured division in process of reformation which was being equipped with German tanks._\n\n_29_ _An alternative plan for Fifth Army had been prepared for study on 24 August, in case the increase in enemy strength should make AVALANCHE impracticable. It was suggested that Fifth Army should substitute a direct assault on the Heel of Italy for the landing at Salerno; this operation could not have been carried out before 21 September._\n\n_30_ _German losses only. Total Axis prisoners in the final capitulation amounted to 248,000._\n\n_31_ _The minutes of the meeting were found among the Mussolini papers._\n\n_32_ _This was, roughly, the Trasimene line on which they offered delaying resistance in June 1944 on their withdrawal from Rome to the \"Gothic\" line._\n\n_33_ _It formed the basis for the German \"Winter\" line of 1943-1944._\n\n_34_ _The German order of battle at this date is given at Appendix \"B\"._\n\n_35_ _Less its armour. I Battalion of its tank regiment, equipped with Panther tanks, never came to Italy. II Battalion, with Mark III's and IV's, was at this time north of Rome with 3 Panzer Grenadier Division._\n\n_36_ _The fact that we gained strategic surprise is sometimes obscured by the fact that we did not gain, nor had hoped for, tactical surprise. To sail, so large a fleet into the Gulf of Salerno without attracting the attention of somebody on shore would have been too much to expect._\n\n_37_ _The late Major-General G.F. Hopkinson._\n\n_38_ _Lieutenant-General (now Sir Charles) Allfrey, K.B.E., C.B., D.S.O., M.C._\n\n_39_ _Brigadier-General (now Major-General) Maxwell D. Taylor, United States Army._\n\n_40_ _The Germans had three pre-arranged \"states of alarm\" (Alarmzust\u00e4nde) for troops on coast defence. Alarmzustand I meant merely that the possibility of an invasion existed and appropriate measures were to be taken; II meant that an invasion fleet was at sea, destination unknown, and all units were to make preparations to be able to move at short notice; III meant that a landing on the unit or formation's actual sector was imminent. State of Alarm II was nothing new for the German coastal troops; it had often been ordered in the past weeks, particularly by units in the Gulf of Gaeta. It is not known when, if ever, State of Alarm III was ordered at Salerno._\n\n_41_ _The late Major-General A.A. Richardson._\n\n_42_ _The arrival of the craft bringing these reinforcements apparently suggested to the Germans that we were re-embarking; their broadcast propaganda claimed a \"Second Dunkirk\"._\n\n_43_ _See Appendix \"K\"._\n\n_44_ _Up to 14 September the total transport of 1 Airborne Division amounted to seven jeeps and two trailers, two requisitioned cars, one motorcycle and two bicycles._\n\n_45_ _General Sir Alan Brooke (now Field-Marshal The Viscount Alanbrooke, K.G., G.C.B., O.M., D.S.O._\n\n_46_ _In addition on 13 October I was promised 5 Canadian Armoured Division and 1 Canadian Corps Headquarters with its complement of Corps troops._\n\n_47_ _We were at the time pressing hard to get Turkey to declare war and two armoured divisions were standing by in the Middle East for her defence._\n\n_48_ _German sources show that the definite order to stand on the line Gaeta - Ortona was given on 10 October but this apparently confirmed an order which had been given slightly earlier._\n\n_49_ _German \"Winterstellung\" which means more properly winter position; it was not a line but a series of defended positions in depth._\n\n_50_ _Field-Marshal Albert Kesselring, a regular artillery officer who transferred to the_ _Luftwaffe when it was recreated, first came to the Mediterranean in late 1941 as commander of Luftflotte 2. In April 1942 he became \"Commander-in-Chief South\" with authority over all the shores of the Mediterranean and all arms; he was particularly responsible for the campaign in Africa. He now took the title of Commander-in-Chief Southwest (Oberbefehlshaber S\u00fcdwest or OBSW); the Army ground forces under his command were known as Army Group \"C\"_.\n\n_51_ _I have here dealt with the proposed operations in the Balkans from the purely military point of view. There were, of course, political reasons both for and against such a course._\n\n_52_ _For those to whom such statistics mean little, the mean annual rainfall of London is 23 inches. The Italian winter climate came as a great disappointment to all those who were only acquainted with it from tourist propaganda_\n\n_53_ _Known as the \"Barbara\" line._\n\n_54_ _Not all these were in fact available to Kesselring whose actual strength available for Italy was nineteen divisions and one brigade group. There was a good deal of movement going on in North Italy at the time: one infantry and three armoured divisions were in process of moving to Russia and three infantry divisions were moving into the country to take their place. There was also some doubt whether the two divisions in the Alps on the Franco - Italian border, which actually came under C-in-C West, were not to be considered as available for Italy and a motorized division which had moved down into the area between Nice and Modane was also regarded as a likely arrival. A certain amount of over-estimation was in the circumstances not unnatural and in any event the disparity of strength was striking enough._\n\n_55_ _Actually the Germans were over-estimating our strength, as usual; captured German sources show that they credited me in November with three more divisions than 1 in fact had._\n\n_56_ _Also known as the Colli Laziali or Latin Hills._\n\n_57_ _56 Division had been fighting continuously since the landing at Salerno on 9 September. It was understrength then and its subsequent losses had been heavy, particularly in officers and N.C.O.s._\n\n_58_ _1 Italian Motorised Group, in about brigade strength, which came under command on 31 October, was used once in an offensive role, but was subsequently employed on less active sectors for which its state of armament and training made it more suitable._\n\n_59_ _General Sir Henry Maitland Wilson: now Field-Marshal The Lord Wilson of Libya, G.C.B., G.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_60_ _Lieutenant-General Sir Oliver Leese, Bt., K.C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_61_ _For a short time it was known as \"Allied Central Mediterranean Forces\"._\n\n_62_ _Rear-Admiral F.J. Lowry, United States Navy._\n\n_63_ _3 United States Division was nominated on 13 December._\n\n_64_ _At that time the target date for the invasion was in May and it was agreed that this readjustment would not affect that date._\n\n_65_ _Major-General (now General) Sir Brian Robertson, Bt., K.C.M.G., K.C.V.O., C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O., M.C._\n\n_66_ _Lieutenant-General (now Sir John) Harding, K.C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O., M.C._\n\n_67_ _Appendices \"C\" and \"D\"._\n\n_68_ _Ten British, five American, two French and one Polish._\n\n_69_ _In addition there were dispersed on the seventy-three miles of coast from the Tiber to Terracina three engineer companies and part of the 29 Reconnaissance Battalion._\n\n_70_ _His Excellency Lieutenant-General Sir Bernard Freyberg, V.C., G.C.M.G., K.C.B., K.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_71_ _One of our most serious handicaps in Italy was the lack of formations trained and organized for mountain fighting. I had 4 Moroccan Mountain Division for just over three months and eventually got the American 10 Mountain Division, in February 1945, for the last three months. I had frequently asked for the only British Mountain Division, the 52nd. This division was held in reserve in the United Kingdom, presumably for projected operations elsewhere. In fact it was never employed in mountain warfare but was retrained and eventually deployed in Holland in the autumn of 1944._\n\n_72_ _Major-General (now Lieutenant-General) Lucien K. Truscott Jr., United States Army -subsequently Commanding General, Fifth Army._\n\n_73_ _German sources give their casualties from 16 to 20 February as 5,389 in killed, wounded and missing._\n\n_74_ _Major-General (now Lieutenant-General) John K. Cannon, United States Army Air Force._\n\n_75_ _The technical experience we gained from this experiment was subsequently of great use on the Western front._\n\n_76_ _I was not then aware of the proposed date for OVERLORD._\n\n_77_ _As far as Italy was concerned, the fallacy of the policy of attacks on marshalling yards, lay in the fact that these are usually on level ground and always contain a large number of parallel tracks so that any damage can be rapidly repaired and a through line established in a very brief time. A reduction in rolling stock and facilities was of little importance as for their military purposes the Germans only needed about sixteen per cent. of the total available. A broken bridge, on the other hand, meant a long delay and stores had to be ferried round the break by road, thus wasting as much fuel as would be lost from the destruction of a good-sized dump._\n\n_78_ _As I have already explained, it was well below strength when it went to the bridgehead, and had been fighting continuously since 9 September._\n\n_79_ _Kesselring ordered at 1840 hours 1 March all concentrated attacks to be halted; Mackensen had already called off the offensive. German losses in the two days amounted to 2,215 (excluding 362 Division's losses for 29 February)._\n\n_80_ _The first elements of the Parachutists had arrived for the second battle, in February, when they held the heights, including Monastery Hill. For the March assault they were responsible for the town as well._\n\n_81_ _Captured enemy documents show that they were aware of the move of Eighth Army Headquarters though they placed it some twelve miles from its true location, presumably by an error in Direction Finding._\n\n_82_ _A good example is 15 Panzer Grenadier Division. This was one of the hardest worked formations in Tenth Army and only came out of the line at the beginning of May but its strength on 6 May was 13,984 plus 915 Italians employed mainly in the divisional services._\n\n_83_ _Appendix \"F\"._\n\n_84_ _Appendix \"E\"._\n\n_85_ _A Goum equals roughly a company and a Tabor a battalion, both on the large side. The total of goumiers was about 12,000. They are native Moroccan troops under French officers and N.C.O.s and are particularly skilled in mountain warfare._\n\n_86_ _The Polish divisions were only two brigades strong, however, so that the Corps amounted to one armoured and four infantry brigades._\n\n_87_ _The name of my headquarters had been changed on 9 March from \"Allied Central_ _Mediterranean Forces\" to \"Allied Armies in Italy\" and this was the first operation order issued since the change of title._\n\n_88_ _The Hermann Goering Division was at Leghorn, and responsible for guarding the coast in that area but for this we cannot claim the credit; the division was still earmarked for France._\n\n_89_ _The date of the attack was also well concealed. Captured documents show that General von Vietinghoff, commanding Tenth Army, proposed to return to Germany on leave on 11 May. One of his Corps Commanders picked on 24 May as our D-day_\n\n_90_ _As an example of the losses in ferries, in 10 Brigade sector on the right of 4 Division, all but five boats out of forty had been lost by 0800 hours on 12May and by 1600 hours there were none left._\n\n_91_ _G\u00e9n\u00e9ral de Corps d'Arm\u00e9e (now G\u00e9n\u00e9ral d'Arm\u00e9e) A.P. Juin, K.C.B., Commander of the French Expeditionary Corps._\n\n_92_ _305 and 334 Infantry Divisions; they were replaced by 278 Infantry Division from Istria._\n\n_93_ _The last detachment of 26 Panzer Division had left for the main front just before VI Corps attacked; it was consequently of no use to either sector at the moment it was most needed._\n\n_94_ _The German offer to declare Rome an open city belongs rather to a history of propaganda than to a military history. The offer was broadcast at a time when Allied troops were already in the outskirts of the city following hard on the heels of the enemy retreating through it. In the circumstances the enemy undertaking \"to carry out no troop movements in Rome\" was both belated and insincere. The most significant point about this announcement is that it showed the Germans had not expected Rome to fall so soon._\n\n_95_ _Shortly before the operation the codename was changed to DRAGOON._\n\n_96_ _The loss of the French was particularly severely felt as they were expected to repeat in the Apennines their feats in the Aurunci mountains. 4 Moroccan Mountain Division was, as I have explained, my only mountain division._\n\n_97_ _We took this name from a map captured in Kesselring's Headquarters at Monte Soratte and it was the name we always used for the line. This name \"Gotenstellung\" appears to have been given to the whole Apennine position in the planning stage but on 16 June it was changed to the \"Green\" Line (Gr\u00fcne Linie), which was what the Germans called the actual line on the ground. There is no special connection between the Northern Apennines and the Goths but the Germans often showed themselves conscious, not only by their behaviour, that in Italy they were treading in the footsteps of their barbarous forefathers; for instance two minor defensive positions in Campania were called after Totila and Alboin._\n\n_98_ _Other reinforcements were of less value. Two German equipped Italian divisions arrived towards the end of July and were employed at first on coastal defence and internal security. The Czech Army had arrived in Northern Italy about the time of the fall of Rome. It was twelve battalions strong and was used mainly for guarding railways and dumps in Northern Italy and keeping order among the Italian population. 1 Slovak Infantry Division, reorganised as a \"Technical Brigade\" for work on fortifications, had been in Italy since January 1944. There were also various Russian formations and units but, except for 162 Division and certain battalions, these were also normally employed only in rear areas. The indirect contribution of all these non-German formations in releasing German troops for active service was, of course, considerable._\n\n_99_ _I intended to employ only the minimum force necessary in the pursuit; among other_ _reasons maintenance ruled out a large force, as railhead was still back in the Cassino area. The remaining divisions were grounded in areas where they could be easily maintained._\n\n_100_ _G\u00e9n\u00e9ral de Corps d'Arm\u00e9e E.R.M. de Larminat._\n\n_101_ _General Wladyslaw Anders, C.B.E., D.S.O._\n\n_102_ _The position was apparently reconnoitred in August 1943 when the Germans considered holding a line Grosseto - Monte - Amiata - Perugia - Ancona._\n\n_103_ _I warned General Leese not to fall into the same trap as the Romans on this spot; he assured me that he had carefully studied the records of the earlier battle and would avoid the errors of Flaminius._\n\n_104_ _These included: a mechanized Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron, three tank battalions, three tank destroyer battalions, eleven batteries of artillery, two engineer combat regiments and a combat battalion, and a large number of anti-aircraft units. Between 1 June and 1 August the strength of Fifth Army fell by almost forty per cent., from 249,000 to 153,000._\n\n_105_ _78 Division, which had been engaged almost continuously since Sicily, was due to leave for the Middle East in the normal programme of rotation; 46 and 56 Divisions were returning from the Middle East to replace it._\n\n_106_ _He may also have been influenced in this by our deception plan which indicated the Adriatic sector as the area of our intended attack on the \"Gothic\" line._\n\n_107_ _The ones with which we were most concerned were, from south to north, \"Irmgard\", \"Karin\", \"Lydia\", \"Maedchen\", \"Olga\" and \"Paula\"._\n\n_108_ _The clearing of the Pontassieve loop of the Arno, east of Florence, lasted until 9 August._\n\n_109_ _6 South African Armoured, 1 British and 8 Indian Infantry Divisions. The South Africans were later put under command of IV Corps and replaced by 6 British Armoured Division. 78 Division was added in October._\n\n_110_ _Appendices \"G\" and \"H\"._\n\n_111_ _Later renumbered 8 Mountain Division._\n\n_112_ _20 Luftwaffe Field Division was not a very important reserve and its location is irrelevant to the problem. 90 Panzer Grenadier Division, before its move to the northwest, had been resting west of Bologna._\n\n_113_ _Relieved by 42 Jaeger Division from Genoa._\n\n_114_ _I had received 13,000 infantry replacements from the United Kingdom in April 1944 and was told that I should have no more. Realizing that this quota would not last beyond the end of July 1 set on foot a plan for creating more reinforcements from theatre resources. By disbanding Light Anti-Aircraft and some Royal Armoured Corps units I got together 17,000 reinforcements, 9,000 of which went to infantry units. In August 1 converted a further 5,000 gunners into infantry but even this was insufficient to make up for our losses in the \"Gothic\" line battles._\n\n_115_ _232 and 237 Infantry Divisions had now arrived to replace 3 and 15 Panzer Grenadier Divisions; the former went, in the first place, to Liguria and the latter to Istria. It will be remembered that August and September, the period when this reinforcement of Italy was set in train, were months of very severe crisis on the Western Front._\n\n_116_ _General Eisenhower's forces first crossed the German frontier on 11 September._\n\n_117_ _I am unable to say definitely when I crossed the Rubicon until historians decide which river it is; the Uso, Fiumicino and Pisciatello are the candidates in that order of preference._\n\n_118_ _There was a further unsuccessful counter-attack on Monte La Battaglia on the night of 10\/11 October._\n\n_119_ _Although the Italian weather is regular only in its extreme variability and although heavy rainfall is a feature of every month in the calendar the rain in September and October 1944 was both heavier and earlier in its incidence than the general average of past years seemed to prognosticate._\n\n_120_ _At the beginning of October Field-Marshal Kesselring was seriously injured in a car accident on Route 9 and did not return until the end of December. He was succeeded in the interim by General von Vietinghoff of Tenth Army._\n\n_121_ _Lieutenant-General (now General) Jacob L. Devers, United States Army._\n\n_122_ _One brigade of 46 Division in November; 4 British Infantry Division during December; remainder of 46 Division during January and February._\n\n_123_ _Since the end of July the Germans had been at work on a line of permanent defences based on the Adige and the Euganean and Berici hills, running from the Adriatic at Chioggia to Lake Garda; it was known as the \"Venetian\" line and by October was already formidable. Defences were also prepared on the line of the Po - Ticino and, south of the Po, on the Santerno, Sillaro and Idice, the last-named known as the \"Genghis Khan\" position._\n\n_124_ _The Germans were known to be constructing defences on the two last, in rear of the \"Venetian\" line._\n\n_125_ _In the event 4 Division went to Greece and the 5th to Twenty-first Army Group in Germany._\n\n_126_ _General McCreery considered that by 7 December he would probably only be on the Senio; a fresh break in the weather was the main factor which helped to prove him right._\n\n_127_ _Major-General Lyman L. Lemnitzer, United States Army._\n\n_128_ _Now Admiral of the Fleet Sir John Cunningham, G.C.B., M.V.O._\n\n_129_ _Besides providing gun support, the Allied Navies, up to the breakout from the beachhead on 23rd May, landed no less than 478,407 tons of ammunition and supplies, in the face of air attack._\n\n_130_ _The late Air Marshal Sir Arthur Coningham._\n\n_131_ _Lieutenant-General John K. Cannon, United States Army Air Force._\n\n_131_ _20 Luftwaffe Field Division had by then been absorbed into 26 Panzer Division._\n\n_132_ _The German Order of Battle on 9th April, 1945 is given at Appendix \"J\"._\n\n_133_ _On 10th April XCVII Corps in north-eastern Italy, with two divisions, was transferred to the Commander-in-Chief South-east. There were also in Italy various foreign levies, a Cossack division, 29 S.S. Grenadier Division (Italian troops with German officers) and other Italian formations to a strength of 126,000._\n\n_134_ _These figures are from an official German document from Headquarters Army Group \"C\"._\n\n_135_ _This was a disheartening result for the large organization engaged in propaganda and \"Psychological Warfare\" to the German troops. In general the verdict must be that this had no military effect whatsoever; the enemy continued to resist beyond the limits of what could have been thought possible. Such deserters as gave themselves up during the campaign were naturally claimed as successes of our psychological warfare but it would be difficult to prove that they would not have deserted in any case, especially as the great majority of them were persons of non-German origin, forcibly conscripted. There will always be deserters in a war fought in such unpleasant conditions; the surprising thing is that their numbers were so entirely insignificant._\n\n_136_ _The Allied Order of Battle at 9th April, 1945, is given at Appendix \"I\"._\n\n_137_ _We did, however, achieve our usual success in deceiving the enemy as to our plans. By simulating an intention to make an amphibious landing on the Venetian coast (which my naval advisers assured me was in fact quite impossible) we persuaded him to divert 29 Panzer Grenadier Division, his principal mobile reserve, north of the Po. Not only did this reduce his ability to resist Eighth Army's attack but also it was a great strain on enemy resources to carry out this lengthy move, eating into the meagre fuel stocks available, and then to bring the division, when the deception was discovered, back again over the Po crossings under the hammering of our air attack to be thrown too late into a losing battle._\n\n_138_ _This does not include casualties inflicted on the Italians, when they were still at war with us, or the Germans who surrendered after the capitulation. The German figures referred to cover the period from 3 September 1943 to 20 April 1945._\n\n_139_ _Another interesting figure is the total of nationalities under my command - twenty-six. A full list is given in Appendix \"A.\"_\n\n_140_ _That is to say, the real answer had they known it, since their faulty Intelligence continually overrated our strength they undoubtedly believed themselves to be containing forces superior to their own almost all the time. The chief advantage of our own Intelligence was that it enabled us to achieve our object with the greatest economy of force._\n\n_141_ _Twenty-five in Italy, nineteen in the Balkans and eleven in the South of France._\n\n_142_ _Including a Negro division and a Japanese-American Regimental Combat Team._\n\n_143_ _Including Algerian, Moroccan, Tunisian and Senegalese._\n\n_144_ _The title in use at this date was \"Allied Central Mediterranean Force\" (See footnote on Page 43)._\n\n_145_ _Transferred to Army Group \"E\" on 10th April, 1945._\n\n_146_ _Major-General (now General) Sir Brian Robertson, Bt., K.C.M.G., K.C.V.O., C.B., C.B.E., D.S.O., M.C._\n\n_147_ _North African Theatre of Operations, United States Army._\n\n_148_ _Annex I._\n\n_149_ _I add a note, at Annex II, on the maintenance of the Anzio bridgehead, which presented certain original features._\n\n_150_ _One novel expedient was tried in the administration of the Anzio bridgehead and, contrary to the Navy's expectations, fully justified itself. Everyday a number of American 2 ton cargo trucks were loaded with 5 tons of supplies at Naples and were driven on board Landing Ships, Tank which then sailed for Anzio. On arrival there the trucks were driven direct to dumps and unloaded. Empty trucks were loaded with salvage and then taken back to Naples in the returning ships. Great flexibility was achieved in this way, and large quantities of supplies needed in an emergency could be provided within 72 hours of the emergency arising._\n\n_151_ _Its initial capacity was for four Landing Ships, Tank, and three Landing Craft, Tank. Ten days later it could berth eight Landing Ships, Tank, eight Landing Craft, Tank and five Landing Craft, Infantry at the same time._\n\n## ABBREVIATIONS\n\nA\/S | Anti-Submarine  \n---|---  \nAA | Anti-Aircraft  \nAFHQ | Allied Force Headquarters  \nAlg. | Algerian  \nAMGOT | Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories  \nArmd. | Armoured  \nASV | Aircraft to Surface Vessel (radar)  \nBr. | British  \nBt, Btn | Battalion  \nBYMS | British Yacht Minesweeper  \nCarp. | Carpathian  \nCB | Companion of The Most Honourable Order of the Bath  \nCBE | Commander of the Order of the British Empire  \nCCB | Combat Command \"B\" (Armoured Brigade Group of about divisional strength)  \nCdn. | Canadian  \nCG NATOUSA | Commanding General, North African Theatre of Operations, United States Army  \nC-in-C | Commander-in-Chief  \nC-in-CFF | Commander-in-Chief French Forces  \nCIH | Central India Horse  \nCIL | _Corpo Italiano della Liberazione_ (an Italian formation)  \nCSI | Companion of the Order of the Star of India  \nDSO | Distinguished Service Order  \nF\/B | Fighter\/Bomber  \nFOSY | Flag Officer Sicily  \nGAF | German Air Force  \nGCB | Knight Grand Cross of The Most Honourable Order of the Bath  \nGCIE | Knight Grand Commander of The Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire  \nGCSI | Knight Grand Commander of The Most Exalted Order of the Star of India  \nGCVO | Knight Grand Cross of The Royal Victorian Order  \nGHQ | General Headquarters  \nGOC | General Officer Commanding  \nGOC in C | General Officer Commanding-in-Chief  \nGp. | Group  \nGSOI | General Staff Officer 1  \nHCR | Household Cavalry Regiment  \nHDML | Harbour Defence Motor Launch  \nHMS | His Majesty's Ship  \nHNMS | His Norwegian Majesty's Ship  \nHQ | Headquarters  \nHrs. | Hours  \nInd. | Indian  \nKBE | Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire  \nKCB | Knight Commander of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath  \nKCIE | Knight Commander of The Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire  \nKCMG | Knight Commander of The Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George  \nKCSI | Knight Commander of The Most Exalted Order of the Star of India  \nKCVO | Knight Commander of The Royal Victorian Order  \nKG | Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter  \nKMF | UK to North Africa Fast (a convoy designation)  \nKMS | UK to North Africa Slow (a convoy designation)  \nKres. | Kresowa  \nKRRC | King's Royal Rifle Corps  \nKT | Knight Companion of The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle  \nL of C | Line(s) of Communication  \nLCA | Landing Craft, Assault  \nLCF | Landing Craft, Flak  \nLCG | Landing Craft, Gun  \nLCM | Landing Craft, Mechanized  \nLCP | Landing Craft, Personnel  \nLCP(L) | Landing Craft, Personnel (Large)  \nLCR | Landing Craft, Rocket  \nLCS | Landing Craft, Support  \nLCT | Landing Craft, Tank  \nLR | Long Range  \nLSI | Landing Ship, Infantry  \nLSP | Landing Ship, Personnel  \nLST | Landing Ship, Tank  \nLt-Gen | Lieutenant Colonel  \nM\/S | Mine Sweeping  \nManch. | Manchester Regiment  \nMC | Military Cross  \nMKF | Mediterranean\u2013UK Fast (a convoy designation)  \nMKS | Mediterranean\u2013UK Slow (a convoy designation)  \nML | Motor Launch  \nMMS | Motor Minesweeper  \nMor. | Moroccan  \nMot. | Motorised  \nMT | Motor Transport  \nMtn. | Mountain  \nNATOUSA | North African Theatre of Operations, United States Army  \nNCETF | Naval Commander Eastern Task Force  \nNCFA | Naval Commander Force \"A\"  \nNCFB | Naval Commander Force \"B\"  \nNCFV | Naval Commander Force \"V\"  \nNOIC | Naval Officer In Charge  \nNZ | New Zealand  \nOBE | Most Excellent Order of the British Empire  \nOM | Order of Merit  \nPara. | Parachute  \nPol. | Polish  \nPT | Patrol Torpedo (boat)  \nRCT | Regimental Combat Team  \nRDF | Radio Direction Finding (radar)  \nSA | South African  \nSAS | Special Air Service  \nSB (Squadron) | Special Boat (Squadron)  \nSE | Single-engined [ _sic_ ]  \nSEF | Single-engined [ _sic_ ] fighter(s)  \nSNOL | Senior Naval Officer Landing  \nSS | Steam Ship  \nSSF | Special Service Force  \nTEF | Twin-engined [ _sic_ ] fighter(s)  \nTk. | Tank  \nUS | United States  \nUSN | United States Navy  \nV\/S | Visual Sighting  \nVC | Victoria Cross\n\n## INDEX OF NAVAL, MILITARY AND AIR FORCE UNITS\n\nOrders of Battle are detailed in the various appendices and the entries for these do not feature in this index.\n\nBrazilian Expeditionary Force,\n\nBritish Army,\n\nFifteenth Army Group, , , , ,\n\nEighth Army, -, -, -, -, , , -, , , -, -, , -, -, -, -, , -, , , -, -, -, -, -, , -, -, -, -, -\n\n5 Corps, , , , , , , , -, , -, -, , , , -, , , -, ,\n\n10 Corps, , , , -, , -, -, , , -, , , -, , , , , , , , -, -, , -, , , , -, ,\n\n13 Corps, , -, , -, , , -, , -, , , , -, -, -, -, -, \u2013, , -, -,\n\n30 Corps, ,\n\n1 Airborne Division, -, -, , , , -, ,\n\n1 Armoured Division, , , , , , , ,\n\n1 Infantry Division, , , , -, , , -, -, , ,\n\n1 Parachute Division, , , , , , , , -, , , , , ,\n\n2 Armoured Division, , , ,\n\n3 Division,\n\n4 Division, , , , , , ,\n\n4 Indian Division, , -, -, , , , ,\n\n5 Division, -, -, , -, , , \u2013, , ,\n\n6 Armoured Division, , -, , , -,\n\n7 Armoured Division, , , , , , ,\n\n8 Indian Division, , , , -, , , , , , , , , , , -, ,\n\n10 Indian Division, , , -, , , , , -\n\n46 Division, , , ,\n\n50 Division, ,\n\n51 Division, -, -,\n\n56 Division, , , , , , , , , -, , , ,\n\n78 Division, , , -, , , , , , -, -, , -, , , , , -, -, , -\n\nNew Zealand Division, -, , , , , , -, ,\n\n1 Airlanding Brigade,\n\n1 Guards Brigade, , , -\n\n1 Parachute Brigade,\n\n2 Parachute Brigade,\n\n24 Guards Brigade,\n\n167 Infantry Brigade,\n\n201 Guards Brigade,\n\n231 Infantry Brigade, -, , ,\n\nKing's Dragoon Guards,\n\nCanadian Army,\n\n1 Canadian Army Corps, -, , , -, , , -, ,\n\n1 Canadian Division, -, , -, , , , , -, -, -, -, , , -, -, , , , , , , ,\n\n5 Canadian Armoured Division, , \u2013,\n\n1 Canadian Armoured Brigade, ,\n\n3 Canadian Brigade,\n\nFrench Expeditionary Corps, , , , , , ,\n\n3 Algerian Division, , , ,\n\n9 Colonial Infantry Division, , -\n\nGerman Air Force (Luftwaffe), , , , , -, , ,\n\nGerman Army,\n\nArmy Group 'B', ,\n\nTenth Army, ,\n\nXI Flieger Corps,\n\nXIV Panzer Corps, , , , , , , ,\n\nLI Mountain Corps, , , ,\n\nLXXVI Panzer Corps, , , , , , ,\n\nHermann Goering Panzer Division, , , -, , , , , , -, , , , , -, , , , ,\n\n1 Parachute Division, , ,\n\n3 Panzer Grenadier Division, , , , , , -, , ,\n\n4 Parachute Division, -, , , , , , ,\n\n7 Air Division,\n\n5 Mountain Division, , , , -\n\n15 Panzer Division, -, , -, , , , , , -, -, , , , , ,\n\n16 Panzer Division, , , , , , , ,\n\n19 Luftwaffe Field Division,\n\n20 Luftwaffe Field Division, -\n\n26 Panzer Division, , , , -, , , , , -, , , -, ,\n\n29 Panzer Grenadier Division, -, , , , , -, , , , , , , , -, -\n\n34 Infantry Division, -, -, , , , , ,\n\n42 Jaeger Division, ,\n\n44 Infantry Division, , , , , ,\n\n65 Infantry Division, , ,\n\n71 Infantry Division, ,\n\n90 Panzer Grenadier Division, , , -, , , -, , , , -, , -\n\n92 Infantry Division, ,\n\n94 Infantry Division, , -,\n\n114 Jaeger Division, , ,\n\n148 Infantry Division,\n\n157 Mountain Division,\n\n162 Turkoman Division,\n\n278 Division, , , ,\n\n305 Division, , ,\n\n334 Division, , , -, ,\n\n356 Infantry Division, , , -\n\n362 Division, ,\n\n715 Division, , ,\n\n3 Parachute Regiment,\n\nItalian Army,\n\nSixth Army,\n\nXII Corps,\n\nXVI Corps,\n\n4 Division,\n\n26 Division,\n\n28 Division,\n\n54 Division, ,\n\nItalian Navy,\n\nVessels,\n\nBronzo, ,\n\nMoroccan 2 Division, -\n\nPolish 2 Corps, -, , -, , -, , , , -, , -\n\nRoyal Air Force,\n\nDesert Air Force, ,\n\nNorth-West African Tactical Air Forces, ,\n\n201 (Naval Co-operation) Group,\n\nRoyal Navy,\n\nForce H, , , ,\n\nForce Q,\n\nForce Z,\n\n12th Cruiser Squadron, -\n\n8th Submarine Flotilla,\n\n10th Submarine Flotilla,\n\n13th Minesweeping Flotilla,\n\n14th Minesweeping Flotilla, ,\n\n20th MGB Flotilla,\n\n32nd MTB Flotilla,\n\nRoyal Marines, , , , ,\n\nVessels,\n\nAba,\n\nAlynbank, , ,\n\nAntwerp, ,\n\nBlankney, , ,\n\nBlencathra,\n\nBoston, ,\n\nBoxer, ,\n\nBrecon,\n\nBrissenden, , -,\n\nBrocklesby, ,\n\nBruiser, ,\n\nBulolo, , ,\n\nCarlisle,\n\nCharybdis,\n\nCleopatra,\n\nCromarty, ,\n\nDelhi, -\n\nDorsetshire,\n\nEcho, ,\n\nEggesford, ,\n\nErebus, , , , -\n\nEskimo, -\n\nEuryalus,\n\nExmoor,\n\nGlengyle, -\n\nHambledon,\n\nHilary, ,\n\nIlex, ,\n\nIndomitable,\n\nLaforey, , ,\n\nLargs, , , ,\n\nLookout,\n\nLoyal,\n\nMauritius, -, , , , , -\n\nMendip,\n\nNewfoundland, , ,\n\nOrion, , , ,\n\nPoole, -,\n\nPrins Albert, -\n\nPuckeridge,\n\nQueen Emma,\n\nRoberts, , , , ,\n\nRookwood,\n\nRoyal Ulsterman, ,\n\nScylla,\n\nSeaham, , -\n\nTalamba,\n\nTartar, , ,\n\nTetcott, , , -\n\nThruster, ,\n\nUnicorn,\n\nUganda,\n\nUlster Monarch, ,\n\nValiant, ,\n\nWallace, , ,\n\nWarspite, , -, ,\n\nWhaddon,\n\nSouth African 6 Armoured Division, , , , , -, -, , -, , , , ,\n\nUnited States Air Force,\n\nSeventh Army Air Force,\n\nUnited States Army,\n\nFifth Army, , , -, , -, , , , , -, , -, -, -, , , , -, -, -, -, -, , -, -, -, , -,\n\nSeventh Army, -, -, -, , ,\n\nII Corps, , , , -, -, -, , , -, -, -, -, -, -, -, -,\n\nVI Corps, , , , -, , -, -, -, , -, -, , -, -\n\n1 Infantry Division, -, , , , -, -, ,\n\n1 Armoured Division, ,\n\n2 Armoured Division, , ,\n\n3 Infantry Division, -, , , , , , , -, , , -,\n\n9 Division,\n\n34 Division, , , , , , -, , -, , , , , , , ,\n\n36 Division, , -, , , , -,\n\n45 Infantry Division, -, -, -, , , , , ,\n\n82 Airborne Division, -,\n\n85 Division, , , -, , , -, , -, -\n\n88 Division, , , , , , , , , , -,\n\n91 Division,\n\n92 Infantry Division, , , ,\n\n505 Regimental Combat Team,\n\nSpecial Service Force, , , \n\n## INDEX OF PERSONS\n\nAlexander, Field-Marshal Harold Rupert Leofric George 1st Earl of Tunis, -, , , -\n\nAllfrey, Lieutenant-General Sir Charles Walter,\n\nBaade, Generalleutnant Ernst-Gunther,\n\nBadoglio, Maresciallo d'ltalia Pietro, , , , -, -, -\n\nBroadhurst, Air Vice Marshal Sir Harry,\n\nCastellano, Generale di brigata Giuseppe, -, , -\n\nClark, General Mark W., ,\n\nCunningham, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Andrew Browne, , , , , , -, , -, , , -,\n\nCunningham, Admiral of the Fleet Sir John Henry Dacres,\n\nDavidson, Rear Admiral,\n\nDevers, General Jacob Loucks, ,\n\nEisenhower, General Dwight D., , -, , , , -, , , , , , , , -, -, , , , -,\n\nGairdner, Lieutenant-General Sir Charles Henry, ,\n\nGiraud, G\u00e9n\u00e9ral d'Arm\u00e9e Henri Honor\u00e9, ,\n\nGraziani, Marshal Rodolfo,\n\nGuzzoni, Generale Alfredo,\n\nHall, Admiral John Lesslie,\n\nHamblen, Brigadier-General Archelaus L.,\n\nHarding, Field Marshal Allan Francis John,\n\nHarwood, Admiral Sir Henry,\n\nHauck, General der Artillerie Friedrich-Wilhelm,\n\nHewitt, Admiral Henry Kent, , , ,\n\nHickey, Colonel Lawrence P.,\n\nHopkinson, Major-General George Frederick,\n\nHube, Generaloberst Hans-Valentin, -\n\nJodl, Generaloberst Alfred Josef Ferdinand, -\n\nKesselring, Generalfeldmarschall Albert, -, , -, , , , -, , -, -, -, -, -, , , -, -, -, , , -\n\nLeatham, Admiral Sir Ralph,\n\nLeese, Lieutenant-General Sir Oliver William Hargreaves, , , -, , , , , , ,\n\nLemnitzer, General Lyman Louis, ,\n\nLowry, Vice-Admiral Frank Jacob,\n\nLucas, Major-General John Porter, ,\n\nMackensen, Generalfeldmarschall Von Anton Ludwig August, , , ,\n\nMcCreery, Lieutenant-General Richard, , -,\n\nMcGrigor, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Rhoderick Robert, , -\n\nMiller, Major-General C.H., ,\n\nMontgomery, Field-Marshal Bernard Law, , -, , , , -, , , -, , , , , -, ,\n\nMussolini, Benito Amilcare Andrea, , , -, , , -, , ,\n\nNares, Major-General Eric Paytherus,\n\nPatton, General George Smith, , -, , -\n\nPower, Vice-Admiral Arthur John,\n\nRamsay, Admiral Bertram H., , -\n\nRichardson, General, , ,\n\nRintelen, General der Infanterie Emil von,\n\nRommel, Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Johannes Eugen, -,\n\nSellar, Commander K.A.,\n\nSenger und Etterlin, General Ferdinand Maria von,\n\nTaylor, Brigadier General Maxwell Davenport, -\n\nTedder, Marshal of the Royal Air Force Arthur William, , , , , , , , ,\n\nTrollope, Brigadier H.C.N.,\n\nTroubridge, Vice Admiral Thomas Hope,\n\nTruscott, General Lucian King, -, , ,\n\nVian, Rear-Admiral Sir Philip L., ,\n\nVietinghoff, Generaloberst Heinrich Gottfried Otto Richard Von, , , -,\n\nWillis, Vice-Admiral Sir Algernon,\n\nWilson, Field-Marshal Henry Maitland, , -, , , , , , -, -\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n_For William, my memory and my joy._\n\n_And for Caroline, the air that I breathe._\n\n#### _Cast of Characters_\n\nARDAN\n\nBrenin - murdered King of Ardan, father of Edana.\n\nBrina - healer of Dun Carreg, owner of a cantankerous crow, Craf. Escaped with Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg. After reaching Domhain, along with a few companions, she accompanies Corban to Murias in search of Corban's sister, Cywen.\n\nCorban - warrior of Dun Carreg, son of Thannon and Gwenith, brother of Cywen. Escaped with Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg and fled to Domhain. Travelled to Murias, a giant fortress of the Benothi clan, in search of his sister, Cywen. Some claim that he is the Bright Star of prophecy.\n\nCywen - from Dun Carreg, daughter of Thannon and Gwenith, sister of Corban. Taken as both prisoner and bait by Calidus and Nathair. Rescued by Corban and his companions during the Battle of Murias.\n\nDath - fisherman of Dun Carreg, friend of Corban. Escaped with Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg. Accompanied Corban in the pursuit of Cywen to the fortress of Murias.\n\nEdana - fugitive Queen of Ardan, daughter of Brenin. At present on a ship sailing away from Domhain, accompanied by a handful of faithful shieldmen and Roisin.\n\nEvnis - counsellor and murderer of King Brenin and father of Vonn. In league with Queen Rhin of Cambren. Now regent of Ardan, ruling as Queen Rhin's right hand.\n\nFarrell - warrior, son of Anwarth and friend of Corban. Escaped with Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg. Accompanied Corban north in search of Cywen.\n\nGar - stablemaster, secret guardian of Corban. A Jehar warrior and son of Tukul, lord of the Jehar. Escaped with Corban and Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg. Accompanied Corban north in search of Cywen.\n\nGlyn - shieldman of Evnis.\n\nMeg - orphaned child from a village on the outskirts of Dun Crin's marshes.\n\nPendathran - battlechief of King Brenin, injured during the fall of Dun Carreg. Held prisoner and tortured by Evnis. Escaped with the help of Cywen.\n\nRafe - young warrior belonging to Evnis' hold. Childhood rival of Corban. Trained as a huntsman, and present during the escape of Edana from Domhain.\n\nVonn - warrior, son of Evnis. Escaped with Edana from the sack of Dun Carreg and remained with her during the fall and flight from Domhain.\n\nCAMBREN\n\nBraith - warrior and huntsman. One-time leader of the Darkwood outlaws, now huntsman of Queen Rhin.\n\nGeraint - warrior, battlechief of Queen Rhin.\n\nMorcant - warrior, once first-sword of Queen Rhin, defeated and replaced by Conall. Now one of Rhin's battlechiefs, loaned to Evnis to assist in the suppression of resistance against Rhin in Ardan.\n\nRhin - once-Queen of Cambren, now Queen of the West, having conquered Narvon, Ardan and Domhain. Ally of Nathair. Servant of Asroth, Demon-Lord of the Fallen.\n\nCARNUTAN\n\nBelo - Baron of Tarba, a fortress in Carnutan. Uncle of Gundul. Hostile and suspicious of outside involvement in Carnutan.\n\nGundul - King of Carnutan and ally of Nathair's. Son of Mandros, who was thought to have murdered King Aquilus of Tenebral and was in turn slain by Veradis.\n\nDOMHAIN\n\nBaird - one-eyed warrior of the Degad, Rath's giantkillers. Now guide and protector of Edana.\n\nBrogan - warrior of Domhain. Shieldman of Lorcan and Roisin, one of the survivors who fled with them and Edana.\n\nCian - warrior of Domhain, shieldman to Roisin and one of those who escaped the fall of Dun Taras and fled by ship with Edana.\n\nConall - warrior, bastard son of King Eremon. Brother of Halion and half-brother of Coralen. Sided with Evnis in the sack of Dun Carreg. Now the lord of Domhain, ruling in Queen Rhin's name.\n\nCoralen - warrior, companion of Rath. Bastard daughter of King Eremon, half-sister of Halion and Conall. Accompanied Corban north.\n\nHalion - warrior, first-sword of Edana of Ardan. Bastard son of King Eremon, brother of Conall and half-brother of Coralen. Captured by Conall as he fought rearguard to enable Edana's escape.\n\nLorcan - young fugitive King of Domhain, son of Eremon and Roisin. Escaped from Domhain by ship with Edana.\n\nRoisin - Queen of Domhain, widowed wife of Eremon, mother of Lorcan. Fled by ship with Edana.\n\nHELVETH\n\nLothar - once battlechief of Helveth, now its king. Murderer of previous king of Helveth, Braster. Ally to Nathair and Calidus.\n\nISILTIR\n\nDag - huntsman in the service of King Jael of Isiltir.\n\nFram - warrior of Isiltir. First-sword to King Jael.\n\nGramm - horse-trader and timber merchant, lord of a hold in the north of Isiltir. Father of Orgull and Wulf. Allied to Meical.\n\nHaelan - fugitive child-King of Isiltir, fleeing Jael. In hiding at Gramm's hold, in the far north of Isiltir.\n\nHild - woman of Gramm's hold. Wife of Wulf, son of Gramm. Mother of Swain and Sif.\n\nJael - self-proclaimed King of Isiltir. Allied to Nathair of Tenebral.\n\nKalf - man of Gramm's hold. Overseer of Gramm's river trade and boatwright.\n\nMaquin - warrior of Isiltir and the elite Gadrai. Taken captive during the fall of Dun Kellen by Lykos of the Vin Thalun. Enslaved and thrown into the fighting-pits, where he fought his way almost to freedom. Escaped Lykos during rioting at Jerolin, capital of Tenebral, on Lykos' wedding day. Now a fugitive on the run with Fidele of Tenebral, once-regent of Tenebral and recently wedded to Lykos.\n\nSif - child of Gramm's hold. Daughter of Wulf and Hild, sister of Swain.\n\nSwain - child of Gramm's hold. Son of Wulf and Hild, brother of Sif.\n\nTahir - warrior of Isiltir and the elite Gadrai. Protector to Haelan, child-King of Isiltir.\n\nTrigg - orphaned child raised at Gramm's hold. She is a half-breed, part giant.\n\nUlfilas - warrior, shieldman of Jael. Captain of Jael's honour guard.\n\nWulf - warrior, son of Gramm and brother of Orgull. Wed to Hild. Father of Sif and Swain.\n\nYalric - warrior of Gramm's Hold.\n\nNARVON\n\nCamlin - outlaw of the Darkwood. Now companion to Edana. Fled with her from Domhain, fought in the rearguard to protect Edana as she boarded a ship and fought Braith before escaping on the ship.\n\nDrust - warrior, shieldman of Owain. Escaped the defeat of Owain and his warband, aided by Cywen.\n\nGorsedd - villager who joins Corban's warband.\n\nOwain - King of Narvon. Conqueror of Ardan, with the aid of Nathair, King of Tenebral. Executed after his warband was defeated on Queen Rhin's order.\n\nTeca - woman from a northern village of Narvon, joins Corban's warband as she flees Nathair and the Kadoshim.\n\nUthan - Prince of Narvon, Owain's son. Murdered by Evnis on Rhin's orders.\n\nTARBESH\n\nAkar - captain of the Jehar holy warrior order travelling with Veradis.\n\nEnkara - warrior of the Jehar holy order. One of the Hundred travelling with Tukul.\n\nHamil - captain of the ten Jehar left by Tukul to guard Drassil and Skald's spear.\n\nJaved - slave and pit-fighter of the Vin Thalun.\n\nKulla - warrior of the Jehar, part of Akar's company that joins Corban.\n\nSumur - lord of the Jehar holy warrior order.\n\nTukul - warrior of the Jehar holy order, leader of the Hundred.\n\nTENEBRAL\n\nAlben - swordsmaster and healer of Ripa.\n\nAtilius - warrior of Tenebral. Fought with Peritus against the Vin Thalun during the uprising. Captured, enslaved and put to work on a Vin Thalun oar-bench.\n\nCaesus - warrior of the eagle-guard, captain of the shield wall.\n\nEktor - son of Lamar of Ripa and brother of Krelis and Veradis. A scholar where his brothers are warriors.\n\nFidele - widow of Aquilus, mother of Nathair. For a time Queen Regent of Tenebral. Lykos uses dark magic to bewitch and control Fidele, eventually marrying her. Riots break out in their wedding celebrations, during which the spell controlling her is broken. She stabs Lykos and with Maquin's help flees in the confusion.\n\nKrelis - warrior, son of Lamar of Ripa and brother of Ektor and Veradis.\n\nLamar - Baron of Ripa, father of Krelis, Ektor and Veradis.\n\nMarcellin - Baron of Ultas.\n\nNathair - King of Tenebral, son of Aquilus and Fidele. In league with Queen Rhin of Cambren. Believes that he is the Bright Star, the one prophesied to be the chosen champion of Elyon. Recently completed his quest to claim the starstone cauldron, one of the Seven Treasures of ancient myth.\n\nPax - son of Atilius. A young warrior captured during the uprising in Tenebral. Made a slave and set to work on a Vin Thalun galley, alongside his father.\n\nPeritus - once battlechief of Tenebral. Now leader of the resistance against Lykos and his Vin Thalun.\n\nValent - a warrior of Ripa.\n\nVeradis - first-sword and friend to King Nathair. Son of Lamar of Ripa and brother of Ektor and Krelis. He commands a warband of Tenebral, instrumental in the defeats of Owain of Narvon and Eremon of Domhain.\n\nTHE THREE ISLANDS\n\nAlazon - chief shipwright of the Vin Thalun.\n\nDemos - Vin Thalun ship-lord. Friend of Lykos.\n\nJayr - Vin Thalun healer.\n\nKolai - shieldman of Lykos.\n\nLykos - Lord of the Vin Thalun, the pirate nation that inhabits the Three Islands of Panos, Pelset and Nerin. Sworn to Asroth, ally and co-conspirator of Calidus. Appointed regent of Tenebral by Nathair. Has used sorcery to control and marry Fidele, mother of Nathair.\n\nNella - one-time lover of Lykos. Mother of his child.\n\nSenios - Vin Thalun pirate. Captive of Maquin and Fidele for a time.\n\nTHE GIANT CLANS\n\nThe Benothi\n\nBalur One-Eye - Benothi giant. Joined forces with Corban and his company during the Battle of Murias. He took the starstone axe from Alcyon.\n\nEisa - Benothi giantess, companion of Uthas.\n\nEthlinn - Benothi giantess, daughter of Balur One-Eye, also called the Dreamer.\n\nLaith - female giantling, one of the survivors of the Battle of Murias who joins Corban and his companions.\n\nNemain - Queen of the Benothi giants. Betrayed and slain by Uthas.\n\nSalach - Benothi giant, shieldman of Uthas.\n\nUthas - giant of the Benothi clan, secret ally and conspirator with Queen Rhin of Cambren. Slayer of Queen Nemain and now self-proclaimed Lord of the Benothi. Dreams of reuniting the giant clans and being their lord.\n\nThe Jotun\n\nIldaer - warlord of the Jotun.\n\nIlska - giantess. Battle-maiden and bear-rider.\n\nThe Kurgan\n\nAlcyon - servant and guardian of Calidus.\n\nRaina - giantess. Mother of Tain.\n\nTain - giantling. Son of Raina.\n\nTHE BEN-ELIM\n\nMeical - high captain of the Ben-Elim. Chosen as the one to leave the Otherworld, to be clothed in flesh and sent to the Banished Lands to prepare for the coming war.\n\nTHE KADOSHIM\n\nAsroth - Demon-Lord of the Fallen.\n\nBelial - a captain of Asroth, one of the Kadoshim spirits that travels through the cauldron and possesses the body of Sumur, lord of the Jehar warriors.\n\nBune - a Kadoshim spirit that possesses the body of a Jehar warrior during the Battle of Murias.\n\nCalidus - High captain of the Kadoshim, second only to Asroth. Chosen as the Kadoshim to be clothed in flesh and prepare the way for Asroth in the Banished Lands. Adversary and arch-rival of Meical, high captain of the Ben-Elim.\n\nDanjal - a Kadoshim spirit that possesses the body of a Jehar warrior during the Battle of Murias.\n\nLegion - many Kadoshim spirits that swarmed into the body of a Jehar warrior as the gateway through the cauldron was closing during the Battle of Murias.\n\n'Havoc and spoil and ruin are my gain.'\n\nJohn Milton, _Paradise Lost_\n\n#### Contents\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER NINETY\n\nCHAPTER NINETY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER NINETY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER NINETY-THREE\n\n#### CHAPTER ONE\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\n_The Year 1143 of the Age of Exiles, Eagle Moon_\n\nUlfilas touched his heels to his horse's side, urging her up the incline before him, a slope of grey rock and gravel littered with the remains of long-dead trees. Beside him King Jael kept pace, his face set in rigid lines. A dozen paces ahead of them rode Jael's huntsman, Dag.\n\n_Jael should not be here_ , Ulfilas thought, a knot of worry shifting in his gut. _The King of Isiltir, wandering in the northern wilderness on a fool 's errand._ It was not that Ulfilas felt any great sense of loyalty to Jael; he didn't even like the man. It was more that after all they had been through, to die now on a journey like this, which he considered a waste of time, would feel foolish.\n\nUlfilas was aware that times were changing, there was war on the horizon, and the power in Isiltir needed consolidating. He had been Jael's shieldman since he'd sat his Long Night, and despite his dislike of Jael's character and practices, Ulfilas was also a pragmatic man. _I 'm a warrior. Got to fight for someone._ Recent events had proven his choice well made. King Romar was dead. Kastell, Jael's cousin, was dead. Gerda, estranged wife of Romar, was dead. Her young son, Haelan, technically speaking still heir to the throne of Isiltir, was missing. Running. He knew that Jael felt little to no loyalty towards the men who followed him, that the new self-proclaimed King of Isiltir was scheming, vain and power hungry and would do whatever it took to keep his newly won crown. But he was a man on the rise. And so Ulfilas had stuck with him, when a voice in his mind had been telling him to walk away and find another, more worthy, lord to serve.\n\n_A conscience?_ he wondered. _Hah, a conscience doesn 't put food on my plate or keep my head from a spike._\n\n'How much longer?' Jael called ahead.\n\n'Not much longer, my lord,' the huntsman Dag called back. 'We'll be with them before sunset.'\n\nClose to the top of the incline Ulfilas reined in his horse and looked back.\n\nA column of warriors wound up the slope behind him, surrounding a wain pulled by two hulking auroch. Beyond them the land stretched grey and desolate, further south the fringes of Forn Forest were a green blur. A river in the distance sparkled under the dipping sun, marking the border of this northern wasteland with the realm beyond.\n\n_Isiltir. Home._ Ulfilas looked away, back up the slope towards his King, and spurred his horse after him.\n\nThey travelled ever northwards as the sun sank lower, shadows stretching about them, their path winding through empty plains and steep-sided ravines. Once they crossed a stone bridge that spanned a deep abyss; Ulfilas looked down into the darkness. His stomach shifted as his horse stumbled on loose stone, the thought of falling into the unknown making him snatch at his reins. He let out a long breath when they reached the far side, the sharp rush of fear receding as quickly as it had appeared.\n\nThey rode into a series of barren foothills, eventually cresting another slope to find Dag silently waiting for them. Ulfilas and his King drew level with the huntsman and pulled their mounts to a standstill at the sight before them.\n\nA flat plain unfolded into the distance, the tips of mountains jagged on the horizon. Just below the travellers lay their destination: a great crater, as if Elyon the Maker had punched a fist into the fabric of the earth, barren of life and no breeze or sound of wildlife to disturb it.\n\n'The starstone crater,' Jael whispered.\n\nUlfilas had thought it more tale than truth, the rumoured site of the starstone that had fallen from the sky.\n\n_How many thousands of years ago was it supposed to have crashed to the earth?_ And from it the Seven Treasures were said to have been forged, over which past wars had changed the face of the Banished Lands, not least of all here, where the stories told how Elyon's Scourging had broken the land, scorching it black.\n\nUlfilas stared up at the sky, slate-grey and swollen with clouds, and imagined for a moment that they were filled with the white-feathered Ben-Elim and Asroth's demon horde. He could almost hear their battle-cries echoing about him, hear the clash of weapons, the death-screams.\n\n_Elyon and Asroth, Maker and Destroyer, their angels and demons fighting for supremacy over these Banished Lands. I thought it all a faery tale. And now I am told it is happening again._\n\nRiding through these lands now Ulfilas found himself believing what, only a year ago, he had thought to be bedtime stories for bairns. He thought of the time he had spent at Haldis, the burial ground of the Hunen giants hidden deep in Forn Forest. He had witnessed a king betrayed and slain over a black axe said to be one of the Seven Treasures carved from the starstone; he had seen white wyrms, and earth magic where solid ground turned into a swamp, suffocating the life from his sword-brothers. He was a man of action - of deeds. Monsters made real were not something he'd found easy to accept. Fear churned in his gut at just the memory of it.\n\n_Fear keeps you sharp._\n\nFurther down the slope and built on the lip of the crater was the carcass of an ancient fortress, walls and towers broken and crumbling. Figures moved amongst the ruins, mere pinpricks in the distance.\n\n'The Jotun,' said Jael.\n\n_The giants of the north. Rumoured to be strongest and fiercest of the surviving giant clans._ Not for the first time Ulfilas questioned the wisdom of this journey.\n\n'No sudden movements,' Dag said, 'and keep your wits about you.'\n\nSome of the Jotun's number filtered out of the ruins, gathering on the road that cut through the derelict walls, their spear-tips and mail catching the sinking sun. A handful were mounted on shaggy, lumbering creatures.\n\n'Are they riding bears?' Ulfilas asked.\n\n'We've all heard the tales of the Jotun in the north,' Jael said. 'It would appear some of those tales, at least, are true.'\n\nThey stopped at the first remains of a wall, the column of riders behind them rippling to a halt. Warriors spread from the path, curling about Jael like a protective hand. Ten score of Jael's best shieldmen. Ulfilas could feel the tension amongst them, saw the way hands gripped spear shafts and sword hilts.\n\nGiants appeared from the ruins, moving with surprising grace despite their bulk. Some sat on the path ahead of them upon the backs of dark-furred and yellow-clawed bears. Ulfilas knew Jael was right to be wary, they'd seen first-hand at the Battle of Haldis how deadly an attacking force of giants could be. If it hadn't been for the men of Tenebral forming their wall of shields and stopping the Hunen giants' attack that had been tearing the warbands of Isiltir and Helveth apart, then Ulfilas knew none of them would be here today.\n\n_Too late to learn the shield wall now, but I swear, if I make it home . . ._\n\nOne of the bear-riders moved ahead of the others, a tremor passing through the ground with the bear's every footfall. It halted before Jael, looming over him.\n\nThe giant slid from a tall-backed saddle and strode forward, blond hair and moustache bound in thick braids. A cloak of dark fur wrapped his wide frame, the glint of iron beneath it. In his hand he held a thick-shafted spear, a war-hammer was left strapped to his saddle. His bear watched them with small, intelligent eyes. It curled a lip, showing a line of sharp teeth.\n\n'Welcome to the Desolation, Jael, King of Isiltir,' the giant said. His voice sounded like gravel sliding over stone.\n\n'Greetings, Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun,' Jael replied. He beckoned behind him, his warriors parted to allow the wain forward. One of the shaggy auroch that pulled it snorted and dug at the ground with a hoof.\n\n_It doesn 't like the smell of bear any more than I do._\n\nJael pulled back a cloth that covered the wain's contents. 'It is as my envoys promised you. A tribute. Weapons of your ancestors, hoarded at Dun Kellen,' he said, reaching in and with difficulty pulling out a huge battle-axe. 'My gift to you.'\n\nIldaer gestured and another giant moved to the wain, a broadsword slung across his back. He stood as tall as Jael did upon his horse. The giant took the axe, turning it in his hands, then peered into the wain. He could not hide the look of joy that swept his face.\n\n'They are the weapons of our kin,' he said with a nod to Ildaer.\n\n'I return them to you, as a token of my goodwill, and part payment of a task that I need your aid in.'\n\nThe giant gripped the aurochs' harness and led them forward, Ildaer peering in as the wain passed him. Giants pressed close about it.\n\n'And what is to stop me from killing you and your men, and giving your carcasses to my bears?'\n\n'I am of more value to you alive. You are a man of intellect, I have been told. Not a savage.'\n\nIldaer looked at Jael, his eyes narrowing beneath his jutting brow. He glanced back over his shoulder at the wain full of weapons.\n\n'And besides, who is to say that we would not kill you and all of your warband?' Jael said.\n\nThe giants behind Ildaer all glowered at Jael.\n\nA bear growled.\n\nUlfilas felt the familiar spike of fear - the precursor to sudden violence. His fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.\n\n'Hah,' Ildaer laughed. 'I think I like you, southlander.'\n\nUlfilas felt the moment pass, the tension ebbing. _Southlander? Isiltir is not one of the southlands. But then, we are in the northlands now. They call anything south of here the southlands._\n\nIldaer looked back at the wain again. 'That is of great worth to my people,' he admitted.\n\n'It is nothing compared to what I am prepared to give, if you can help me.' Jael told him.\n\n'What is it that you want?'\n\n'I want you to find a runaway boy for me.'\n\n#### CHAPTER TWO\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban woke with his heart pounding. The remnants of a dream, dispersed with wakefulness, just a hint of black eyes and immeasurable hatred remaining for a moment. Then that too was gone.\n\nIt was cold darkness all around.\n\nHe heard Storm growl and he sat up, one hand feeling for his sword hilt. _Something 's wrong._\n\nHe felt Storm's bulk beside him, reached out and felt her hackles standing rigid.\n\n'What is it, girl?' he whispered.\n\nThe camp was silent. To his left the fire-pit glimmered, but he avoided looking at it, knowing it would destroy any night vision he possessed. He made out the dense shadow of a guard standing on the incline of the dell they were camped within. The moon emerged, revealing another figure close by, tall and dark-haired. _Meical._ He was standing perfectly still, his attention fixed on the dell's rim. Behind Corban a horse whinnied.\n\nThere was a flapping up above and then a croaking bird's screech. ' _WAKE, WARE THE ENEMY, WAKE. WAKE. WAKE._ '\n\n_Craf or Fech._ Corban leaped to his feet, all around him other shapes doing the same, the rasp of swords pulled from scabbards. Shapes appeared at the dell's edge, figures outlined for a moment in the moon's glow before they swarmed down the incline. There was a crunch, a collision, a scream.\n\n'Kadoshim,' Meical shouted, then all was chaos. Bodies were swirling, solid shadows blurred with starlight, then an explosion of sparks burst from the fire as it blazed brightly, scattering light. Corban caught a glimpse of Brina calling out incantations beside the fire, making it burn higher and directing tongues of it towards their enemy.\n\nThe new light revealed a dozen attackers amongst them, dressed like the Jehar but moving differently, with none of their fluid grace, as if their bodies held too much power to contain within the confines of flesh and bone. They carved their way through the camp, sending those that attacked them hurtling away. Corban remembered how the Kadoshim had fought in Murias, just after they'd been raised from the cauldron, tearing limbs from bodies with a savage, inhuman ferocity. A wave of fear suddenly swept him, pinning his feet to the ground. He heard a strange language screamed in defiance and looked to see Balur One-Eye the giant, his kin gathered behind him, hurling defiance at the Kadoshim, who paused for a moment, then surged towards Balur.\n\n_They have come for the axe._\n\nAs he watched them charge together, Corban remembered his mam, their attack on _her_ , how he had tried to stop the blood flowing as he'd held her, how the light had dimmed from her eyes. Hatred for these creatures swept him, burning away the fear that had frozen him moments before, and then he was moving forwards, running faster with each step, Storm at his side.\n\nThey saw him before he reached them, or perhaps it was Storm that marked him out. Either way, the Kadoshim obviously recognized him, and who he was supposed to be: the Seren Disglair - Bright Star and Elyon's avatar made flesh. Some of them broke from the main bulk that was now locked in combat with Balur and his giant kin. Tukul and his Jehar swirled around their edges, slicing, cutting.\n\nStorm lengthened her stride and forged ahead of him. Corban glimpsed the muscles in her legs bunching as she gathered to leap, then she was airborne, colliding with one of the Kadoshim in a mass of fur and flesh, her jaws tearing at its throat.\n\nInstinct took Corban as he reached them; gripping his sword two-handed he raised it high, slashing diagonally, shifting his weight to sweep around his target. He felt his sword bite through leather and mail, shattering bone and carving through flesh. It should have been a killing blow. The Kadoshim staggered, one hand gripping Corban's blade. It stared at him, black eyes boring into him, then it grinned, blood as dark as ink welling from its mouth. These were no longer the human Jehar whose bodies they'd possessed upon emerging from the cauldron, but something far stronger.\n\nCorban yanked his sword away, saw severed fingers fall as the Kadoshim tried to keep its grip. Its other hand shot out, grabbing Corban around the throat, lifting him from the ground. Impossibly strong fingers began to squeeze. He kicked his legs, tried to bring his sword round, but could put no strength in his blows. Stars appeared at the edges of his vision, a darkness drawing in. The pounding of his heart grew in volume, drowning all else out. Panic swept him and he found new strength, bringing the wolven hilt of his sword down on the Kadoshim's head. He felt the skull crack, but still it gripped him.\n\nIt regarded Corban calmly, head cocked to one side.\n\n'So you are Meical's puppet,' it growled, startling Corban. Its voice was unsteady, a basal rumble that seemed too deep for the throat it issued from.\n\nCorban tried to raise his sword, but it was suddenly so heavy. Too heavy. It slipped from his fingers. The strength was fading from his limbs, leaking from him, a great lethargy seeping through him.\n\n_So much for everyone 's hopes of me being the Bright Star. Is this what dying feels like? At least I'll get to see Mam again._\n\nThere was an impact, a crunch that he felt shudder through his body and he saw sharp teeth sink into the Kadoshim's neck and shoulder.\n\n_Storm_ , he realized, distantly.\n\nThe Kadoshim was spun around as Storm tried to drag it off Corban, but it would not release its grip on Corban's throat. Then there was another impact - this one accompanied by what sounded like wet wood being split as an axe-blade hacked through the Kadoshim's wrist, severing it completely.\n\nCorban crashed to the ground, his weak legs folding beneath him. He looked up to see Tukul wrestling with the Kadoshim, Storm tearing at the creature's leg. Then someone else was there, sword a blur, and the Kadoshim's head was spiralling through the air.\n\nIts body sank to the ground, feet drumming on the turf as a black vapour in the shape of great wings poured from it, eyes like glowing coals regarding them with insatiable malice for a moment before a breeze tugged it apart. A wail of anguish lingered in the air.\n\nGar stood over Corban, reaching to pull him upright.\n\n'You have to take their heads,' Gar said.\n\n'I remember now,' Corban croaked.\n\n'Remember earlier next time.'\n\nCorban nodded, massaging his throat. He touched his warrior torc, felt a bend in the metal.\n\n_This must have stopped it from crushing my throat._\n\nThe battle was all but done. The grey of first dawn had crept over them as they fought, and by it Corban saw a handful of giants pinning the last Kadoshim to the ground, Balur standing over the creature. His axe swung and then the mist-figure was forming in the air, screeching its rage as it departed the world of flesh.\n\nThere was the silent, relief-filled moment that comes at the end of battle. Corban paused, just glad to still be alive, the fear and tension of combat draining from him. He could see it in those around him, the shift and relaxing of muscle in bodies, a change on their faces, a gratitude shared. Then they were moving again.\n\nAs dawn rose they gathered their dead, laying them out along the stream bank next to the cairn they'd finished building just yesterday. Corban stood and stared at the pile of rocks they'd dragged from the stream.\n\n_My mam is in there, beneath those rocks._\n\nA tear rolled down Corban's cheek as grief and exhaustion welled in his belly, swelling into his chest, taking his breath away. He heard a whine: Storm, pressing her muzzle into his hand. It was crusted with dried blood.\n\nA cold breeze made his skin tingle as he stood before his mam's cairn. _How can she be gone?_ He felt her absence like a physical thing, as if a limb had been severed. The events of yesterday seemed like a dream. _A nightmare._ His mam's death, so many others, men and giants and great wyrms. And he had seen the cauldron: one of the Seven Treasures, remnant from an age of faery tales. He had seen a bubbling wave of demon-spirits from the Otherworld pouring from it, Asroth's Kadoshim, filling the bodies of transfixed Jehar warriors like empty vessels. He knew the group who had attacked them had only been a small part of those remaining a dozen leagues to the north; Nathair and his demon-warriors camped within the walls of Murias.\n\n_What are we going to do?_\n\nHe watched as the rest of his followers started to break camp. He searched for Meical but could not see him. Brina stood close to the fire-pit, Craf and Fech fluttering about her. He glimpsed Coralen moving quietly to the camp's fringe, checking on the paddocked horses. Her wolven claws were slung across her shoulders. Corban remembered their words before the battle at Murias, when they had heard of Domhain's fall, of her father King Eremon's death. She'd fled into the trees and he'd followed her, wanted to comfort her but not known how. They'd shared a handful of words and for a moment he'd seen through the cold hard walls she'd set about her. He wished he could go back to that moment and say more to her. He saw her head turn, her gaze touching him for a moment, then turning sharply away. Beyond her, a huddle of figures stood - the giants who had fled Murias, clustered together like an outcrop of rock. Closer by, the Jehar were gathering beside the stream, making ready to begin their sword dance. He felt the pull of habit drawing him to join them. Without thinking he approached them, seeking comfort in the act of something familiar amidst the whirl of fear, death and grief that threatened to consume him.\n\nThey were gathered about their leader, Tukul, Gar beside him; a few score stood further behind the old warrior - the ones who had saved Corban in Rhin's fortress. Others were grouped before Tukul, at least twice their number. As Corban approached Tukul raised his voice, saying something in a language Corban did not recognize. The mass of Jehar before him dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. There was one who did not - Corban recognized him as one of the Jehar who had been with Nathair before realizing they had been betrayed. It seemed he was angry about something. Gar stepped forward. From years of knowing him Corban could tell he was furious, a straightness in his back, a tension in the set of his shoulders.\n\nFor a moment the two men stood staring at one another, a sense of imminent violence emanating from both of them, then Tukul snapped an order and they stepped apart, the other man stalking away.\n\nGar saw Corban and walked towards him. His eyes looked raw, red-rimmed. Corban remembered him weeping before his mam's cairn. The first time he'd seen him display such emotion.\n\n_He has always seemed so strong, so in control._ Something about seeing Gar weep had made him seem more human, somehow. Corban felt a sudden surge of emotion for the man, his teacher and protector. His friend.\n\n'What's happening?' Corban asked him.\n\n'The Jehar that followed Sumur and Nathair,' Gar said with a nod towards the Jehar, who had risen and all started forming the lines for the sword dance practice. 'They have recognized my father as their captain.'\n\n'Good. And him?' Corban said, looking at the one who had spoken with Tukul.\n\n'Akar. He was Sumur's captain. He is ashamed that they followed the Black Sun, that they were fooled by Nathair. That he was fooled. And he is proud. It is making him say foolish things.' Gar shrugged, the emotion of a few moments ago gone or well hidden.\n\n'He looked like he wanted to fight you.'\n\n'It may come to that.' Gar looked at the warrior, mingling now in the line of the sword dance. 'And we have a history.'\n\nCorban waited but Gar said nothing more.\n\n'Where's Meical?'Corban asked.\n\n'Scouting. He set off soon after the attack - took a giant and a few of my sword-brothers and left.'\n\n'Shouldn't we go and find him?'\n\n'I think Meical can look after himself. He'll be back soon. Best use our time.' Gar ushered him forward amongst the ranks of Jehar warriors. Corban drew his sword and slipped into the first position of the dance, his mind sinking into the rhythm of it, muscle memory automatically taking over from conscious thought. Time passed, merging into a fusion of contraction and extension, of focus and sweat, of pumping blood and his beating heart and the weight of his sword. Then he was finished, Tukul stepping from the line and ordering the Jehar to break camp.\n\nCorban stood there a moment, savouring the ache in his wrists and shoulders, clinging to the familiarity. He looked around and saw his friends were nearby, watching him - Farrell and Coralen, standing with Dath. A figure walked towards him - Cywen, their mam's knife-belt strapped diagonally across her torso.\n\n'Happy nameday, Ban,' Cywen said.\n\n'What?'\n\n'It's your nameday. Seventeen summers.'\n\n_Is it?_ He shook his head. _It 's been over a year since we fled Dun Carreg, since I last saw Cywen. A year of running and fighting, of blood and fear. But at least I have spent it amongst my kin and friends. What has she been through? A year by herself, surviving who knows what. And only to come back and be reunited with us and help bury our mam._ He took a long look at her - thinner, grime on her cheeks highlighted by tear tracks. The bones in her face were starkly defined, and her eyes were haunted. They hadn't spoken much last night before sleeping. There'd been too much happen to all of them that day for them to relive anything else. Instead they'd sat by the fire for hours, just comfortable in each other's company, Dath teasing Cywen and trying to make her smile, Farrell quietly watching and Coralen pacing as if she couldn't quite settle.\n\nBefore he could respond to Cywen's greeting there was a drum of hooves as a handful of riders crested the dell. Meical led, with the hulking forms of giants following behind. Corban could barely believe that what had once been mankind's fiercest enemy was now their ally. Meical rode into the camp, dismounted smoothly and strode to Corban. Balur and another giant, a female, accompanied him, with Tukul following behind.\n\n'Only one of the Kadoshim survived last night's attack. We tracked him halfway back to Murias before we gave up the chase. The land between us and the fortress is clear, for now,' Meical said. 'My guess is that the Kadoshim will stay within the fortress walls a while and become accustomed to their new bodies.'\n\n'Fech is watching them for us,' the female giant said. 'We will not have another surprise like the one last night.'\n\n'Good,' Corban nodded, then looked at Meical. 'What next?'\n\n'That is what we have come to ask you,' Tukul said, staring at Corban.\n\n'Me?'\n\n'Of course you. You are the Seren Disglair. We follow you.'\n\nCorban felt a shift around him and looked about to see the whole camp still and silent, all watching him.\n\nHe gulped.\n\n#### CHAPTER THREE\n\n#### UTHAS\n\nUthas of the Benothi stared down at the dead. He was standing just within the great doors of Murias, the sun warming his back. The bodies of his kin were laid out before him, scores of them, the might of the Benothi laid to waste. Here and there survivors of his clan moved, a handful remaining of those who had joined him - little more than two score - pulling fallen Benothi from the mass of the dead. The whole chamber was clogged with corpses, giants, men, horses, the stench of blood and excrement underlying all else.\n\nOther figures lurked in the shadows, the Kadoshim. They moved awkwardly, not yet fully accustomed to their new bodies of flesh and bone. Uthas suppressed a shudder and looked away; the sight was unsettling now the chaos and rush of battle had passed.\n\nMost of his surviving kin were gathered around a large ink pot, dipping bone needles as they inscribed the tale of thorns on their bodies. All had killed during yesterday's battle; all would have fresh thorns to tattoo into their flesh. He saw Salach, his shieldman, bent close over Eisa as he tattooed her shoulder. Uthas' eyes strayed back to the corpses lined at his feet, searching the faces of the dead. One that he had hoped he would find was not there. _Balur. I should have known he would not have the good grace to die._ He felt a flutter of fear at the knowledge that the old warrior was still alive, knew what Balur would wish to do to him. _He will carry this blood-feud until the end of days. He needs to die._ His gaze came to rest upon the corpse of Nemain, once his queen, now so much food for carrion.\n\n_What have I done?_ Fear and doubt gnawed at him. He cursed the events that had led to this. Cursed Fech, the damn bird that had warned Nemain of his betrayal. He put a hand to his face, felt the claw marks that Fech's talons had raked into his forehead and cheeks.\n\n_Things could have been different if I 'd had time to reason with Nemain . . ._ He gritted his teeth. _No. It is done, no going back. I must salvage from this what I can, protect and rebuild my clan. I am King of the Benothi now._\n\nVoices drew his attention and he looked up to see Nathair's adviser, Calidus, emerge from a hall, the giant Alcyon looming behind him. After the battle they had set a makeshift camp in the chamber of the cauldron, deep in the belly of the mountain, but Uthas could not stand it in there; the stench of so many dead wyrms was making him retch. Besides, it was foolish to leave the great gates unguarded, the only entrance and exit to the fortress of Murias. Their enemies had seemingly fled, but who knew what they were capable of? Meical and his followers had already stormed their way into Murias once and shattered the ceremony, preventing many of the Kadoshim from passing through the cauldron into the world of flesh.\n\nCalidus saw him and strode over.\n\n'How many of the Benothi live?' Calidus asked. A cut across his forehead was scabbing, the skin puckering as he spoke. After the battle he had appeared weary to Uthas, face drawn, his silver hair dull. For the first time he had looked frail, like an old man. Now that was gone. He stood straight, his body alive with new energy, his yellow eyes appearing feral, radiating power.\n\n'Forty-five, fifty maybe of those who stood with me. Others still live who fought against us, or at least, their bodies have not been found. Balur is one of them.'\n\n'Balur has the starstone axe. He took it from Alcyon.' Calidus flickered a withering stare at the giant beside him who stood with head downcast, his face stained with a purple bruise. Uthas noticed Alcyon had a war-hammer slung across his back, replacing the black axe that had been there. _Taken from a fallen Benothi, no doubt._ That stirred anger in his belly and he scowled at Alcyon, a member of a rival giant clan, the Kurgan.\n\n_No_ , he told himself, _if my dream is to become reality I cannot think like that. We were one clan once, before the Sundering. It can be so again._ Looking at Alcyon, though, he realized just how deep the old grudges ran.\n\n'You have something to say?' Alcyon growled at him, standing straighter, returning his dark look.\n\n_Control your temper, build bridges_ , he told himself.\n\n'I see you carry a Benothi weapon. There is much honour in that.'\n\n'Honour, in the Benothi?' Alcyon sniffed.\n\n'Aye,' Uthas growled, anger rising. 'As there is in all of the clans. Even the Kurgan.'\n\nAlcyon looked slowly around, his gaze lingering on the fallen Benothi. 'I see little evidence of Benothi honour here.'\n\n'I did what had to be done,' Uthas snarled. 'For our future. Yours, mine, all of the clans'. If Nemain had continued to do nothing all of the clans would have faded, become a tale to frighten wayward children.'\n\n'And instead we will slaughter ourselves to extinction.'\n\n_You fool, you do not see the long path, only the next step._ His temper was fraying.\n\n'You would be better served by concentrating on the task set for you.' Uthas shrugged, feeling the spite rise in him like bile after too much wine. 'But you were unable to do that, as you could not even hold onto the starstone axe.'\n\n'Do not judge me, you that have betrayed your kin, your queen.' Alcyon looked about the room, eyes resting on Nemain's broken body. 'And I lost the axe to Balur One-Eye. I feel no shame in that, when I can smell the fear in you at the mere mention of his name.'\n\nUthas felt the words like a blow across his face. 'We have both served the same master here,' he said.\n\n'Aye, but you out of _choice_ ,' Alcyon glowered.\n\n'Enough,' Calidus snapped. He glared at Alcyon until the giant looked away from Uthas. 'Balur is a problem. I hoped that he would have been slain in the battle.'\n\n_As did I._ 'He will do all in his power to see me dead.' Uthas felt a stab of shame at the tremor in his voice. He gripped his spear tighter, his shame shifting to anger. 'He could be dead, slain by those that left in the night.'\n\nThere had been a disagreement after the battle; one of the Kadoshim had argued with Calidus. It had been unsettling, hearing a voice so alien issuing from the Jehar's mouth - rasping and sibilant.\n\n'You have failed Asroth,' the Kadoshim had accused Calidus, arms jerking. 'We must regain the axe now, before it is too late, and reopen the pathway.'\n\nCalidus had taken a long shuddering breath, mastering himself. 'It is too great a risk, Danjal,' Calidus had said. 'Battles are still being fought. We must secure the fortress, make sure the cauldron is safe. Would you have us abandon it?'\n\n'Our great master must be allowed to cross over. For that we need the starstone axe.'\n\n'Seven Treasures are needed to open the way for Asroth, not just the axe. It will happen, but we must wait. I seized an opportunity, and over a thousand of our brothers are now clothed in flesh. Be content with that. Asroth waits to enter this world wrapped in his own form, not filling someone else's, as you have done. And, besides, to pursue Meical now would be foolish; it would put the cauldron at risk, and many of you will lose your new skins.'\n\n'Your body of flesh and bone has made you craven,' the Kadoshim had snarled. 'Asroth will reward me when he knows it was I who secured the axe and made his passage possible.'\n\nCalidus took a step back from the Kadoshim and unsheathed his sword, the rasp of it drawing all eyes. 'Craven? I have just fought Meical, high captain of the Ben-Elim, and seen him flee. I have fought countless battles to reach this place and made a bridge between the Otherworld and the world of flesh, to bring your worthless spirit here. You will not call me craven. Or would you challenge me, reckless Danjal?'\n\nMuscles clenched and unclenched in the Kadoshim, a spasming ripple. Eventually he lowered his eyes.\n\n'I seek our master's glory,' he growled.\n\n'As do I,' Calidus said. 'Go after Meical and you will be rejoining our master in the Otherworld before you know it.' Calidus had turned his back and walked away. The once-Jehar looked about, called for help and then ran from the chamber, a dozen or so Kadoshim surging after him.\n\n'If you find them, try and kill Meical's puppet, his Bright Star; you may actually achieve something useful with your death that way,' Calidus called out after them.\n\nUthas had felt a glimmer of hope. To retrieve the starstone axe they would need to slay Balur.\n\nHe wished it was so, but as yet there had been no sign of the Kadoshim that had left during the night.\n\n'Your comrades that went after the axe, they may have killed Balur, retaken the axe.'\n\n'Maybe.' Calidus shrugged. 'But I doubt it. More likely is that the Kadoshim that went after the axe are slain, their spirits returned to the Otherworld. Meical may be foolish in some things, but he would have set a guard, and he knows how to fight.'\n\nUthas could not hide his disappointment as his hope flickered and died.\n\n'It is of no matter. Danjal has always been a fool; we are better off without his rebellious nature. Do not fear Balur. I will protect you. Your future is with me, now. Your loyalty to Asroth will not be forgotten. I have the cauldron because of you, and I am grateful.' The old man paused a moment; Uthas took strength from his words.\n\n'How many are with Balur?' Calidus asked him.\n\n'A score that cannot be accounted for, his dreaming bitch of a daughter Ethlinn amongst them. And none of our young have been found - they were hidden in a higher chamber. Around the same number again.' He shook his head, a wave of regret sweeping him. 'The Benothi are close to extinction, our numbers . . .'\n\n'Too late for remorse. You've made your choice. And a wise one - you have chosen the victorious side. The Kadoshim walk this world, and this is only the beginning.' Calidus grinned a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes\n\n_He is right. And added to that, what other road is there for me to follow? The Benothi 's fate is entwined with the Kadoshim now._\n\nUthas took a shuddering breath. 'And what now?' he asked Calidus. 'You have the cauldron. What would you do with it?'\n\n'Make it safe.'\n\n'It is safe enough here.'\n\n'Clearly not. We took it. No, it must be taken to Tenebral. There it will be at the centre of a web that has taken me many years to build. I will have Lykos and his Vin Thalun, and Nathair's eagle-guard to protect it, along with your Benothi and my Kadoshim.'\n\nUthas frowned. 'A long journey. Much could happen.'\n\n'Aye, but it will have an honour guard this world has never seen before. You Benothi and over a thousand Kadoshim.'\n\n'And once it is in Tenebral?'\n\n'One thing at a time. First, to journey there with the cauldron. I would have you and your Benothi build a wain for the cauldron to travel upon, sturdy and strong.'\n\n'We shall do it. To Tenebral, you say. For that you will need Nathair.'\n\nCalidus looked thoughtful and frowned. 'Yes. The time has come for me to speak with our disillusioned King.'\n\nCalidus had tasked Uthas with keeping a watch over Nathair. During the battle he had sat on the dais steps before the cauldron, the truth of his actions unfolding before him, settling upon him like a shroud. After having believed himself to be the Seren Disglair for so long, witnessing the events he'd set in action had only left him questioning his true position. After the battle he had attempted to confront Calidus, who had just ignored him. It seemed that was the last straw for Nathair. He had flown into a rage and attacked Calidus, spraying spittle as he spat curses, denounced him as a traitor, but Uthas had grabbed Nathair, held him, and Calidus had struck him unconscious. He had then cut a lock of hair from Nathair's head.\n\n'Where is Nathair?' Calidus asked him.\n\n'Out there,' Uthas waved at the gates.\n\n'Accompany me. I need Nathair's cooperation. Some persuasion will be necessary, and your example may be helpful.'\n\n'And if he does not agree?'\n\n'There is always this,' Calidus said. He opened his cloak to show a crude clay figure, strands of dark hair embedded within it.\n\n_Does he have strands of my hair bound within an effigy of clay?_ Uthas felt a shiver of fear at that thought.\n\n'But I'd rather it didn't come to that,' Calidus said, dropping his cloak.\n\n'Compassion?'\n\n'Don't be an idiot,' Calidus said with a sneer. 'It would be one more thing that I have to maintain - it is hard work, conquering a world.'\n\nAs they strode towards the gate one of the Kadoshim called Calidus' name. Uthas recognized its body as Sumur, the leader of the Jehar who had followed Nathair. 'This body,' the Kadoshim said, its voice a serpentine growl. 'It is weakening, not responding as it did.'\n\n'Men of flesh must eat, to restore their energy,' Calidus said. 'Ideally every day.'\n\n'Eat?'\n\n'You must consume sustenance: fruit, meat, many things.' Calidus waved a hand.\n\nAs Uthas watched, ripples of movement ran across once-Sumur's face. The black eyes bulged, lips pulling back in a rictus of pain as a scream burst from its lips. For a moment the flesh of the face writhed, fingers trying to gouge their way out. With a twist of the neck and a groan the features became smooth again, calm, expressionless.\n\n'This human objects to my presence,' the serpentine voice said. Something passing for a smile twisted its face, a tongue licking its lips. 'It gives good sport.'\n\nUthas was horrified. He had assumed the souls of the hosts had been displaced, were not still residing trapped within their own bodies, struggling to evict those who possessed them. He shuddered - such a thing would be a living death.\n\n'He was a master swordsman, all of your new hosts were,' Calidus said, raising his voice to all the Kadoshim in the great hall. 'Examine their souls, pick them apart, absorb their skills. Learn the ways of your new bodies. And eat.'\n\nSibilant laughter echoed about the chamber as Calidus walked away. Uthas saw one Kadoshim drop to the ground, burying its face in the belly of a dead horse, the wet sound of flesh tearing.\n\n'They are like children,' Calidus sighed. 'I have much to teach them in little time, which is why I need Nathair to cooperate.'\n\nThey found the King of Tenebral a short way along the road that approached Murias, the tattered bodies of Jehar warriors and their horses scattered around him, shredded to a bloody mess by the raven storm that Queen Nemain had set upon them. He was stood with his great draig, holding its reins loosely in one hand while it feasted on the corpse of a horse. It pulled its snout from a smashed ribcage to regard them with small black eyes, gore dripping from its jaws. As they drew nearer to Nathair, Uthas glimpsed amongst the fern and gorse one of his kin whom he had set to watch the King of Tenebral.\n\nNathair heard their approach and looked up. He whispered something to the draig, which went back to devouring the horse's innards. Nathair turned his back to them, looking out over the bleak landscape of moorland, gentle hills undulating into the horizon.\n\n'He is out there,' Nathair said quietly.\n\n'Who do you speak of?' Calidus asked.\n\n'The Bright Star. For so long I have believed that title was mine.' He turned, calm now, Uthas saw, his rage from the cauldron's chamber gone, spent. His eyes were dark-rimmed and red. A bruise mottled his jaw.\n\n'You have deceived me, all this time.' Nathair looked first at Calidus, then past him, to Alcyon. The giant dropped his head, not meeting Nathair's gaze.\n\n'You would not have understood,' Calidus said.\n\nNathair raised his eyebrows at that. 'Something we agree on. My first-sword Veradis will have your heads for this. Thankfully he is not here to witness how far we have fallen.'\n\n'Time will be the judge,' Calidus said with a shrug. 'But there is still a future for you. For us.'\n\n'What, this is not to be my execution, then?' Nathair's eyes flickered to Alcyon and Uthas behind Calidus, and then further off, to the Benothi guards lurking in shadows.\n\n'No. I came to talk.'\n\n'It seems to me the time for that has passed. But go on . . .'\n\n'You see things as you have been taught. Good, evil; right, wrong. But things are not always as they seem--'\n\n'No, they are not. You are living proof of that. Claiming to be one of the Ben Elim, yet you are the opposite: Kadoshim, a fallen angel, servant of Asroth.'\n\n'You speak of things about which you have no understanding,' Calidus snapped. 'Kadoshim, Ben-Elim, they are just names given by those too ignorant to comprehend. Remember, history is written by the victors. It is not an unassailable truth, but a twisted, moulded thing, corrupted by the victor's perspective. Elyon is not good; Asroth is not evil. That is a child's view. The world is not scribed in black and white, but in shades of grey.'\n\n'So you would have me believe that Asroth is good? That Elyon is the deceiver?'\n\n'No, something in the middle of that, perhaps, with both parties capable of both good and evil. Like you. More human, if you like. Would that be so hard to imagine?'\n\nUthas saw something flicker across Nathair's face. _Doubt?_\n\n'Your histories tell that Asroth would destroy this world of flesh,' Calidus continued. 'They claim that was Asroth's purpose in the War of Treasures. Ask yourself: if that were true, then why is he so desperate to come here, to become flesh?'\n\n'I would not dare to guess after having been proved so monumentally naive,' Nathair said with a sour twist of his lips. Something of his earlier rage returned, a vein pulsing in his temple.\n\n'Don't be so dramatic,' Calidus scolded, 'like a sulking child. I have come to you to speak hard truths and would hear you speak in return as the man you can be, the leader of men, the king. Not as a petulant child.' He took a moment, waiting, letting the weight of his words subdue Nathair's anger. 'Now think on this. Asroth would come here not to destroy, but to rule. He would fashion an empire, just as you have imagined. A new order, one defined by peace, once the dissenters were dealt with. No different from your plans. And you could still be a part of it. Our numbers are too few; we will need someone to rule the Banished Lands. Someone who could unite the realms. I believe that someone is you.'\n\n'And you think I would believe anything that crosses your lips, now. After this?' Nathair gestured at the towering bulk of Murias.\n\n'Yes. I would. Put your anger, your pride and shame aside and think. War has raged in the Otherworld for aeons. It has been bloody and violent and heartbreaking. I have seen my brothers cut down, broken, destroyed. And I have returned the violence upon the Ben-Elim a hundredfold. I did what I had to do. Withholding some of the truth from you was necessary. Difficult decisions must be made in war, for the greater good. You know this.' Calidus paused, holding Nathair with his gaze.\n\n'There are some lines that cannot be crossed, regardless of the greater good,' Nathair spat.\n\n'You forget, Nathair. I know you. I know what you have done. What lines you have already crossed in the name of the greater good.'\n\nNathair raised a hand and took a step back, as if warding a blow. His draig stopped crunching bones to cast its baleful glare upon Calidus.\n\n'I do not say it as a criticism, but as a compliment. Once you are committed to a cause you will do whatever is necessary to see it through. Whatever it takes, regardless of the cost. A rare ability in this world of frailty and weakness. And one that we need. I respect that. So I ask you, Nathair: join us. Commit to our cause and you will gain all you desire, see your dreams come to fruition, your ambition rewarded. And if you think on it, it is not so different from all that you were striving for before the scales fell from your eyes.'\n\nAlcyon shifted from behind Calidus. 'Someone comes,' he said, pulling his newly acquired war-hammer from his back.\n\n'Where?' Calidus asked, hand on sword hilt, eyes narrowed.\n\nAlcyon pointed south-east, into the moorland. A dark speck solidified, moving at considerable speed.\n\n'It is one of my brothers,' Calidus said. 'One of those that left with Danjal.'\n\nThey stood in silence as the figure approached. It covered the ground quickly, running with a loping gait. As it drew near, Uthas saw it was weaving.\n\n_And something is wrong with its arm._\n\nIt must have seen them standing on the road, for it veered towards them, collapsing before Calidus. Its hand was severed just above the wrist, blood still trickling from the wound. It was pale as milk, veins black within its skin. Nathair's draig gave a low rumbling growl.\n\n'I am weak,' the Kadoshim rasped. 'This body is failing.'\n\n'I warned you,' Calidus said. 'These bodies are still mortal. Soon it will die from loss of blood.'\n\n'Help me,' the Kadoshim whispered.\n\n'Swear to obey me in all things,' Calidus said, voice cold as winter-forged iron.\n\n'I swear it. Please . . .'\n\n'Bind his arm,' Calidus snapped at Alcyon, kneeling to put an arm about the injured Kadoshim. 'You must look after your new body, Bune. Like a weapon, it must be cared for. You have lost much blood, but if we treat your wound and feed you, all will be well.'\n\n'My thanks,' the creature croaked. 'I would not return to the Otherworld so soon.'\n\n'Then no more of this foolish charging off to fight unwinnable battles. Danjal? The others?'\n\n'All gone, back to the Otherworld. There were too many against us, and these bodies . . .' Bune held up his uninjured arm. 'It is taking me some time to adjust to it.'\n\n'It will. Come, back to our kin where we can tend you better.' Calidus glanced at Alcyon, who finished binding the wrist and then lifted Bune in his arms. Calidus led them back towards the gates of Murias, Nathair and his draig following slowly behind. Birds circled lazily above, the remnants of Nemain's ravens lured by the stench of carrion. Uthas glared at them with something akin to hatred, thinking of Fech. As they stepped within the shadow of the fortress, Uthas saw a raven perched on a ledge in the cliff face. It stared back at him. For a moment he was convinced it was Fech and he raised a hand involuntarily to his scarred face.\n\n_Surely not. Fech is not brave or stupid enough to return here._\n\nCalidus looked back to Nathair.\n\n'Think on my words, King of Tenebral. I would have you fight beside me in the coming war. No more deceptions.'\n\nNathair paused before the gates and put a hand upon his draig's neck. Together the King and beast watched Calidus and his companions enter Murias.\n\n'Watch him closely,' Calidus whispered to Uthas. 'If he tries to leave, stop him. Whatever it takes.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FOUR\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin ran through the undergrowth, trees thick about him. With one hand he pushed aside branches, with the other he held onto Fidele, the Queen Regent of Tenebral, recently married to Lykos, Lord of the Vin Thalun. _Until she tried to murder him. I 'm guessing that's the end of their happy nuptials._\n\nShe stumbled and he snatched a glance back at her, saw she was breathing heavily, her bridal gown snagged and torn, stained with blood. _She needs to rest._ The sounds of combat drifted behind him, faint and distant, but still too close for his liking.\n\n_It will not be long before Lykos and his Vin Thalun have put down the rioters. Then he 'll be looking for his absent bride. Still, if we run much more she'll be finished anyway._ With a frown he slowed, heard the sound of a stream and changed direction.\n\nMaquin caught his breath as he splashed his face and naked chest with the icy cold water, washing away the blood and grime of the fighting-pit. A hundred different cuts began to sting as the adrenalin of his escape faded, his skin goose-fleshing. He shivered. _Should have grabbed a cloak as we fled._ He was still dressed for the heat of the pit: boots and breeches, a curved knife in his belt, nothing on his torso except blood and dirt and scars.\n\n_I 'm free._ He sucked in a deep breath, savouring the earthy scents of the forest, reminding him of Forn. Of another life. He closed his eyes as memories flickered through his mind. The Gadrai; his sword-brothers; of Kastell, slain by that traitorous bastard Jael; of Tahir and Orgull, the only other survivors of the betrayal in Haldis. It felt so long ago. _The time-before._ He looked at his hands, blood still ground into the swirls of his skin, stuck beneath his fingernails. _Orgull 's blood._\n\nHis friend's face filled his mind as it had been when he had cradled him - beaten, bloody, dying. A swell of emotion bubbled up, tears blurring his eyes. He remembered Orgull's last words to him: a request to find a man named Meical and pass on a message. _That I stayed true to the end,_ Orgull had said.\n\n_So much death, and yet still I live. More. I am a free man. All right, a refugee, with enemies behind me, and I 'm a thousand leagues from home. But I'm free. Free to hunt down Jael and put him in the ground._ Even now the thought of Jael burned away all else. He could see his face, lips twisted in a mocking sneer as Maquin had been chained and led to the Vin Thalun ships. Hatred flared incandescent, a pure flame in his gut. He felt himself snarling. A tearing sound drew his attention. Fidele was standing in the stream close by. She was ripping away the lower part of her dress.\n\n'Easier to run,' she told him. 'Here.' She bunched the fabric and dipped it in the stream, then began washing the filth from his back. She gasped and paused a moment as the myriad scars were revealed, telling the tale of the whip as a slave, countless other cuts and reminders from his time in the fighting-pit. She'd seen him earn some of those scars, watched him fight, kill others. Shame filled him at the things he'd done and he bowed his head.\n\n'Where are you from?' she asked quietly.\n\nHe blinked; for a moment he had to think about that. 'Isiltir,' he said, pronouncing it slowly, like a forgotten friend.\n\n'What is your name? Who are you?'\n\n_In the pit I was called Old Wolf, the only name I 've gone by for a good long while. I am a trained killer. Have become that which I hate._\n\n'My name is Maquin,' he said with a twist of his lips, a step towards reclaiming himself. 'I was shieldman to Kastell, nephew of King Romar.'\n\n'Oh,' Fidele breathed. 'You are a long way from home. How did you end up . . . ?'\n\n'In the fighting-pits?' He paused, the silence stretching, thinking back to before his enslavement, to the life he had led, the friends he had known, pulling at memories buried deep within, of the events that had preceded his life as a slave. 'Jael has usurped King Romar's throne - murdered the King, crushed the resistance in Isiltir. I fought him as part of that resistance, but Lykos and his Vin Thalun came, allied to Jael . . .' He shrugged, his voice was a croak, unused to conversations of more than a few words.\n\nHer hands touched his shoulder, hovering, tracing a swirling design, sending an involuntary shiver through him.\n\n'Lykos gave me that one,' he said. 'Branded me as his slave, his property.'\n\n'Do you think he's dead?'\n\nMaquin remembered the last time he'd seen the man, fallen to one knee in the arena, a knife hilt protruding from beneath his ribs, blood pulsing. Combat had swept Maquin away, and when he had looked back Lykos was gone.\n\n'Doubt it. He's a tough one.'\n\n'I want him dead,' Fidele hissed, a flash of rage contorting her face.\n\nHe looked at her a long moment, taken aback by the vehemence in her. He had always thought of her as unapproachably beautiful, calm, serene. 'Bit strange to marry him, then.'\n\nShe stepped away, eyes downcast. 'I was under a foul magic - he had an effigy, a small clay doll, with a lock of my hair cast within it. You crushed it when you fought him. That set me free.'\n\nFidele shuddered, her eyes closed. Then she straightened and looked him in the eye.\n\n'I have not thanked you, for protecting me in the riot, for getting me away to safety.'\n\nMaquin looked about. 'This is not exactly what I would call safe.'\n\n'It is safer, by far, than the arena.'\n\n'True enough.'\n\nAll had been chaos back in the arena before Jerolin, and Maquin had taken advantage of it, using the mayhem and confusion to rush Fidele out of the arena. The closest cover had been woodland to the south; Maquin led Fidele in a mad dash across open meadow towards the trees, all the while his heart thudding in his head as he waited for the expected cries of pursuit. None had come as they reached the treeline and so they continued to run deeper into the woodland, Maquin's only thought to put distance between him and the Vin Thalun. Something had sparked the riot. Maquin's duel with Orgull had played a part in it, but Maquin had also seen warriors amongst the crowd, urging them on. They had been wearing the white eagle crest of Tenebral. There was some kind of resistance forming against the Vin Thalun, that was clear. But how strong was it? Had they managed to crush the Vin Thalun? To drive them from Jerolin and Tenebral? Maquin doubted it - the Vin Thalun had numbered in their thousands; it would take a lot of manpower to finish them. 'And what would you do now, my lady?' Maquin asked her.\n\nShe frowned and sat upon a rock. 'I don't know is the short answer. I would find out if the Vin Thalun have been defeated -' she paused, a tremor touching her lips - 'but I am scared to go back. The thought of being caught is more than I can bear.'\n\nMaquin nodded. _I can understand that._ For himself, he wanted to leave. To point himself north-west instead of south and aim straight for Jael. _What about her, though?_ He could not just abandon her in the woods.\n\n'Will you help me?' she asked. 'I have seen that you are no friend to Lykos or the Vin Thalun. We have a common enemy.'\n\n'I've had enough of fighting other people's battles,' he said. 'I've got my own to fight. I need to go home. I have something to do,' he muttered quietly, almost to himself. He looked at her face and saw a determination of purpose there, battling with the fear of her circumstances. 'But I will see you safe first, my lady. If I can.'\n\nShe breathed a relieved sigh. 'My thanks. I will do all in my power to repay you, and to speed you on your way.'\n\n'First, we must survive the night and the cold.'\n\n'Wait here,' Maquin whispered to Fidele.\n\nThey were crouched behind a ridge, looking out upon a wide stretch of land covered in tree stumps. On the far side was a row of timber cabins, piles of felled trunks surrounding them. It was dusk; the forest was grey and silent.\n\n'Do not come after me for anything. Nothing, you understand?'\n\nShe nodded and he slipped away, staying low to the ground, keeping to the outskirts of the manmade clearing, stalking within the shadows amongst the trees. Eventually he was behind the row of cabins. Gripping his knife he slipped to the front and entered. Grey light filtered through gaps in the shutters and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.\n\nCots lined the walls, covered by rough woollen blankets, boots, breeches, and cloaks. A long table ran down the centre of the room, cups and plates scattered upon it. Axes and great two-man saws were all about, and there were racks of water skins, gloves, other work tools. _Men live here. Woodcutters. Question is, where are they now?_\n\nIt came to him quickly - _Jerolin and the arena. It 's a big day - celebrations and games to mark Lykos being wed to Fidele._\n\nHe quickly grabbed cloaks from pegs, woollen shirts, breeches, some cheese and mutton, water skins and a roll of twine, stuffing them all into an empty bag he'd found.\n\nThere was a groan; a blanket shifted on a cot in the corner of the room. A figure sat up - a man, rubbing his eyes.\n\nIn heartbeats Maquin had crossed the room and had his knife held to the stranger's throat, his eyes drawn to the man's beard, the iron rings binding it.\n\n_He is Vin Thalun._ A rage bubbled up, threatening to consume him.\n\n'Please, no--' the man gasped.\n\n_Can 't kill him here - too much blood. His friends will be onto us as soon as they return._\n\n'Up,' Maquin ordered.\n\nSlowly the man stood, eyes flickering to the sheathed sword hanging over the cot.\n\n'Don't,' Maquin grunted, kicking the back of the man's leg, sending him tumbling away from the cot. He slung the sword and belt over one shoulder.\n\n'Why are you here? Not at the arena?' Maquin asked as the Vin Thalun climbed to his feet.\n\nHe glowered at Maquin. 'Someone has to stand guard; Lykos' orders. I pulled the short straw.'\n\n'Outside,' Maquin ordered and followed his prisoner out of the door, directing him behind the cabin, into the trees. It was twilight; the world was slipping into degrees of shadow. Maquin dropped his bundle of provisions. 'On your knees, hands behind your head,' he grunted.\n\nThe Vin Thalun lunged forwards, turning as he moved, reaching for Maquin's knife arm.\n\nMaquin was too quick for him, sidestepping, slashing at the warrior's hand, his blade coming away red. He barrelled forwards, the Vin Thalun somehow managing to grip his wrist. Maquin headbutted him, blood spurting from the Vin Thalun's nose. He staggered and dropped to the ground.\n\n_Time for you to die._\n\nThe Vin Thalun must have read the thought in Maquin's eyes, and he began to plead.\n\nUndergrowth rustled and Fidele stepped out from amongst the trees.\n\n'You're not supposed to be here,' Maquin said.\n\n'You've been gone a long time. I was starting to worry.'\n\nThat felt strange - someone caring whether he lived or died. 'Found someone in the cabin. You should look away.'\n\n'I've seen the colour of blood before. And he's Vin Thalun,' she snarled, looking at the rings in his beard. 'I'd be happy to watch you slaughter a whole nation of them.'\n\n'All right then,' Maquin grunted.\n\n'I can tell you where they are,' the warrior blurted as Maquin stepped close, knife moving.\n\n'Where who are?' Maquin growled; his knife blade hovered at the man's throat.\n\n'Lykos' secret. The giantess and her whelp.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FIVE\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin lay on a table in a ship's cabin, various pains clamouring for his attention. The broken arrow shaft still buried in his shoulder won.\n\n'Bite on this and lie still,' a voice said beside him. Baird, a warrior of Domhain, thrust a leather belt at him. He was one of Rath's Degad, the feared giant-killers of Domhain. He had been assigned by Rath to see Edana to safety. In Camlin's mind there was still a way to go on that score, as they were stuck on a ship with only a handful of faithful men about Queen Edana; the rest of them were loyal to Roisin, the mother of Lorcan, young heir to the throne of Domhain.\n\n_Running again._\n\n'Take it, you're going to need it,' Baird said. He grinned at Camlin, the skin puckering around the empty eye-socket in his face.\n\n'Don't see there's much t'be grinning about,' Camlin said bitterly.\n\n'It was a good fight. One to make a song about,' Baird replied, referring to the battle fought on the beach and quayside as they had made their escape. 'And we're still breathing. Happy to be alive, me.'\n\nWith a grimace, Camlin bit down on the belt.\n\n'You'll need to hold him,' Baird said, and Vonn's serious face loomed over Camlin, his hands pressing on his chest.\n\n'Still need t'breathe, lad,' Camlin muttered.\n\n'How can I help?' Edana this time.\n\n_Half of Ardan is in this cabin._\n\n'Don't think you should be in here, my lady,' Baird said. 'There'll be some blood, probably some cursing too.'\n\nEdana snorted. 'I've seen enough blood already, and spilt some myself. As for the cursing, I've travelled with Camlin for near a year now. I don't think I'll hear anything I haven't already.'\n\n'Well, if you're set on staying, try holding his feet.'\n\nBaird cut away Camlin's shirt sleeve, gently probing the arrow shaft. A spike of pain lanced through Camlin, blood oozed lazily from the wound.\n\n'Sure you know what you're doing?' Camlin growled. 'What with only one eye . . .'\n\n'Is this the time to be upsetting me?' Baird said, grinning again. 'Done this a few times, should be fine. The arrow-head's too deep. Going to have to push it through.'\n\n'Best get on with it, then, it's not going t'fall out by itself.'\n\n'Agreed,' Baird said, gripping the broken shaft.\n\nCamlin screamed.\n\n'How does it feel?' Vonn asked.\n\nCamlin stood on the deck of the ship, leaning on a rail, watching the dawn sun wash across blue-grey waves. To the east a line of dark green marked the distant southern coast of Domhain.\n\nSlowly he rolled his shoulder and lifted his left arm, which had been healing nicely for the last two days.\n\n'Feels like I've been shot with an arrow,' he grimaced. 'It's mending well,' he added at Vonn's concerned expression. _Lad 's got no sense of humour._\n\n_Be a while before I can draw my bow, though, damn Braith to the Otherworld._\n\nImages of the battle filled his mind: Braith, his old chief from the Darkwood toppling off the quay into the ocean. Conall knocking his brother Halion senseless as Camlin escaped to the ship with Roisin's son, Lorcan. Looking back as they sailed away, Conall cutting Marrock's throat and tossing him to the waves.\n\n_Marrock. First real friend I 've had in a long while._ He felt the man's loss keenly, along with Halion's. They had felt like a brotherhood, friends bound by more than a common cause. _And the others - Dath and Corban, even old Brina. I wonder, have they found Cywen? Are they still even breathing?_ The world was in flux, constantly changing around him. It was hard for a man to keep up. _' Specially when all I've known for twenty years is the Darkwood. Still, can't change the truth of things. Have t'bend with it. Better'n breaking._\n\n_You should leave,_ the old persistent voice said in his head. _Walk away, make a life for yourself before you get yourself killed for some lordling 's cause that means nothing to you. Besides, look at you - you're not the sort t'be mixing with queens and noble warriors; you're a thief, a villain._\n\nDolphins leaped through waves, keeping pace alongside the ship. _Can 't leave now, I've come too far, made promises._\n\n_You 've sworn no oaths._\n\n_Not out loud, no. But I need t 'see this through. Besides, can't exactly walk away right now. I'm not much for swimming._\n\n'Where's Edana?' he asked Vonn, who had settled beside him, staring silently at the coastline.\n\n'In her cabin. Baird's guarding her.' He was silent a moment. 'Do you think we can trust him?'\n\n'Baird? He's a good man t'have around in a scrap. Trust; now that's another matter. What d'you think?'\n\n'I wouldn't ask me. I'm not such a good judge. I trusted my father, remember.' He pulled a sour face and looked down at the waves.\n\nCamlin felt a wave of sympathy for the young warrior. _Evnis, betrayer of Dun Carreg, slayer of Brenin, King of Ardan. Not the best da in the Banished Lands to have._\n\n'Think you can be forgiven for that,' Camlin said. 'Most of us do. Trust our da, I mean. For a while, at least.'\n\nVonn didn't respond.\n\n'As for Baird, my guess is he's one of those that gives his word and keeps it as best he can. Him and Rath were close, and he swore to the old man to see Edana safe.'\n\n'He did,' Vonn agreed.\n\n'Well, t'my mind she's not safe yet. We may be on a ship sailing away from Domhain, Rhin and Conall, but most of those aboard don't owe Edana naught, and Roisin and her boy Lorcan command a score of warriors. We won't be safe till we're off of this tub and away from them, is my thinking. Even if Edana is promised to Lorcan, I don't trust Roisin to keep her word.'\n\n_Edana. Fugitive Queen of Ardan._ Initially Camlin had become part of this group through circumstance. After the fall of Dun Carreg it had been his friendship and loyalty to a few - Marrock and Halion, the lads Dath and Corban - that had kept him with them. Now, though, they were all gone. He stayed now for Edana. At first she had seemed to be a spoilt princess, ill equipped to lead and not worth following. Over the course of their flight from Dun Carreg, through the wilds of Cambren and the mountains that bordered Domhain, Camlin had seen a change in her. A moment stuck in his mind, in the mountains when Marrock had chosen to stay on a suicide mission and delay their pursuit. Edana had stepped in. _We 'll all stay, or all go. I'll not lose you so that I can run a little longer._ That's what she had said.\n\n_Took some stones, that did._ And from that moment a kernel of respect for the young woman had taken root in Camlin. Over the following moons it had grown, seeing how she had dealt with old Eremon and the cunning politicking of his Queen, Roisin.\n\n_Think she might be worth following, after all._\n\nAs if the thought of her had been a summons Edana appeared on the deck and came towards them, Baird at her shoulder. Her fair hair was bound tight in what looked like a warrior braid; her face was pale and drawn. A grey cloak, the colour of Ardan, was wrapped about her shoulders, her hand resting on a protruding sword hilt.\n\n'I'm going to see Roisin,' she said. 'Thought my shieldmen should be at my side.'\n\n_Shieldmen. Been called plenty of things in my time, but not one of those before._\n\n'Of course,' Vonn said.\n\n'What's this about?' Camlin asked, then felt Vonn frowning at him. _Keep forgetting she 's a queen._\n\nEdana looked about. The ship was a single-masted trader, the steering rudder on a raised platform at the stern. Roisin and her son slept - and for the last two nights had all but lived - in a cabin beneath the steering platform. Two warriors stood by the door.\n\n'It's time we all know where we stand. I would know if Roisin will honour Eremon's last words to us.'\n\nShe straightened her shoulders and set off, Baird, Vonn and Camlin falling in behind her. Edana stopped before the two warriors guarding the stern's cabin.\n\n'I would speak with your lady,' she said, her voice firm.\n\nThe two men regarded her a moment.\n\n'Get on with it, then, Cian,' Baird said good-naturedly, but Camlin could feel the threat of violence emanating from the man. He was like a pulled bowstring, always on the edge of release. One of the warriors frowned at him, but after another moment he knocked and then entered the cabin.\n\n'And tell Roisin to pour some wine,' Baird called after him.\n\nEdana looked at him and he shrugged.\n\n'She will see you, my lady,' Cian said, holding the door open. Edana entered. Cian stepped between her and her shieldmen. 'Not you,' he told them.\n\n'I swore an oath to Rath,' Baird said. 'See her safe to Ardan. I'll not be letting her out of my sight after the stunt Quinn pulled. You going to try and make me an oathbreaker?' He took a step forwards.\n\n'Let them in,' a voice called from within the cabin.\n\nThe warrior hesitated a moment, then stepped aside before following them into the room.\n\nThe cabin was dark; Camlin's eyes took a moment to adjust. Instinctively he hung back, eyes scanning for points of exit. A shuttered window on the far wall, the door behind him. That was all. The room was small, sparsely decorated - a table, two chairs, two cots built onto the walls. Roisin sat in a chair at the table, a flickering candle highlighting her pale skin, jet black hair a dark nimbus about her. She looked exhausted, cheeks gaunt, eyes dark pools of shadow, but even under these circumstances she was still beautiful.\n\n'Forgive Cian,' she said with a wave at the door. 'My shieldmen have been tense since Quinn's betrayal.'\n\n_That 's fair enough_, thought Camlin. _He caught us all off-guard. Should have trusted my instincts, though. Never liked him._\n\n'That is understandable,' Edana said, taking a seat and the wine that Roisin offered her.\n\nQuinn had been King Eremon's first-sword, Roisin's champion. He had turned traitor on the beach in Domhain, when it had become clear that the ship they were boarding was too small to take them all to safety. With a handful of warriors he had attempted to snatch Lorcan and use him to bargain with Conall. Camlin had seen Halion put a sword through the traitor's heart, although Quinn's poison-tipped blade had slowed Halion enough for Conall to take him prisoner.\n\n'I would talk frankly with you,' Edana said. 'These are dark times, and some clarity would go a considerable way to easing all our minds.'\n\n'Dark times indeed. My husband is murdered, my kingdom stolen. My son pursued by a usurper.'\n\n'Yes. The crimes against us both are many. But I have not come to talk of the past, but of the future.'\n\n'Ask your questions,' Roisin said, taking a long draught of her drink.\n\n'Your intentions. You have twenty shieldmen about you still. Do you intend to honour King Eremon's last words to me? To set me ashore in Ardan?'\n\n'Ah, Eremon. The stubborn old fool. He should have fled with us. Should be here.'\n\nThey sat in silence, Roisin staring into her cup. With a shudder she lifted her gaze.\n\n'And what of your promise to him? To take Lorcan with you to safety? To be handbound to him?'\n\nEdana looked at her calmly. 'I will not be handbound to Lorcan. That agreement is dead. It was on the condition that Domhain's warband defeated Rhin and helped me regain the throne of Ardan. Domhain's warband is scattered; that hope gone. But if you wish, I will take you and Lorcan with me, give you what protection I can.' She smiled wanly. 'It may not be much. I hope to return to Ardan - as Eremon said, there is rumour of resistance gathering in the marshlands around Dun Crin - but it will be dangerous. Rhin rules there, with Evnis as her puppet. I do not know how many, if any, will be loyal to me. I cannot guarantee your or Lorcan's safety. Your other option is to sail as fast and as far away as possible, to go into a life of hiding, but I fear Rhin will hunt you, as she has hunted me. Lorcan and I are a threat to her power: we are legitimate heirs and a standard for the dispossessed to rally around.'\n\n'There is another option,' Roisin said, slowly sitting straighter, looking at Edana from under heavy-lidded eyes. 'I could hand you to Rhin. A gift, in return for Lorcan's safety.'\n\n_She has teeth yet, the snake,_ Camlin thought, feeling a tension settle upon all in the room.\n\n'That would be foolish,' Edana said, smiling tiredly. Of all of them she appeared the calmest. 'You cannot trust Rhin, whatever promises she makes. Lorcan is still a threat, no matter what gift he gives her. And she has placed Conall on the throne of Domhain - he will not suffer Lorcan to live. Surely you know that.' She stared straight at Roisin, holding her gaze. The older woman glared back, fierce and proud. Then, abruptly, like a sail with its wind taken from it, she slumped.\n\n'I know you speak the truth,' she whispered.\n\n'I will offer you a new deal,' Edana said. 'We have a common enemy, one that wishes us both dead and our supporters destroyed. Join me - see me safe to Ardan, help me in the fight to reclaim my home, and when it is done, I shall do the same for you. I vow on the cairns of my murdered parents, by the blood that runs in my veins and with every ounce of strength I possess: I shall see Lorcan back upon the throne of Domhain.' She stood suddenly, drawing a knife from within her cloak. Roisin tensed; her shieldmen took a step.\n\nEdana drew the blade across the palm of her hand, blood welling, dripping, and offered her knife to Roisin.\n\nThe older woman sat and stared a moment, then stood and took the knife. She cut her palm and gripped Edana's hand tightly, their blood mingling.\n\n'I vow to see you safe to Ardan, and to do all I can to help you reclaim your throne,' Roisin said.\n\n_More like you know where you and Lorcan are best protected_ , thought Camlin. _Not that sticking close to us is anything like safe, but if Rhin is going to be hunting us, the more swords about everyone the better._\n\nRoisin sighed, sitting back in her chair as Cian moved to her side.\n\n'But Lorcan will be disappointed that you are not to be handbound,' she said. 'I think he is a little infatuated with you. Perhaps you could not tell him for a while, let him down gently.'\n\nJust then the door burst open, Lorcan striding in, a warrior shadowing him. He was slim, dark-haired, fine featured, almost pretty like his mother. 'Ah, my two favourite ladies,' he said with a smile. 'My mother and my future wife.'\n\nEdana rolled her eyes and Camlin suppressed a laugh.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIX\n\n#### RAFE\n\nRafe splashed up to his waist into the surf and grabbed the body floating in the waves. A black shaft sprouted from its chest. _That 'd be more of Camlin's handiwork._ Rafe had seen the huntsman on the quay, shooting arrow after arrow into Conall's men. Half a dozen other corpses were laid out on the beach with matching arrows sticking from some part or other of their bodies. He looked out to sea, but the ship Camlin, Vonn and his companions had escaped on was long gone, not even a dot on the horizon now.\n\n_What am I doing here?_\n\nThe answer to that was simple enough: he'd been ordered to come. Back at Dun Taras, when a hungry mob had opened the gates to Queen Rhin, Rafe had told Rhin and her force how he'd seen Edana and her companions flee the fortress. Conall had set about raising a pursuit, and Braith, Rhin's huntsman, had been part of that. Braith needed huntsmen, had asked for any that knew how to handle a brace of hounds. Conall had volunteered Rafe. And that was that.\n\n_So here I am, hundreds of leagues from home, on a cold beach on the edge of the world._\n\nRafe grunted as he dragged the corpse to shore; another warrior came to help him as he struggled onto the shingle. A hound whined and sniffed the body as Rafe and the other warrior hauled the dead weight along the beach, laying it down alongside the other dead, over a score of those who had ridden from Dun Taras with Conall.\n\n_That Halion knows how to swing a blade, I 'll give him that._\n\nAs the battle had played out Rafe had been standing on a steep ridge overlooking the beach, gripping two hounds on a leash. Braith had been with him and together they'd watched as Halion's defenders had held the quay against overwhelming numbers, until Halion had toppled to the beach below. Even then Conall's brother had fought on, aided by a few who had leaped to his defence. It was only when Conall had faced him and beaten Halion unconscious that the path to the quay had been cleared. And by then it was too late: Edana and her companions were sailing away, along with Lorcan, the young heir to Domhain's throne.\n\nOne of the hounds whined and nuzzled his leg. 'There ya go, Sniffer,' he said, giving the hound a strip of dried mutton from the pouch at his belt. He crouched and scratched the grey-haired hound between the ears. 'You'll be wanting to go home now, I'm guessing,' he said.\n\n_Me too. Home. Dun Carreg, Ardan. Will I ever see it again?_ Memories swirled up, of long days in the wilderness with his da, Helfach the huntsman, as he taught Rafe the ways of wood and earth, of how to track prey and how to kill it.\n\nThe other hound padded over, Scratcher, seeing that he'd missed out on a treat.\n\n'Go on, then,' Rafe said, throwing another strip of mutton. Scratcher caught it and swallowed, licked his lips.\n\nHooves drummed on the beach and Rafe looked up to see Conall returning, a handful of shieldmen riding behind him.\n\nConall was the closest thing to home now, the last remnant of his life in Ardan. Part of Rafe was scared of the warrior - quick-tempered and deadly - part of him liked the man, as swift to laughter as he was to anger. _He 's risen far. Not long ago he was the same as me, just another sword in Evnis' hold._ Conall slipped from his saddle, scowling at any who dared meet his eyes.\n\n'My brother?' he called, and men pointed. Halion was still unconscious, laid out on the beach, bound at wrist and ankle. Conall strode to him and stood over Halion's still form, staring. His face softened, then clouded, other emotions playing out across the landscape of his features. Eventually his expression settled back into a scowl.\n\n'Any luck?' a warrior, one of Queen Rhin's captains, asked as he joined Conall. All of the warriors who had accompanied Conall were Rhin's. Although the people of Dun Taras had opened their gates to Rhin, it was still too early to trust the warriors of Domhain. It had not been that long ago that the men of Domhain and Cambren had been trying to kill each other.\n\n'Not a single boat within a league of here,' Conall muttered.\n\n'They've escaped, then,' Rhin's captain said.\n\n'You're a quick one,' Conall snapped.\n\nThe captain frowned. 'Queen Rhin won't be happy. Glad I'm not you.'\n\nConall hit the man in the face, hard. He stumbled back a step, then dropped to one knee.\n\n' _I 'm_ not happy, either,' Conall growled. Other warriors moved, comrades of the felled captain, a loose circle forming around Conall.\n\nRafe stood, took a step towards them. _He 's the only link to home I have. Don't want to see him dead as well._ One of the hounds gave a low growl.\n\nConall turned to face the men drawing close about him. 'If any need reminding, I'm your Queen's regent, and her first-sword.' He put a hand upon his sword hilt, a reminder of how he'd beaten Morcant to become Rhin's champion.\n\n_Don 't get involved, you idiot_, Rafe told himself. _You don 't want to die on this cold beach_, but his feet were already moving. He pushed through warriors, the dogs snarling at his heels. Rafe joined Conall; the two hounds flanked him with bared teeth.\n\nThere was a long drawn-out moment, violence in the balance. Only the roar of surf on shingle, a gull calling overhead. Then Rhin's men were turning, backing away; first one, then all of them.\n\n'Up you get,' Conall said to the fallen warrior, offering his arm.\n\nThe man looked at him, then gripped Conall's wrist.\n\n'No harm done, eh? Well, maybe a blackened eye for a few days. A tale for the ladies,' Conall laughed, slapping the man on the shoulder; the captain grunted and walked away.\n\n'Saw what you did,' Conall said to Rafe. 'Won't forget that.'\n\nRafe shrugged.\n\n'Where's Braith? If anyone can track a ship it'll be him.'\n\n'He's dead,' Rafe said. 'Camlin killed him - threw him in the sea while you were fighting Halion.'\n\n'Did he, now?' Conall said, frowning. 'Didn't expect that.'\n\nThere weren't many that could have stood against Braith.\n\n'Me neither, but I saw it happen.'\n\n'Shame. Don't suppose you can track a ship, can you?'\n\nRafe raised an eyebrow. 'Where do you think they're going?' he asked, as they both stared at the empty horizon.\n\n'Away from me,' Conall growled. 'Somewhere far away from me.'\n\n'He's waking up,' a warrior called to Conall. Rafe saw Halion stirring.\n\nConall hurried over, Rafe following.\n\nHalion was cut and battered, a dark bruise staining his jaw. His eyes fluttered open.\n\n'Water,' he croaked.\n\nConall knelt and dripped water from a skin onto Halion's lips, something tender about the act.\n\n'Where are they?' Conall asked.\n\nHalion's eyes fixed on the sea. 'They got away, then?'\n\n'Aye, with your help. Where are they going, brother?'\n\n'I don't know,' Halion whispered. 'We were just running - away from you, Rhin, Domhain. The where had not been decided.'\n\n'You're lying,' Conall snarled, leaning closer.\n\n'Believe what you will,' Halion shrugged. 'Either way they're safe from you now.'\n\nConall gripped Halion and pulled him close. 'I need to find Lorcan and his bitch-mother.' Spittle sprayed.\n\nHalion looked at him with sorrow. 'When did you become a killer of bairns? Lorcan's your kin.'\n\n'Do you not remember what Roisin did to us? Murdered our mam, drove us from our home?'\n\n'Aye - Roisin, not Lorcan.'\n\n'She's on that ship too. And Lorcan is her brood. If they're not dealt with now they'll come looking for me one day. I'll not spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder, and I'll lose no sleep over shedding their blood. Either of them.'\n\n'What's happened to you, Con?'\n\n'Me? Look at you - bowing and scraping to a spoilt girl; fighting in defence of our mam's murderer. It's not me that's changed.'\n\n'I gave my oath to King Brenin. I'll not be breaking it, not for anyone. Not even for you, Con.'\n\nConall paused then, just stared at Halion. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Then he drew his knife and cut the rope binding Halion's ankles.\n\n'On your feet. I'm taking you back to Rhin. We'll see how long it takes you to tell her everything you know. She's more persuasive than you can imagine.'\n\nHalion climbed to his feet. He saw Rafe.\n\n'You're still alive, then,' Halion said to him.\n\n'Aye. Hard to kill, me.' The last time Rafe had spoken to Halion was in Edana's tent, back when Rafe had been captured on the border of Domhain. The memory of it stirred a swell of anger - Corban and Dath and Farrell, all sneering at him, Edana looking down her nose, judging him.\n\n'Things have changed since I saw you last,' he said as Halion was steered towards a horse.\n\n'And they're likely to change some more before this is all over,' Halion said over his shoulder.\n\n_What 's that supposed to mean?_\n\n'Make ready,' Conall called out. 'We'll bury our dead and then we're riding back to Dun Taras.'\n\nOne of the hounds whined, staring out to sea, his body stiff and straight.\n\nSomething was bobbing in the waves, a dark smudge amidst the foam and grey of the sea.\n\n_Another body?_\n\nRafe waded into the surf. _Definitely a body._ He could see limbs, a shock of hair. The water was up to his waist as he reached it, then he froze.\n\nIt was Braith.\n\nFace pale, skin tinged blue. There was a great wound between his neck and shoulder that still leaked blood, the surf foaming pink. Rafe grabbed him and began pulling the huntsman to shore.\n\nThen Braith groaned.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVEN\n\n#### TUKUL\n\nTukul held the severed head up high, gripping a handful of black hair. He regarded it grimly. A young Jehar warrior, female, younger even than his Gar. Empty, lifeless eyes stared back at him.\n\n_You were my sword-kin. A warrior, bred for battle, trained in righteousness, yet you ended life as a servant of Asroth, his tool._ He shook his head, feeling a wave of sympathy for his dead kin, knew the shame she would carry across the bridge of swords. The emotion shifted quickly to anger as his thoughts turned to Sumur. _The prideful fool who followed a Kadoshim, who led my people into disgrace._ With a growl he put the head into a leather saddlebag, along with the heads of the other Kadoshim that had been slain during the night raid. _A reminder to us of the cost this God-War will carve from us._\n\n'What of these?' Gar said with a gesture as Tukul stood surveying the twisted headless corpses of the slain Kadoshim. He looked at Gar. The sight of him after so long a separation filled Tukul with deep joy. _My son, how you have grown. Strong, and with a fine measure of wisdom. Pride and humility mixed. You make my heart soar._ Tukul had often daydreamed of the man his son would grow into, but the reality was better. _Quicker to smile than the rest of us, but that is no bad thing. No smiles today, though, or for a while, I think._ Grief sat fresh and raw upon Gar's face. The death of Corban's mam had hit him hard.\n\n_Life and death, grief and joy, all part of the road Elyon has set before us._ Nevertheless he frowned, wishing he could ease his son's pain. _An impossible task,_ he thought, remembering the death of his own wife, Daria, a faint echo washing over him of the long despair that he had felt upon her death. _Keeping busy is what kept me sane through those dark days, and if that is the case, then Gar will be fine. We are entering the time of the God-War and that should keep us all busy enough._ He looked back to the corpses strewn upon the ground. 'I was thinking we should leave something that would serve as a reminder to those who follow, to Calidus and his ilk. A warning to them.'\n\nTukul gazed about, saw a cluster of windswept trees close to the stream. 'Over there,' he said, and they set about carrying the bodies to the trees. They passed Corban sitting by his mam's cairn, staring into nowhere.\n\n_He has much to think about, and not least is what he 's going to do with this unusual warband that has grown up around him._\n\nTukul had seen Corban's dismay when he'd realized that all were waiting on his decision.\n\nSince their meeting in the dungeons of Queen Rhin's fortress, Tukul had watched Corban with the intensity that a lifetime of expectation had nurtured. _He is the Seren Disglair, the Bright Star, Elyon 's chosen avatar to stem the tide of Asroth and the legions of his Black Sun. How can any man bear such a burden?_ And yet Tukul had a confidence in the young man, born not only from faith, but also from what his eyes and instincts told him. _He does not want to lead, and that is a good start. Only the vain and foolish crave such a responsibility. He is loyal to a fault, marching half a thousand leagues into a giant 's fortress to find his sister and rejecting Meical's advice in doing so. That cannot have been easy, disagreeing with a warrior-angel._ Tukul liked that.\n\n'Is he all right?' Tukul asked Gar.\n\nHis son shrugged. 'Yes,' he said simply. 'He has lost much, learned much. I trust him.'\n\n'Good enough for me,' Tukul said with a smile. He was looking forward to hearing Corban's decision. _It will tell me more of this man that I have sworn to follow. He 'd better make his mind up soon, though. We cannot just wait here for the Kadoshim and Benothi to fall upon us like a hammer._ About him the camp had been stripped down, horses saddled and ready, packs loaded, the fire kicked out, the giants grouped together, waiting, some of the bairns wrestling with one another upon the heather.\n\n'Help me here,' Tukul ordered, lifting the corpse of a dead Kadoshim beneath the branches of a tree. More Jehar came to help. Eventually he stood back and surveyed his and his kins' handiwork. _It will serve._\n\nA murmuring spread about him and he turned to see Corban leaning down to pick a purple thistle. He pressed the flower to his lips and placed it tenderly on the cairn, whispered something. Then he stood straight and strode to his stallion, his sister Cywen holding the bridle for him.\n\n'And where are we going?' Meical asked Corban as the young warrior swung into his saddle.\n\nCorban took a deep breath, looking at all those gathered about him. His eyes came back to rest upon Meical.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\nA silence settled.\n\n_Not the answer I was hoping for._\n\n'You have counselled me to go to Drassil,' Corban said. 'As I thought of your advice, which is probably good advice, though I don't understand anything about prophecies and old forests and fortresses, my heart whispered to me. It said, you swore an oath to Edana.'\n\n'I counselled riding to Drassil for a reason,' Meical said, speaking slowly, controlled. 'The prophecy. You must go there.'\n\nTukul saw Corban's eyes flicker to Gar. _He is unsure, searches for reassurance._\n\n'We have already lost much time and accomplished little,' Meical said, seeing Corban's hesitancy. 'And all the while Asroth is moving.'\n\n'Accomplished little?' Corban eyes snapped back to Meical. 'It may not seem much to you, in the scheme of things, but I have accomplished what I set out to do. My sister is safe.'\n\n'She is not safe. No one is safe. You should know that better than most - you stood before Asroth himself. You must know what is at risk.'\n\nCorban nodded. 'I do. And you saved me from that, plucked me from Asroth's throne room before his very eyes. He was going to cut my heart out. And then you followed me north, helped me save Cywen from Nathair and Calidus.' His eyes searched out his sister. 'You will always have my thanks for that.'\n\n'I do not seek thanks or praise,' Meical said. 'I seek victory. We are at war with a foe more powerful and evil than you can hope to imagine. I fear that another delay in the south will spell our defeat.'\n\n'I know what you have counselled. Because of the prophecy, about these times, about me . . .' He trailed off. 'As you say, I have seen Asroth, and I know that a terrible evil is stirring. I have witnessed it, and it must be stopped.' He glanced north, towards Murias. 'I do not possess great wisdom . . .'\n\nTukul heard a cough, saw Brina staring at Corban, a smile twitching her lips.\n\n'But there are things that I do know,' Corban continued, 'things that I have clung to through the dark times that I - we - have already faced.' He waved a hand at his friends. 'Family. Friendship. Loyalty. These things have been my guiding star, my light in these dark times.' He looked to his mam's cairn beside the stream.\n\nHe stopped then and met Meical's gaze.\n\n'Edana sent the raven Fech to find me, to tell me of what had happened in Domhain, how she was fleeing back to Ardan. She asked that I find her, if I can.' He shrugged. 'My heart tells me that I should do that. I swore an oath to her.'\n\nTukul glanced at Gar and nodded. _I like this young man._ He had felt his spirit soar at Corban's words, even though it sounded as if he was building up to rejecting Meical's advice, and in Tukul's experience that had never ended well. _But I like what I hear. If it were me, I hope I would have said exactly the same. Although the fact that Corban seems to be taking counsel from a scruffy old raven over the high captain of the Ben-Elim is a little worrying._\n\n'This time, Corban, your heart is misleading you,' Meical said. 'Passion, emotion, those are Elyon's blessings upon your kind, but they can blind you as well as guide you. You must go to Drassil.'\n\n'A question,' Corban said. 'Our journey to Drassil. How would we get there?'\n\n'We would ride south, until we reach the river Afren, then we would turn east into Isiltir. Beyond that is Forn and Drassil.'\n\n'The river Afren, which runs through the Darkwood, marking the border between Narvon and Ardan?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'That's what I thought,' Corban said. 'Then for a hundred leagues our journey would be the same, whether our destination was Ardan or Drassil.'\n\n'Aye, it would.'\n\n'Then let us do that. Ride south. The decision about our final destination can wait awhile, be thought upon.'\n\nMeical frowned at that.\n\n_Meical wants him to lead us_ , Tukul thought. _To be decisive. But it is a lot to ask in one so young, and one so unused to leading. Maybe he needs some time to adjust to the weight he now bears._\n\nMeical considered Corban for long, drawn-out moments, his expression as flat and unreadable as any of the Jehar. 'We shall ride south, then.'\n\nCorban smiled, relief spreading across his face. He touched his heels to his stallion and rode over to the giants, stopping before Balur.\n\n'If we ride south it does not mean we are running away from Nathair and the Kadoshim, running away from this war.'\n\n'It is the God-War. There is nowhere to run,' Balur said with a shrug of his massive shoulders.\n\n'The God-War - aye. I am not running. Nathair killed my da, burned my home, and now my mam . . .' He gritted his teeth, grief mingled with anger washing his face. 'Nathair and those he rides with are a plague that will sweep the land unless they are stopped. I mean to fight them, with all that I am. I have never met a giant before, nor do I understand your ways, anything about you or your people, except that we were once enemies. But now you are the enemy of my enemy. I would value your company, should you choose to come with us.'\n\nBalur looked to the giantess at his side, Ethlinn, then at the rest of his group before turning back to Corban.\n\n'It has been a long time since we have seen the southlands. I think we will come with you, at least for a while.'\n\nTo Tukul's surprise, Corban, sombre-faced, held his arm out and offered Balur the warrior grip. The giant blinked, then took Corban's arm, engulfing it with his massive hand.\n\n'Fine. Then let us ride,' Meical cried out and suddenly all were in motion, the Jehar mounting horses, giants making the ground tremble.\n\n'Coralen,' Corban called. 'Scout ahead, take whoever you wish.'\n\nCoralen stared at Corban with one eyebrow raised.\n\nThen she nodded. 'I'll take Dath,' Coralen said, eliciting a look of shock from Dath and a frown from Farrell. 'Enkara,' Coralen called to one of the Jehar, one of the Hundred that had ridden forth from white-walled Telassar with Tukul all those years ago. 'And Storm, if I may.'\n\nCorban muttered something and his wolven padded over to Coralen. 'And your crow,' Coralen added to Brina.\n\n' _Tired_ ,' the bird croaked from Brina's shoulder.\n\n'Get on with you,' Brina snapped, shooing Craf into the air.\n\nTukul looked back as they rode away, saw the flattened ground of their campsite, the stone cairns by the stream, and above it, like ragged banners swinging in the breeze hung a score of headless bodies, suspended from the cluster of trees, slumped, empty sacks of skin and bone.\n\n_A reminder to those who follow. That we are not so easily cowed, not even by the dread Kadoshim._\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHT\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen rode beside Corban, close to the head of their strange warband, Buddai loping along beside her. It was highsun, the sky above was a cloudless blue, a cold breeze blew out of the east. She glanced at Corban. _Is this really my little brother? He had just taken his warrior trials and sat his Long Night, the last I saw him, and here he is, giving orders to a warband including Jehar and giants. So much has changed._ He was taller, wider about the chest and shoulders, relaxed as he sat upon Shield with the easy grace of a warrior.\n\nEven his face had changed; thinner and sharper, the stubble of a short beard shadowing his jaw. And he was pale, dark hollows beneath his red-rimmed eyes evidence of his grief. A shared grief.\n\n_Mam._\n\nAt the thought of her Cywen felt the dark wave of sorrow that lay beneath all else in her soul. She reached a hand up to the belt of her mam's throwing knives strapped across her torso. It was the only thing she had of her.\n\n_So long apart, only a few moments together before . . ._ The image of Calidus cutting her mam down filled Cywen's mind, grief and rage swelled inside, a physical thing that stole her breath away.\n\n_So many things I wanted to say to her, stolen from me by Calidus._ She remembered crouching, stroking her mam's face, trying to wipe away the blood that trickled from her mouth.\n\n_It is my fault she died. She would be alive now if she had not come to free me._ She swiped at tears as they spilt onto her cheeks and she clenched her eyes shut.\n\n_Free. Thank you, Mam, I 'll not squander your gift._\n\nShe looked about, surrounded by a bleak, rolling countryside of purple heather and gorse and breathed in a deep lungful of air. _Free._ Even Cywen's guilt could not suppress the relief she felt at having escaped the constraints of Nathair and Calidus _._ She shivered at the memory of them _._\n\nShe felt a prickling sensation and realized that Corban was looking at her.\n\n'We have much to talk about.'\n\n'We do,' she agreed. _I have so many questions. Where to start . . . ?_\n\n'Did they harm you?' Corban asked, worry, concern and fear creasing his face.\n\n'Harm? Not really. Lots of threats. My wrists were bound at first - because I tried to escape; or kill people.'\n\nCorban grinned at that. 'Who?'\n\nShe had to think about that for a moment. It all seemed so long ago. 'Morcant. Conall. Rafe.'\n\n'All good people to kill,' Corban said. 'But they didn't harm you?'\n\n'No.' Her thoughts slipped to her guards, Veradis and then the troubled giant, Alcyon. Veradis' face hovered in her mind, so serious and determined, and she remembered one of the last times she had seen him. He'd told her of the bodies in the mountains when she had been sick with worry that Corban or her mam were amongst the dead. _Heb and Anwarth_ , Veradis told me. _Not Corban or Mam._ Telling her that was an act of kindness.\n\n'Heb died,' she said.\n\n'Aye, he did,' Corban replied, his features twisting. 'Brina took that badly.'\n\n'Looks like you did, too.'\n\n'I liked him,' Corban said. 'We became close. All of us did, on the road together. How did you know?'\n\n'Veradis told me - he was my guard, for a while. Along with Alcyon; they treated me fair,' she said.\n\n'Veradis and Alcyon?'\n\n'Nathair's first-sword, and his giant companion.' _I hope Alcyon is all right._ She frowned at her own thoughts. _He was my captor. But he did free me, cut my bonds at the end and hid me from Calidus._ Alcyon and Balur had fought, Balur sending Alcyon crashing to the ground and taking the black axe from him.\n\nCorban raised an eyebrow. 'I think I met this Veradis too. In Domhain. He wanted to fight me.'\n\nCywen felt a stab of . . . something . . . at that thought. _Worry? For Corban, of course._ But there was more than that. She chose not to think about it.\n\n'We're starting in the middle,' she said. 'Tell me from the beginning. From Dun Carreg. Were you with Da, when . . . ?' Even now, after witnessing so much of war, pain and death and worse, she could not bring herself to say the words.\n\n'I was with him. Rafe and Helfach stopped me from helping him,' Corban said, his expression grim. 'Nathair killed our da.'\n\n_Nathair._ And Calidus slew Mam. 'One day,' she said to Corban, a hand going to her knives. He nodded, understanding her meaning.\n\nCorban spoke for a long while after that, of his flight through the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg, sailing away to Cambren and all that befell him and his companions. He told of seeing Rafe amongst the prisoners in Domhain, how Rafe had told them that Cywen was alive. How he and a few others had set out to rescue her. When Corban spoke of his capture by Braith and how he was taken to Queen Rhin at Dun Vaner he hesitated.\n\n'What happened there?' Cywen prompted.\n\n'I was rescued,' he shrugged. 'Meical and Tukul were tracking me, came to Dun Vaner, although Farrell was the one who knocked my gaol door down with Da's hammer.' He grinned at that.\n\n'And Tukul is Gar's da,' Cywen said. She was still getting used to that.\n\n'Aye. Can you believe it - Gar, one of the Jehar?' Tukul and Gar were riding a little further ahead, with a score of the Jehar spread either side of them.\n\n'The Jehar. They're wonderful with horses. Akar helped me, healed Shield - he was shot with an arrow during the battle where Rhin defeated Owain.'\n\n'I don't think he and Gar get along too well,' Corban said as he leaned forward in his saddle, running a hand across the scar on Shield's shoulder.\n\n'The Jehar - they look at you, a lot.' Cywen had noticed many of the Jehar with their eyes on Corban, something like awe on their faces. She had discovered that Corban was the reason Nathair and Calidus had dragged her halfway across the Banished Lands; she was Corban's sister and they suspected that she could be used as bait. _They were right, come to think of it. But why? Why did they want Corban so badly?_ 'Who do they all think you are, Ban? And who is Meical? They all act like you're their leader.'\n\nHe looked away, appearing embarrassed. 'This is going to sound very strange to you. Meical is one of the Ben-Elim.'\n\nCywen found it hard not to look sceptical. 'An angel of Elyon. One of the Faithful?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nTwo days ago she would have laughed at that. But since then she had seen Kadoshim boil out of a cauldron. The world was a different place now.\n\n'All right,' she said, carefully. 'Go on, then.'\n\n'And the Jehar call me the Seren Disglair. You remember the prophecy Edana told us about? Feels like a thousand years ago.' _Elyon and Asroth, their forthcoming battle, the God-War, their champions . . ._\n\n'Yes.' Cywen nodded dubiously wondering where this was going.\n\nCorban looked even more awkward and refused to meet her eyes. 'Seren Disglair is the Jehar's name for the Bright Star. The prophesied champion of Elyon, enemy of Asroth. And apparently that's me.'\n\nCywen gazed at the flames of the fire.\n\n_The world has gone mad. My brother, the champion of Elyon._ She snorted with nervous laughter, remembering a host of moments with Corban while growing up - the day he ripped his cloak in the Baglun, when she'd attacked Rafe to defend Corban. Corban sneaking into Brina's cottage, bringing home Storm as a pup, hitting at each other with sticks in their garden, seeing him amongst the rescue party in the Darkwood, watching him as he took his warrior trial and Long Night. And yet now they were sitting in a foreign land, Benothi giants sitting to her left, elsewhere Jehar warriors were tending to their weapons.\n\n'How have we reached this place?' she said to Buddai, the hound spread beside her, his big head resting on her legs.\n\nFigures loomed out of the darkness and sat beside her - Dath and Farrell, another with them - the red-haired girl, Coralen. She drew her sword and ran her thumb along its edge, then pulled a whetstone out of her cloak and started running it along the blade.\n\n'You look familiar,' Cywen said to Coralen. There was something in the set of Coralen's jaw, the confidence in her walk, the way she held herself.\n\n'She's half-sister to Halion and Conall,' Farrell said.\n\n'I can talk for myself,' Coralen snapped at Farrell.\n\n'That would be it,' Cywen said. 'Conall was my guard for a while. We didn't get along too well.'\n\nCoralen just stared at her, her face a cold mask.\n\n'He tried to kill me. Twice,' Cywen continued, not sure why. Something about Coralen's emotionless expression annoyed her. 'But, to be fair, I was trying to kill him. Pushed him off a wall the first time. Put a knife in him the second.'\n\nA flicker of emotion, respect perhaps, crossed Coralen's face, then it was gone. 'You're lucky to be alive,' Coralen said. 'Not many live to tell the tale once Con decides they're for the grave.'\n\n'You haven't seen what Cywen can do with a knife,' Dath said, and Cywen liked him a lot more at that moment. Coralen looked at Cywen, then went back to sharpening her sword.\n\nDath passed Cywen a skin of something. She sniffed it suspiciously - _mead_?\n\n'Where'd you get this?'\n\n'Rescued it from Rhin's stores in Dun Vaner,' Dath said with a grin. 'That's the last of it, now.'\n\n'It's good stuff,' Farrell said. 'Especially on a cold night like this.' He unslung the war-hammer from his back and laid it on the grass beside him. Unconsciously he patted its iron head.\n\n_That 's Da's war-hammer,_ Cywen realized, felt her grief swell in her chest. Again. She took a sip of the mead, the taste of honey combining with a pleasant heat in her belly.\n\n'It's good to have you back with us,' Dath said to her, reaching out and squeezing her wrist. She fought the urge to pull away, felt tears threaten her eyes.\n\nShe took a deep breath.\n\n'It's good to be here,' she answered. Her eyes drifted about the fires that dotted their camp. She saw Corban emerge from the darkness with Gar and Tukul at his side. He sat beside Meical, who was talking to Akar. Behind them, at the edge of the firelight's reach, Storm prowled.\n\n'Corban told me some strange things today. What the Jehar are saying about him.'\n\n'Gar started all that. At first we thought he'd gone mad,' Dath said cheerfully. 'Then Corban gets himself captured by Rhin and a warband of the Jehar ride up and carve seven hells out of Rhin's warriors. They call Corban the Seven Disgraces, or something like that . . .'\n\n'Seren Disglair,' Coralen corrected, not losing time with her whetstone.\n\n'Whatever.' Dath shrugged. 'Whatever it is, those Jehar seem on the edge, to me.'\n\n'Edge of what?' Coralen asked him.\n\n'Insanity. It worries me.'\n\nCoralen laughed at that, a touch of warmth melting the coldness in her face, just for a few moments.\n\n'Do you believe it?' Cywen asked. 'That Corban is this Seren Disglair?'\n\n'Aye,' Farrell said without hesitation. They all looked at him.\n\n'There's more to what's going on than border disputes and a power-mad queen,' he said to their inquisitive gaze. 'Look at what we all saw back in Murias. That was the Kadoshim that came out of that cauldron . . .'\n\nDath shivered and made the ward against evil.\n\n'Asroth and Elyon, the Scourging, Ben-Elim and Kadoshim, we've all heard the tales.'\n\n'Aye, faery tales,' Dath said.\n\n'There's usually a fire that starts the smoke,' Farrell shrugged. 'What I'm saying is: there's something big happening. You'd be a fool to ignore it.' He looked pointedly at Dath. 'So Corban's part of it. Why not? And that would explain a lot of things: like why we're here, with giants and Jehar all around us and Kadoshim a dozen leagues behind us. Besides, if anyone is going to be this Seren Disglair, I, for one, am happy it's Corban.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Cywen asked him. She noticed Coralen was staring hard at Farrell.\n\n'He's the best of us,' Farrell said with a shrug. 'Honest, brave, fair. Loyal. I'd follow him into any fight.'\n\nVoices drew her attention then - Corban and Meical. Without thinking she rose and strode towards them, seating herself beside Corban.\n\n'I'm not saying that I've decided to go to Edana and not Drassil,' Corban was saying. 'What I am saying is that _if_ we went to Edana I can see us doing much good by aiding her. Rhin is our enemy, a servant of Asroth. If we can help Edana defeat her, it would be a great victory for us.'\n\n'Rhin is an enemy,' Meical said, speaking slowly, as if he chose his words with care, 'but she is not _the_ enemy. To defeat Asroth you must go to Drassil.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Because that is where the prophecy says you will go, and that the enemies of Asroth will gather about you there.'\n\n'I have heard much talk of this prophecy,' Corban said, 'but I have yet to actually hear it.'\n\n'I can remedy that,' said Meical. He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a round leather canister. He undid a cord that bound it and slid out a scroll. It crackled as he unrolled it; everyone gathered close to hear it.\n\n_War eternal between the Faithful and the Fallen,_\n\n_infinite wrath come to the world of men._\n\n_Lightbearer seeking flesh from the cauldron,_\n\n_to break his chains and wage the war again._\n\n_Two born of blood, dust and ashes shall champion the Choices_\n\n_the Darkness and Light._\n\n_Black Sun will drown the earth in bloodshed,_\n\n_Bright Star with the Treasures must unite._\n\n_By their names you shall know them -_\n\n_Kin-Slayer, Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Draig-Rider,_\n\n_Dark Power 'gainst Lightbringer._\n\n_One shall be the Tide, one the Rock in the swirling sea._\n\n_Before one, storm and shield shall stand,_\n\n_before the other, True-Heart and Black-Heart._\n\n_Beside one rides the Beloved, beside the other, the_\n\n_Avenging Hand._\n\n_Behind one, the Sons of the Mighty, the fair Ben-Elim,_\n\n_gathered 'neath the Great Tree._\n\n_Behind the other, the Unholy, dread Kadoshim, who seek_\n\n_to cross the bridge,_\n\n_force the world to bended knee._\n\nMeical paused, glancing at the faces around the fireside.\n\n'Black Sun will drown the earth in bloodshed,' Dath whispered to Farrell, his voice carrying in the silence. 'Don't much like the sound of that.'\n\n'There's more,' Meical said and continued reading.\n\n_Look for them when the high king calls, when the shadow_\n\n_warriors ride forth,_\n\n_when white-walled Telassar is emptied, when the book is_\n\n_found in the north._\n\n_When the white wyrms spread from their nest,_\n\n_when the Firstborn take back what was lost, and the_\n\n_Treasures stir from their rest._\n\n_Both earth and sky shall cry warning, shall herald this_\n\n_War of Sorrows._\n\n_Tears of blood spilt from the earth 's bones, and at Midwinter's_\n\n_height, bright day shall become full night._\n\nAs Meical finished silence settled upon them, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the flames.\n\n'Storm and shield,' Corban whispered.\n\n'Indeed,' said Meical. 'So, you see, you are the Bright Star, our champion.'\n\n_This might all actually be true_ , Cywen thought. _My brother, the Champion of Elyon._ It was much easier to believe, sitting here in the dark around a flickering fire, Ben-Elim and giants for company.\n\n'Why?' Corban said.\n\n'Why what?' replied Meical.\n\n'Why me? Why am I this Bright Star? Why not Edana, or some prince or king? Me, the son of a blacksmith, a boy whose only ambition was to be a warrior and serve his king.'\n\n'I can't answer that,' Meical said. 'I just know that it is you. The reason why does not even matter. It won't change anything. Sometimes it is just best to accept what _is_ , and get on with doing.'\n\nCorban nodded thoughtfully. 'When was this prophecy written?' he asked.\n\n'Two thousand years ago,' Meical said.\n\nCorban blew out a long breath. 'Two thousand years. Our fate was decided two thousand years ago. My fate . . .' He looked at Meical, his expression hovering between doubt and hope. 'So, if it's prophesied that I am the Bright Star, then we are going to win?'\n\n'The prophecy does not say who will win, only who will fight.'\n\n'That's a shame,' Dath muttered.\n\n'But it does say that you must go to Drassil,' Meical added.\n\n'Drassil is the Great Tree?' Corban asked.\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'It's a bit vague as to why I should go there.'\n\n'The Ben-Elim will gather to you there. If that is not good enough reason, then there are others.'\n\n'Such as?'\n\n'The spear of Skald.'\n\n'It is there still, then?' A deep voice rumbled behind Cywen, making her jump. It was Balur. He stepped into the light.\n\n'It is,' Tukul said. 'I left ten of my sword-kin there to guard it.'\n\n'Ten is not a great number,' Balur observed.\n\n'No, it is not. All the more reason to return there as quickly as we can,' Meical said.\n\n'What is the spear of Skald?' Corban asked.\n\n'It is one of the Seven Treasures,' Meical answered. 'Skald was the high king of the giants, when there was only one clan.'\n\n'Aye, before we were Sundered,' Balur said. 'The spear was not his. It was used to slay him, and it was left in his body; thus ever since it has been named Skald's spear.'\n\n'It is in his body still,' Tukul said. 'Or what is left of his body. We did not move it.'\n\n'You have spoken of the Seven Treasures before,' Corban said. 'Forged from the starstone?'\n\n'Aye, that is right,' Balur said.\n\n'The cauldron is the most powerful. Together the Treasures can form a gateway between the Otherworld and this world of flesh,' Meical said, locking his gaze with Corban's. 'That is why Calidus seeks them. The cauldron is one. The axe is another. To thwart Asroth they must be destroyed.'\n\n'But we have the axe. Let us destroy it now - if Asroth needs all Seven Treasures then he will be defeated.' Corban sounded excited. 'We can end this now.'\n\n'It's not as simple as that,' Meical said. 'To be destroyed, the Treasures must all be gathered together.'\n\n'There's always a catch with these things,' Dath muttered. Coralen punched his shoulder.\n\n'So Calidus has the cauldron, and we have the axe.'\n\n'And we have the spear,' Tukul said. 'In Drassil.'\n\n'Do you understand now?' Meical asked Corban. 'There are good reasons to go to Drassil. The spear must be made safe.'\n\nCorban gazed into the fire. 'What you say, it does make sense. I just . . . my oath.'\n\n'There are other options,' Meical said. 'Send word to Edana. Perhaps she will join us. The danger is wasting time, Corban. The world will not stand still and wait for you. Asroth is moving. Calidus also seeks Drassil. He has not been able to find it, yet, but it is only a matter of time.'\n\n'I would not break my oath.'\n\nAs Cywen watched, emotions swept Corban's face: doubt, anger, pain, settling into one she recognized well.\n\n_Pig-headedness._\n\n'Calidus has been laying plans for many years.'\n\n'Calidus,' Corban said, the hatred he felt for him apparent to all. 'Tell me of him.'\n\n'He is high captain of the Kadoshim, second only to Asroth,' Meical said, 'as I am high captain of the Ben-Elim. He is cunning, deadly, utterly devoted to his cause.'\n\n'I will see him dead,' Corban said, his voice flat, emotionless.\n\n'We could go back, slay him now,' a new voice said. Akar the Jehar, who had been sitting quietly, listening the whole time. 'Calidus is the puppet-master in all of this: Asroth's will made flesh. Kill him and the war is won.'\n\n'And how would we kill him?' Gar asked. There was something in his tone - not quite scorn.\n\n'With a sword in our hands, courage in our hearts,' Akar spat back.\n\nTukul rested a hand on Akar's wrist. 'We would fail. He is surrounded by a thousand Kadoshim clothed in Jehar bodies, all that strength and skill at their disposal. Corban would most likely be slain, and the war would be lost.'\n\n'It can be done,' Akar insisted.\n\n'Your shame blinds you. You were deceived and there is no dishonour in that. Sumur is responsible. As for you; master your emotions, see clearly. Meical and Corban are right. We will fight other battles first, wait for a better time.'\n\n'And if there is no better time?'\n\n'Then we will die then, instead of now.'\n\nCorban stood. 'Meical, all of you, thank you for your wisdom, your guidance. You've given me much to think on. There is so much to consider . . .' He fell silent, eyes distant. 'I have not decided, but my heart whispers to me that I should find Edana. I don't say this out of stubbornness . . .'\n\n_Really?_\n\n'I gave my word, and it seems to me that our hearts, our oaths, our _choices_ make the difference between us and them.' He glanced over his shoulder, northwards, into the night. His eyes came back to them, settling upon Cywen. 'And I know, if my mam and da could see me from across the bridge of swords, they would want me to keep my oath. Truth and courage, they taught me. I'd not let them down.' With that he turned and walked away. Storm appeared out of the darkness and padded alongside him.\n\n#### CHAPTER NINE\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele held a knife to the Vin Thalun's throat as Maquin bound the man's hands about the trunk of a tree.\n\n_Lykos ' secret_, Fidele repeated the words their prisoner had uttered back at the woodcutters' cabin. _The giantess and her whelp._ Those words had kept him alive, at least for a little while longer.\n\n'What do you mean?' Maquin had asked.\n\n'I'll show you,' the pirate had said, refusing to comment further, even when Maquin had put his knife to the man's throat and drawn blood.\n\nFidele and Maquin had shared a look, both of them intrigued. Fidele had changed into the breeches and woollen tunic Maquin had stolen for her. Then they had walked into the forest, Fidele a pace behind Maquin, who held his knife close to the Vin Thalun's back, following a path that was little wider than a fox's trail. As far as Fidele could make out, the Vin Thalun led them south, which was fine by her as it was _away_ from Jerolin and Lykos. They passed through rolling woodland that turned steadily thicker. Dusk settled over them quickly, the forest becoming a place of dense shadows and eerie sounds, and now darkness was thick about them. The trail ahead was almost invisible. They'd stopped for the night; their prisoner sat with his back to a tree, arms bound about it.\n\n'No fire,' Maquin said as Fidele passed the knife back to him and started gathering forest litter. Fidele frowned. Walking through the forest she had been sweating, but soon after they stopped she felt cold, shivering despite the cloak Maquin had stolen for her. The thought of a fire had lifted her spirits for a moment. She forgave Maquin when he opened the cloak that he was using as a makeshift sack, revealing a round of cheese and a leg of cold mutton. Fidele's stomach growled at the sight of it. Maquin cut her a slice of each and she set to devouring them.\n\n'Any spare?' the Vin Thalun asked them. Maquin gave him a flat stare but said nothing.\n\n_Starve, you animal_ , Fidele thought. Just the sight of the Vin Thalun, his dark beard bound with iron rings, his sun-weathered skin, even the way he looked at her, all reminded her of Lykos. A tremor ran through her at the thought of the Vin Thalun King, part fear, part hatred.\n\nShame and anger followed quickly. _I am a coward, pathetic. But why do I still fear him? I stabbed him, maybe killed him._ But when she thought of Lykos, she didn't see him collapsed and bleeding in the arena. No, she smelt him, his sour breath in her face, felt his hands gripping her, his will controlling her.\n\n_No!_ An inner scream. _I will not be ruled by him still. And even if he does still live, he no longer has the effigy. He has no power over me._ She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. _If I believed that, I would have walked back to Jerolin, not be sitting here, shivering and starving with a pirate and a trained killer._\n\nHer gaze shifted to Maquin; his face was all hard lines and shifting shadows in the moonlight, his eyes dark wells. She had seen him kill in the arena, both in single combat and against many. She was no stranger to death, had witnessed combat first-hand, seen life-blood spilt, heard death cries, had seen warriors in battle, straddling that line between life and death. None had seemed as ruthless, as devoid of emotion as the man before her. She had watched him with a mixture of revulsion and fascination, in all her years never having seen someone deal out death so efficiently. _Old Wolf, they called him in the arena. The name fits him. Lean, explosively violent, patient in combat, unrelenting._\n\nMaybe he sensed her watching him, for his head turned. She could not tell if he returned her gaze, his eyes in shadow. Nevertheless she looked away.\n\n'I know you,' the Vin Thalun said to Fidele, breaking into her thoughts. 'Aren't you supposed to be enjoying your wedding night round about now?'\n\n'Shut up,' Fidele snapped, instantly annoyed with herself at the emotion in her voice.\n\n'Got a long walk on the morrow,' the Vin Thalun said. 'Starve me and I'll be too weak to show you the way to Lykos' pets.'\n\n'Huh,' snorted Maquin.\n\nFidele regarded the Vin Thalun silently. _He is younger than he looks - twenty summers, maybe, not much more. And he is someone's son._ At that thought an image of Nathair filled her mind. _My son. Where is he? Halfway across the Banished Lands? Alive or dead? Someone 's prisoner? If he is, I hope that he will at least be fed, given water._ She focused back on the Vin Thalun before her and felt a flush of shame at her earlier willingness to starve him. _I will not become that which I hate._ 'Here,' Fidele said, cutting a slice of cheese for the warrior.\n\n'Don't know how long that has to last us,' Maquin commented, looking at the cheese.\n\n'We are human beings, not animals,' Fidele said, the words aimed at herself as much as anyone else.\n\n'Don't think you'd get the same treatment if things were the other way around.'\n\n'I know I wouldn't. I have a very good idea how I would have been treated. But I will not make myself . . . less.'\n\nMaquin said no more, just watched as Fidele offered the cheese to the Vin Thalun.\n\nTheir prisoner glanced at his bound arms, then opened his mouth. Fidele hesitated.\n\n'I won't bite. Think your hound might have his knife out quick if I did. I've seen him in the pit and arena. Seen what he can do.'\n\nMaquin's gaze snapped onto him at that, something predatory in the movement, threatening.\n\n'No offence meant by that,' the Vin Thalun continued, 'made a lot of money out of you, Old Wolf. Seen you come through some pretty thin odds.'\n\n'They were lives. Other men's lives. Not odds,' Fidele said.\n\nMaquin's eyes shifted to Fidele.\n\n'Aye. Well, he carved them up real good, whatever you want to call them.'\n\nFidele broke a piece off the cheese and put it in the man's mouth, glad that it shut him up for a few moments.\n\nSounds rang out abruptly, branches snapping, footfalls thudding. Voices called to one another, sounding close. Fidele's heart was instantly pounding, the fear of capture filling her mind. Maquin went from sitting to standing in one fluid movement. Fidele didn't see him draw his knife, but it was suddenly in his hand. He stood poised, listening.\n\nThere was the sound of iron clashing. Screams. _Further away? Closer? I cannot tell._ Fidele felt a moment of panic, took a deep breath to calm herself.\n\n'Don't make a sound,' Maquin whispered, 'and do not come after me. I won't be long.' Then he slipped amongst the trees, merging with the darkness.\n\n_That 's what you said last time, at the woodcutters' cabin._\n\nFidele counted time in heartbeats, the forest now eerily silent except for the sigh of the wind through trees, the creak of branches. Sporadically she'd hear a shout, a battle-cry, a scream, then nothing again.\n\n'I'm still hungry,' the Vin Thalun said. She looked at him, knew that he must be weighing up whether to call out or not. She had been tempted by the same thought. But who would come if either of them cried out? Friend or foe? _Not worth the risk_ , Fidele had concluded, and, judging by his silence, the pirate agreed.\n\n'My name is Senios,' the pirate said. 'Just a man, like you said. And I'm still hungry.' Fidele gave him some more. As the cheese touched his lips he burst into movement, jerking against the tree trunk, his legs whipping round to coil about her, dragging her close. She sucked in a lungful of air to cry out, then his head was snapping forward, crunching into her cheek. Her vision contracted, an explosion of light and darkness inside her head, and she felt her body slumping. _No!_ she yelled at herself, feeling her awareness flutter. _Not, a victim - never again . . ._ She reached a hand down the pirate's body, between his legs, grabbing and twisting. She heard a scream, wasn't sure for a moment if it was her or the Vin Thalun, then the grip in his legs about her was gone and she was pushing away, crawling across the ground, the pirate gagging behind her, gasping for air.\n\nA figure loomed out of the shadows, Maquin. He paused a moment, taking the scene in, then exploded into motion, a boot crunching into the Vin Thalun's head. He sagged against his bonds, unconscious, blood and saliva dribbling from his slack jaw.\n\nMaquin was beside Fidele. 'Has he hurt you?'\n\n'I, no, it's nothing,' Fidele said, one hand to her face.\n\nMaquin gently lifted her, fingers touching her cheek. It throbbed.\n\n'You'll have a bruise the size of my fist, but you'll live.' He looked at the unconscious Vin Thalun, took a step towards him.\n\n'Don't,' Fidele said. Maquin frowned at her.\n\n'It's not compassion. I'd happily kill him myself. But I want to see these giants.'\n\n'It could just be a lie, to prolong his life, give him a chance to escape.'\n\nFidele shrugged. 'Perhaps. Give him one day - if we haven't seen these giants by dusk on the morrow . . .'\n\n'We'll kill him. You sure you can deal with that?'\n\n'Yes. It will be an execution, not a murder - he is an enemy of my realm.'\n\n'Good.'\n\n'What was out there,' Fidele nodded at the darkness.\n\n'Death,' Maquin muttered. 'Vin Thalun chasing men of Tenebral - I glimpsed a few, running. They wore Tenebral's eagle. They were a way off, running east, away from us. You should get some sleep.'\n\n'I don't know if I can,' she said.\n\n'You're going to need your strength.' He paused, his face softening for an instant. 'You'll be safe.' He didn't say more, didn't need to. It sounded foolish - they were fleeing, cold, hungry, in a forest surrounded by enemies - yet, looking at Maquin, she did feel safe. She also felt suddenly exhausted.\n\n'You'll need to sleep, too. Wake me later.'\n\n'I will,' Maquin grunted and Fidele curled up on the ground, pulling her cloak about her. Forest litter crunched beneath her as she shifted, lumps in the ground digging into her back. Eventually she found a position that was vaguely comfortable and she tried to remain still. An owl hooted nearby, making her jump. _I may as well sit watch with Maquin, I 'll never sleep out here._\n\nSomething shook her and she opened her eyes to weak sunlight. A shadow hovered nearby, features pulling into focus.\n\nFor a moment she thought it was Lykos, his face dark and tanned, eyes boring into her. She gasped and jerked away.\n\n'Sorry,' Maquin mumbled, 'didn't mean to startle you.' He stepped back.\n\n'It's all right,' she said, her voice a croak. 'I thought you were . . .' She trailed off as a score of pains made themselves known, reminding her she'd slept on the forest floor. She groaned and hesitantly stretched, testing the pains. When she'd established that she was not completely crippled she tentatively stood, leaning on a nearby tree.\n\n'First night in the wild,' Maquin said. A flicker of a smile creased his face.\n\n'It's daylight,' she said, her cheek aching as she spoke, a memento of the Vin Thalun's blow.\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'You were supposed to wake me.'\n\nHe just shrugged and passed her a water skin. She drank thirstily, then glanced at the Vin Thalun, who sat with his back against the tree, arms still bound about it. His jaw was swollen, bruised almost black. He returned her gaze with open malevolence.\n\n'Senios, how far to this place?' Fidele asked him. Maquin raised an eyebrow at the use of the Vin Thalun's name.\n\nHe mumbled something, grimaced, a line of spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Fidele made out what sounded like 'Half-day.'\n\n'His jaw is broken,' Maquin said. 'Don't expect too much conversation from him today.'\n\nSenios led them on into the forest, Maquin a pace behind him. Sunlight slanted through the trees; birdsong drifted down from above.\n\nTime passed, the sun sliding across the canopy above. Fidele heard the sound of running water, faint at first. Soon they reached the banks of a river, its waters dark, wide and sluggish. Alder and willow lined the bank, willow branches draped across their path, dangling into the river. The sun was straight above when Senios stopped.\n\n'Bend,' he said, pointing ahead.\n\n'What are we going to see?' Maquin growled.\n\n'A ship. Vin Thalun. The giants.' His words were slurred.\n\n'How many Vin Thalun?'\n\nSenios held both hands up.\n\n'Ten?' Maquin asked. Senios shrugged.\n\n'We'll go together. Any noise, any movement that I don't tell you to do, you'll feel my blade.' He drew his knife, emphasizing his point.\n\nSlowly they crept forwards. They turned the bend; reeds grew thick and tall along the bank, then Fidele heard voices.\n\nMaquin crouched low, dragging Senios down with him, and motioned for Fidele to do the same. They moved into the bank of reeds, inched their way closer to the river's edge. Sweat stung Fidele's eyes. With every movement the reeds rustled and she expected warning cries to ring out. She could see the river through gaps in the reeds, saw the outline of a long and sleek ship resembling a Vin Thalun war-galley, only smaller. It had no mast, but a row of oars raised out of the water - _ten,_ she counted. _So that 's twenty oars_ - _twenty men, double what Senios told us. And there could be more._ At the rear of the ship was a large cabin. Figures moved on the deck, others were on the far bank, where a wide fire-pit had been dug. Near them, a great moss-covered stone slab rose from the ground. Lines dissected it, too straight to be natural. _Giant runes?_ Something about it was strange, unnatural. An iron ring dangled from it.\n\nHer attention was drawn back to the ship as the cabin door creaked open and a warrior emerged. He was holding a chain, which he tugged. A female giant walked out onto the deck, tall and muscular, an iron collar about her throat. Another giant followed behind her, bound to a connecting chain at the waist. This one was male, shorter and slighter, with wisps of a scraggly moustache. _A giant bairn. I did not even know that such a thing existed._\n\nMore Vin Thalun warriors followed behind, spears levelled at their prisoners. The giants were led from the galley onto the far bank; the chain linking them was attached to the iron ring in the great stone. One of the Vin Thalun prodded the small male with a spear, making him twist away with a pitiful whine. The female snarled, stepped in front of the smaller one and lunged as the Vin Thalun laughed and jabbed at her with their spears. They soon grew bored of their baiting and left the two giants. The giantess cupped the young male's face in her hands, the two exchanging a look both bleak and tender. Fidele felt the breath catch in her chest - something about the gesture was shockingly moving. Fidele remembered doing the same to Nathair as Aquilus was laid in his cairn, remembered the grief they'd shared in a look, intimate and unique only to them at the loss of Aquilus, husband, father.\n\n_She is his mother._\n\nShe felt Maquin's hand on her arm, saw him gesture that it was time to leave. She didn't want to go, a wave of empathy for the giant mother and child almost overwhelming her. She had been a Vin Thalun slave, just with different shackles. She wanted to help them.\n\nThere was a burst of sound close by, the reeds shuddering about them as Senios tore himself from Maquin's grip and threw himself forward. Maquin lunged after him, his knife stabbing into Senios' leg. The two men tumbled down the riverbank, splashing into the water, disappearing in a mass of white foam.\n\nPanic exploded in Fidele. The two men rose to the surface of the river, grappling, spluttering. Senios broke free of Maquin's grasp and swam away, heading for the far bank. Maquin followed, seemingly oblivious or uncaring that the Vin Thalun warriors from the ship had noticed the commotion and were aiming their spears at the river.\n\n'No!' Fidele yelled at Maquin. And he must have heard her, for he glanced up at her, then back across the river to where Senios was being hauled up on the ship by his comrades. Maquin scrambled back to Fidele, grasping at her hand to pull himself ashore. There was a whistling sound as a spear sank into the ground close by, another followed shortly behind.\n\n'Quickly,' Maquin snarled, vanishing into the reeds. Fidele paused and looked back, saw the two giants staring at her. For a moment Fidele's eyes locked with the mother. _I am sorry_ , she thought.\n\n#### CHAPTER TEN\n\n#### UTHAS\n\n'Lift,' Uthas cried, and a dozen Benothi giants grunted as they took the weight of the cauldron on two long iron poles. For a few moments the cauldron hung suspended over the dais, its resting place for two thousand years, then they shuffled forwards, transferring it onto a huge wain that stood nearby. Its timber frame was reinforced with iron, but it still creaked as the cauldron's weight settled. Leather straps were tightened and secured to iron rings, fixing the cauldron in place. Then a leather sheet was unfurled and tied tight, hiding the cauldron from sight. The wain had taken nearly two full days and nights to construct, the forges of the Benothi belching smoke as great wheels and axles had been fashioned, using iron and weathered and hardened timber gathered from the huge doors that had hung within the fortress of Murias.\n\n_It still stinks in here._ Uthas wrinkled his nose. The cauldron's chamber was still littered with the dead. The Benothi giants had tended to their own fallen, carrying their dead kin from the hall to lay them in a great cairn beyond the gates of Murias, but the stinking tangle of Jehar and wyrm corpses had been left to rot. He looked with disgust at the bodies strewn about him. _Some of them appear to have been . . . chewed upon._ Uthas looked up, his eyes meeting with Calidus, who stood beside the wain directing his Kadoshim brethren. He let out a long breath and looked away. _I don 't want to know._\n\nEight of the Jehar warhorses were harnessed to the wain. At his signal it moved forwards slowly, the wheels crushing flesh, crunching bone as they rolled across the cavern floor. The Benothi followed, an honour guard.\n\n'You have done well,' Calidus said to him as they left the chamber. 'The cauldron is not of this earth, the fabric it is made from is dense and heavy. But that wain is sturdy enough to carry it a thousand leagues.'\n\n'The Benothi are skilled craftsmen,' Uthas said with a hint of pride.\n\nThey passed through the wide corridors of Murias, Uthas feeling a blend of melancholy and anticipation growing in his belly. He was leaving Murias, home of the Benothi for two thousand years, possibly leaving it behind forever. _I will not look back. It is the destination that is important: the end, not the beginning._\n\nEventually they reached the entrance hall. A line of wains stood waiting, all loaded - most with huge barrels of _brot_ , enough to provide sustenance for them for a year or more. _Though it appears the Kadoshim are acquiring other tastes._\n\nThe Kadoshim were spread about the hall, thickest around the wains. Once the wounded Kadoshim, Bune, had been brought back to Murias and the others had heard the disastrous fate of those that had rushed after Meical and his companions, Calidus had managed to introduce a level of order to the Kadoshim. And they were adapting to their new bodies well, suppressing the spirits of their unwilling hosts and learning the _way of flesh_ , as Calidus had taken to calling it. Nathair stood to one side of the open gates, the bulk of his draig making him easy to find. The giant Alcyon stood with him.\n\n'Come,' Calidus said to Uthas, 'it is time to hear Nathair's answer to my offer.'\n\n'What will be his choice, I wonder,' Uthas said as they strode across the wide chamber.\n\n'He will choose life. He is no fool. He has dreams, delusions of nobility and greatness, but when life or death are only a word apart . . .' Calidus smiled coldly.\n\n'Are you sure?'\n\n'As sure as it is possible to be. But one thing I have learned in this world of flesh - mankind is fickle, and nothing is certain. So I have a rule: prepare for all eventualities. If he says no, then I have a lock of his hair. I need Nathair; we are too few and he has the keys to an empire within his reach. And I have worked hard to make this so; it's taken a considerable amount of time and effort to bring all of this about.'\n\n'I can only imagine,' Uthas grunted.\n\n'And so I would not like to see it all wasted. Nevertheless, things could go awry.' Calidus looked behind at the wain emerging into the chamber. 'Bring Salach and whoever else you think necessary if we need to dispatch Nathair's draig.'\n\nUthas raised an eyebrow, not relishing that thought. He remembered the creature carving a way through a mass of wyrms in the cauldron's cavern. He gestured to Salach, Eisa and another half-dozen of the Benothi. They followed.\n\n'That would be a shame; it is a magnificent creature, and useful.'\n\nCalidus shrugged. 'It is bonded to Nathair, would tear even me apart in his defence. If Nathair is to die, the draig must be killed too.'\n\n'And Nathair?'\n\n'If it comes to it, Alcyon will take care of him.'\n\nThey approached Nathair in silence. The King of Tenebral was spooning something from a bowl. When he saw them approaching he stepped closer to his draig and gave it the remnants of his meal. A long black tongue licked around the bowl, the creature nudging Nathair with its broad flat muzzle. Absently, Nathair scratched its chin and tugged on a long fang. Alcyon took a step back, his eyes fixed on Calidus.\n\n'We are ready to leave,' Calidus said to Nathair, conversationally.\n\n'So I see.'\n\n'It is time for you to make your choice.'\n\n'I'm not sure I can,' Nathair muttered, massaging his temple.\n\nCalidus stared at him with a hint of a smile. 'You already have made it. You are just struggling with the final step. You realize if you continue on this path there can be no going back for you.'\n\nNathair snorted. 'You appear to know me better than I know myself.'\n\n'I do, Nathair. We have been through much together, you and I. Risked much. Dared much. Gained much. And here we are on the brink.'\n\n'You deceived me,' Nathair whispered. He looked intensely at Calidus, and for a moment Uthas caught a flash of real pain in the young King's eyes.\n\n_Betrayal is hard to bear. I saw that same look in Nemain 's eyes when she realized the truth about me._\n\nCalidus returned the gaze calmly.\n\n'You know I had no choice. You would not have understood. If you were in my position you would have done exactly the same. For the greater good. Have you not done things that others would consider questionable, for the greater good?'\n\nNathair winced at those words, as if they brought him physical pain. 'I have,' he said, a whisper.\n\n'And have you not withheld information, even from those you value and trust? Veradis, for example? Again for the greater good.'\n\n'Aye.' Louder this time.\n\n'Well, what I have done and will do is for the greater good - I am offering you a chance to fulfil your vision, to see an empire bring peace to these Banished Lands.'\n\n'Over a mountain of bodies.'\n\n'Was there ever going to be any other way? How many have already died for your visions of peace? This is no different. You and Asroth share the same vision: a world of order, of peace, where the powerful are able to make decisions to better lives without politics or bureaucracy getting in the way. You are stumbling over concepts - good and evil, right and wrong. Asroth has been depicted in the history of your world by his enemy - of course you will think him evil. But he is not. He is like you, a sentient creature with the ability to choose. Our base instinct is to survive, and sometimes to survive you must fight. This is not a game; it is a fight for life or death. But I promise you this, give you my oath: if we win, we will create an empire that will be everything you ever dreamed of.' Calidus paused and stared keenly into Nathair's eyes, holding him. 'Join us. I will not lie, we need you.'\n\n'Need me?'\n\n'You are no fool, Nathair. I will not tell you what you already know.'\n\n'That I control the warbands of Tenebral, and that I have forged an alliance with Helveth, Carnutan and Isiltir.'\n\n'Exactly.' Calidus nodded. 'I have the Kadoshim, Uthas and his Benothi, Lykos and the Vin Thalun. And Rhin. A powerful force, but not all-powerful. Together, though . . .'\n\n'With me as your puppet-king, you mean,' Nathair said. His draig turned its eyes on Calidus and gave a low, baleful rumble.\n\n'Not as a puppet. As a king, with the others as your vassals - Rhin, Lykos, Uthas. These Banished Lands are too vast for one man to conquer unaided.'\n\n'They are,' Nathair agreed.\n\n'So join me. Together we can crush Meical and his allies. Fulfil your dream. And afterwards you will rule. More than a king, you shall be Emperor of the Banished Lands, ruler of all you have conquered. So, you see, nothing will be changed from your dreams of old.'\n\n'And what of Asroth? What does he want?'\n\n'Victory. Only victory. Asroth's desire is to defeat his enemies. The Ben-Elim. Meical, his Bright Star Corban and the band of brigands they've gathered about themselves. Afterwards, when they are dead -' Calidus shrugged - 'then this world is yours.'\n\n'Mine? Asroth would not rule here?'\n\n'No. He does not wish to rule - bureaucracy and administration hold little attraction for my master. All that he wishes for is to see his enemies destroyed, once and for all. To see their blood and bones ground into the earth. To make Meical and his Ben-Elim nothing but a stain upon the ground.' Calidus' mouth had constricted into a sharp line, eyes narrowed to slits.\n\n_He is remarkably convincing_ , thought Uthas.\n\n'And to achieve that victory Asroth needs you. He needs about him those who share his vision, whom he can trust. And, remember, Asroth chose you, above all others.'\n\nUthas was studying Nathair, ready for any indication that there would be defiance. _He wants to believe Calidus, longs to be the hero of his own story, and Calidus is telling him what he wants to hear. Flattery blended with a measure of truth._\n\n'Your dreams, which you have been having for years,' Calidus continued. 'They are true. Asroth picked you out, chose you from countless others. You, Nathair, have the qualities to see this through. To make a difference. To rule. The only error in your dreams was the name that you chose to give Asroth.'\n\n'And myself,' Nathair said, the earlier bitterness still in his voice, but weaker now, diluted by something else.\n\n_Hope._\n\nCalidus shrugged.\n\n'My dreams,' Nathair said, a distant look in his eyes. 'They made me feel different. Special, chosen.'\n\n'And you are. All you need do is change your perspective on Asroth. I will not lie, he is angry. Angry at Elyon, the Great Tyrant, his hubris nothing but a cloak for his betrayal.' Calidus' face twisted with a flicker of rage, like lightning on the horizon. 'Asroth had the audacity to question Elyon, and then to challenge his wisdom. Elyon is proud, arrogant.' Calidus smiled and shrugged. 'Questioning him did not go down too well. Asroth was betrayed and cast out, along with those of us who stood beside him, we who had the impudence to wonder, to ask, to question. We were all betrayed by Meical and the Ben-Elim, with their piety and zeal, their lack of interest in the affairs of mankind. They are callous and cruel.'\n\n'Your words, they are convincing,' Nathair frowned. 'But, how can I trust you, now?\n\n'Would Veradis trust you, if you confessed to your past deceptions as I am confessing to mine?'\n\n'I don't know. Perhaps. Not immediately, but if I proved myself to him . . .'\n\n'As I shall prove myself to you. Join me and you will see. You can trust me, Nathair -there is nothing hidden between us now. Ask me anything.'\n\n'What is your plan -the next step in this war?'\n\n'To consolidate what we have. The cauldron is the greatest of the Seven Treasures; it must be kept safe. I would take it back to Tenebral, where we are unassailable. And the other Treasures must be found. They are needed to break the barriers with the Otherworld.'\n\n'So you would bring Asroth into our world?'\n\n'Aye. That is the goal. To crush our mutual enemies. That is the only way we can win.'\n\n'And I would continue to rule Tenebral now, and be high king in your new order?'\n\n'Yes. More than that. You would be this world's emperor. Those who help me will be rewarded. You. Uthas. Lykos. Others beneath them - Rhin, Jael, Lothar, Gundul. Together we will conquer these Banished Lands and bring about a new order.'\n\n_He is wavering. Only the final step remains._\n\n'All that you have to do is say yes.'\n\nThey stood there in silence a long while, Nathair and Calidus locked in a gaze that excluded all else. Eventually Nathair sighed, passing a hand over his eyes.\n\n'Yes,' he breathed. 'I will join your cause. Though I would tell you, the trust between us must be rebuilt.'\n\nCalidus smiled. 'Do not trust in me. Trust in Asroth.'\n\n'What do you mean? I have just given you my word.'\n\nCalidus paused and stared at him, then he laughed. 'Oh, Nathair, your sincerity, it really is quite inspiring; I can understand why Asroth singled you out. But trust must run both ways and you must forgive me if I have a suspicious mind. How do I know that you have not given your word to prolong your life, to buy yourself time until you are reunited with Veradis and a thousand eagle-guard at your back? I wonder, will you feel as committed to this cause then?'\n\n'Of course.'\n\n'You will understand if I take steps to guarantee your integrity?'\n\n'What steps?'\n\n'You will see, in just a few moments.' Calidus strode to a pot suspended over a fire, emptied its contents and drew something from his cloak: a vial, dark liquid within it.\n\n'What is that?' Nathair asked.\n\n'The blood of an enemy. A powerful enemy; it is the blood of Nemain, once-Queen of the Benothi. Give me your hand.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'It is time you met your new master.' Calidus stepped closer, gripped Nathair's hand and lifted it, then turned it, looking at the palm. 'You have made an oath before.' His finger traced a white scar.\n\n'Aye. With Veradis.'\n\n'You are about to make another.' He turned and poured the blood from the vial into the pot.\n\nPale morning sunshine and a chill wind filtered through the gates of Murias as Uthas stood and waited.\n\n'Make ready,' Calidus cried, his voice filling the chamber, and for a few moments all was chaos.\n\n_This is it. The moment that the Benothi march to war alongside the Kadoshim._ He took a deep breath, an effort to calm the mix of fear and excitement that coursed through him.\n\nA hand touched Uthas' arm and he turned to see Eisa standing before the surviving fifty Benothi warriors.\n\n'You are our leader, now. Lord of the Benothi,' she said, offering him an object.\n\nUthas looked closer, saw she held a necklace fashioned from wyrm fangs. They were threaded on an iron chain, bound with silver.\n\n_I am not worthy. A betrayer. A murderer._\n\nHe bowed his head, allowing her to slip the necklace onto him. It was a pleasant weight upon his neck and shoulders.\n\n'I thank you,' he said as he raised his head. 'I will lead you to glory and a new age for the Benothi. We will hide in the shadows no more.'\n\nVoices bellowed their approval and then they were moving out.\n\n_And not just the Benothi. I will reforge what was Sundered. The clans will join behind me. They must._\n\nWith a deep roar from Nathair's draig they left Murias, the cauldron on its great wain rolling into the spring sunshine, a dozen other smaller wains strung out behind it. A thousand of the Kadoshim marched around them. At the warband's head Nathair rode upon his draig, Calidus mounted on a Jehar stallion beside him. Uthas and Alcyon marched alongside them. Above, ravens cawed and circled, leaving their nests in Murias' cliffs, shadowing them like a dark halo.\n\n_They know death will be our constant companion._\n\nThey followed the road that led from Murias, down a slope from the mountain and into a land of rolling moors and purple heather. Calidus lifted a hand and beckoned to Uthas.\n\n'I do not like the thought of Meical out there. He has too few numbers to defeat us, but he could still be plotting some mischief. I'm going to follow his trail, make sure he's not being cleverer than I give him credit for.'\n\nSoon after, Calidus left their warband with a hundred of the Kadoshim. Uthas accompanied them, his shieldman Salach at his side. Nathair was instructed to keep the column moving along the road. The King of Tenebral nodded, a bloodstained linen bandage wrapped around one hand. Uthas felt a wave of pity for him, remembering how Nathair had collapsed to his knees as Asroth had scoured him, searching his soul for any hint of treachery.\n\n'Lead us to their camp,' Calidus ordered Bune, the only Kadoshim that had survived the rushed attempt to regain the starstone axe. He had recovered from his injury, his severed wrist bound with leather. He raised his head, sniffing, then took off at a loping run eastwards towards a line of low hills. Calidus kicked his horse into a canter and the small host followed.\n\n'They can run, these Kadoshim,' Salach said to Uthas after they had covered three or four leagues. Uthas grunted his agreement. The Kadoshim had settled into their new bodies now, and they ran with a supple power, their stamina seeming to match the giants'.\n\nThey moved into the hills; Calidus, ordering the pace to slow, sent a dozen of the Kadoshim fanning out ahead.\n\n'He is teaching them,' Salach observed.\n\n'Aye, and they are quick learners.'\n\nThey crested a low hill and Calidus reined in his horse.\n\nA dell spread before them. The grass had been flattened by many people, a section burned by a large fire. A row of cairns sat close to the stream, Uthas counted sixteen and saw that three of the cairns were bigger than the others - cairns built for giants.\n\n_Asroth below, let Balur lie in one of those._\n\nBeyond the cairns was a stand of trees, bent and twisted by the wind. Headless corpses dangled from their branches like the tattered banners of a defeated foe.\n\nCalidus watched as the Kadoshim spread through the camp, scratching at the ground, sniffing, some snarling and growling like animals.\n\n'They are gone,' Calidus said as Uthas reached him. 'Probably the day after the battle, two days ahead of us. Where will Meical take them, though? That is the question.'\n\n'Let him run,' Salach sneered. Calidus frowned at him. Some of the Kadoshim reached the cairns and began pulling away the stones.\n\n'You have outmanoeuvred him every step thus far,' Uthas said.\n\n'Aye, thus far. We must never underestimate Meical, though. I never have, and that is why we are ahead. That is why this will end with his wings sheared and his head on a spike.' Calidus looked up at the corpses dangling from the trees, heads severed. 'But we must not forget that Meical is no fool, and he has some powerful allies.'\n\n_Balur One-Eye not least amongst them._ 'And he has the starstone axe,' Uthas said. 'So what now? Where has Meical gone with his rabble?'\n\n'It does not matter.' Calidus shrugged. 'He has too few about him to challenge us for the cauldron. And we cannot change our course. The cauldron must be taken to a safer place. We will continue to Tenebral, and Meical will continue to plot and scheme, but he is undone. His more powerful allies are dead, his attempts at power blocked, thwarted. The war is won, as long as we keep our heads.'\n\n_Literally_ , Uthas thought, glancing at the headless corpses swaying above them.\n\nCalidus looked up, Uthas following his gaze to a dot in the sky. A bird, high above. It circled lower, huge wings spread, riding the current until it was close enough for Uthas to see the curve of its beak.\n\n_I recognize that bird._\n\nCalidus held an arm out, and with a beat of its wings the great hawk alighted on his forearm. Calidus scratched its chest.\n\n'Kartala,' he said. 'Your master is dead, then.'\n\nThe bird stared at him, its head cocked to one side.\n\n'Bune - share your meal.'\n\nOne of the Kadoshim that was taking bites out of a Jehar corpse threw Calidus a chunk of rotting flesh. Calidus ripped off pieces and fed them to the bird.\n\n'Kartala was my link to Ventos. The man who tracked Corban, who told us of his coming north.'\n\n'I remember,' Uthas said. 'You sent Alcyon south to waylay Corban on the information from this Ventos.'\n\n'Yes. Unfortunately something happened between Ventos' last message and Corban's arrival at Murias. Involving a hundred or so Jehar warriors and Ventos' death, I'm guessing,' Calidus said sourly. He shrugged. 'Such is the way of war. Things change, people die, information often travels too slowly. You can help us with that, though,' he said to the bird. 'Meical is leading Corban and a band of miscreants about the countryside, and I need to know where he is going. You understand, Kartala? Meical and Corban. That is their trail.' He pointed to the wide path of trampled grass that led southwards through the hills.\n\nKartala beat her wings and lifted into the air, the power of her departure making the corpses sway and creak in the trees.\n\n'That should go a long way to avoiding any more unannounced interruptions,' Calidus said.\n\n'Indeed.'\n\nThe Kadoshim had now uncovered the giant cairns and Uthas looked in, scowling when he didn't see Balur amongst the dead.\n\nCalidus held up a hand as one of the Kadoshim reached the cairn he was standing beside. He leaned over, picking up the purple flower of a thistle that was resting upon it and sniffed at it like a hound. Calidus nodded for the Kadoshim to proceed and it tore at the cairn, heaving stones and hurling them with a strength even more prodigious than its companions'.\n\n'He's a strong one,' Salach remarked.\n\n'When the starstone axe was taken from Alcyon the cauldron's link with the Otherworld was broken; my kin felt it happening. Many of them sped through the veil in those last moments, swarmed into one body before the gateway was severed. That is the body.'\n\n'What's his name?' Uthas asked.\n\n'His name is Legion, because . . . well, it's self-explanatory, really.'\n\nUthas raised an eyebrow.\n\nIn short moments a body had been uncovered - a woman, dark hair, skin waxy in death. 'Ahh,' Calidus said, smiling. 'I recognize her. She put a knife or two in me during the battle.' He looked at the thistle between his fingers, twirled it, then slipped it inside his cloak. 'Take her head,' he ordered Salach. He gestured to the Kadoshim already sniffing at the corpse. 'And they can have the rest.'\n\n#### CHAPTER ELEVEN\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin ran through the trees, the sound of Fidele's footfalls just behind.\n\n_Running away, again. This is becoming a very bad habit._\n\nThey had been running a long time, Maquin's lungs burning with each breath. Evening was not far off.\n\nThe sight of the giants had aroused his curiosity. _What does Lykos want with them? How long has he kept them prisoner? Why are they so heavily guarded?_ Lykos was a sly, cunning strategic man. There must be some purpose for him to invest so much in guarding these giants. _Do not ask. I do not want to know, do not care. My life has become complicated enough already. Those giants are another distraction that I do not need. There is only Jael. Getting involved here has already led to Vin Thalun on my trail and a woman slowing me down, when I could have been leagues closer to Isiltir by now._ Nevertheless he was finding it hard to not think of the two giants. There had been something pitiful about them, something broken. _They are slaves_ ; he knew how that felt. It had stoked his hatred of the Vin Thalun, and he felt that hatred still, a white-hot glow that threatened to consume him. _They are following us._ He'd heard their calls as they'd crossed the river, occasionally heard them crashing through the forest - _they are seafarers, not woodsmen -_ and he'd wanted to stop, to turn back and hunt the hunters, see their blood spilt, lives ended, but he knew he could not. Responsibility drove him, made him flee. Behind him Fidele's breaths were laboured, ragged. He slowed his pace, then stopped.\n\nShe was flushed, sweating, dark hair plastered to her face, clearly exhausted. _And yet she has not asked to stop._ Not what he would have expected from a pampered queen. _There is a strength in her. Pride and determination._\n\n'Do not stop . . . on my account,' she breathed.\n\nThere was a rumble overhead - thunder - and a raindrop dripped onto Maquin's nose.\n\n'Senios will have told them of you. They will continue following us,' Maquin said.\n\n'And he'll have told them about you. They  may  think  twice about chasing us.'\n\n'No, they'll just send enough to make sure the job gets done.'\n\n'How many is enough? I saw you in the arena - against four.'\n\nMaquin looked away. He remembered that day, remembered seeing the four warriors appear through the arena gates. Remembered each individual as they bled out in the mud.\n\n'Depends how good they are,' he shrugged, banishing the memory. He looked about the forest. 'They are  seafarers,  not  at home in a forest. Me, I lived in Forn. They should send at least seven, to be sure, and there were more than enough of them to do that.'\n\n'How do you know?'\n\n'I counted twenty-two at their camp. They'd need at least ten to guard the giant and her bairn, probably a few more than that. Two would have left to take word to Lykos. That leaves around ten, depending on how many stay with the giants.'\n\nShe nodded resolutely. 'What should we do?'\n\n'Keep running, until it's too dark for them to track us at least. Then we'll go on some more, to be safe.'\n\nFidele nodded wearily and they set off again.\n\nIt was raining harder now, water dripping constantly from the canopy above. They were following a narrow trail; the undergrowth about them was dense and impenetrable.  Maquin had considered leaving the path, forging into the forest, but that would only make them easier to track and slow them down as well. _Speed is what we need._\n\nSomething  changed  around  them.  Maquin  sniffed  the  air;  an earthiness rose above the other scents of the forest. He slowed, then stopped. Fidele stumbled into him, knocking him a step forward.\n\nThe  ground  shifted  beneath  him  and  his  foot  sank  into  the ground past his ankle, black mud bubbling up around it. His first reaction was to heave backwards, but to his horror it felt as if some creature had gripped and pulled at his foot.\n\nAt a quick glance the ground appeared normal, covered in lichen and vine, but as he looked closer he saw it shift, a ripple spreading about his boot. _A sinking hole._ Panic bubbled in his gut. He'd seen them in Forn, seen a giant trapped and sucked below the surface in a matter of moments.\n\n'Take my hand,' Fidele said, stretching out to him. He gripped her wrist and very slowly leaned backwards, resisting the urge to heave with all his might. Slowly he felt his foot move, pulling free of the sucking mud. With a squelch and a popping sound his foot appeared and he was free. He nodded thanks to Fidele and drew his sword, prodding at the ground to negotiate their way around.\n\nAfter that they proceeded more slowly. Visibility dropped steadily until shapes began to blur around them. They spilt into a clearing where dark shadows were heaped on the ground. Maquin saw the dull gleam of metal, heard a groan. He drew his knife, hissing at Fidele to stay back, then made his way forwards.\n\nThunder cracked overhead, lightning flashed, for a heartbeat illuminating the glade as brightly as highsun. Warriors were strewn upon the ground. The first he reached bore the eagle of Tenebral upon a battered cuirass, dead eyes staring, throat opened. Others were Vin Thalun. The last he approached still lived, a warrior of Tenebral; his breathing was laboured and uneven.\n\nA shadow loomed behind Maquin and he tensed, but it was only Fidele. She crouched and stroked the wounded warrior's forehead. He was a young man, his face pale and eyes wide with pain. He stared at Fidele, recognition slowly dawning.\n\n'My . . . lady.'\n\n'What is your name?' Fidele asked him gently.\n\n'Drusus,' the warrior breathed.\n\n'What happened here, Drusus?'\n\n'We fled the arena--' He grimaced with pain. 'Peritus' orders. Split up, regroup in half a ten-night. But the Vin Thalun followed us. We could not shake them.'\n\n'You fought well,' Fidele said. Maquin grunted his agreement. Five  eagle-warriors  were  scattered  about  the  clearing,  eleven  Vin Thalun.\n\n'Peritus still lives, then?' Fidele asked.\n\nThe  warrior  nodded.\n\n'And Lykos?'\n\n'I do not know,' the warrior said. 'All was chaos.' Pain racked him, and he gave a gurgled hiss. Maquin checked him over. Superficial wounds everywhere. Two were more serious. A deep wound in his thigh, and one in his back, a hole punching through the lower section of his cuirass. Blood made black by the twilight pulsed rhythmically. Fidele looked at Maquin, a question in her eyes.\n\n_Will he live?_ Maquin shrugged his answer, tore a strip of linen from his shirt and tied it tight around the warrior's thigh. The wound in his back was another matter. _If it hasn 't hit a kidney or his liver he may live. He's already lost a lot of blood, so who knows? But he's most likely dead anyway. The Vin Thalun on our trail will find him._\n\n'Help me lift him,' Maquin said to Fidele.\n\nTogether they raised the warrior up. He was unsteady, standing only a moment unaided before his knees buckled.\n\n'Over here,' Maquin said, half-carrying the young warrior into the undergrowth.\n\n'What are you doing?' Fidele asked.\n\n'Hiding him,' Maquin grunted, pushing through a thicket.\n\n'We can't leave him - the Vin Thalun following us . . .' Fidele said.\n\n'I know.' Maquin shrugged. 'He can't walk. We can't carry him, or stay. Staying means dying, and I'll not be dying for him.'\n\nFidele's face shifted. A look of horror swiftly replaced with determination. 'No,' she said. 'I'll not abandon him. He is one of my people.'\n\nMaquin laid Drusus down. 'This is war, not wishful thinking. We stay and we'll die. Simple as that. He's a warrior, knows the life he's chosen. Don't you, lad.'\n\n'Aye,' Drusus gasped. 'You _must_ leave, my lady.'\n\nShe looked between them.\n\n'No.'\n\n'Don't be a fool.'\n\n'He is a man of Tenebral, has risked his life for this realm, for me. I'll not just walk away from him, abandoning him to certain death.'\n\n'Your dying too won't keep him alive any longer. It's not brave, not noble, just foolish. You're throwing away his sacrifice - their sacrifice - by dying yourself.'\n\nFidele looked pale, but he recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. 'I said no. And you should remember, I am queen of this realm.'\n\n'Not my queen,' Maquin growled, anger at her bubbling up. 'Fine. Stay and die if you wish.' He stalked away, gathered up some weapons from the dead warriors and returned to Fidele. She was sitting beside Drusus, speaking quietly to him. The warrior lay with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.\n\n'My offer to you was to help you stay alive, not sit and die with you. You should come with me.' He held out his hand.\n\nShe just shook her head. 'I swore an oath to protect my people.'\n\n_Another bound by an oath. I am not alone, then._ 'Take these.' He laid a spear on the ground beside her, put a knife in her hand. He kept another knife for himself. 'If they find you, use the spear first. Keep the butt end low and push up, hard, like this.'\n\n'I will.'\n\nMaquin stared at her again, wishing she would relent and come with him. The expression on her face told him otherwise.  Determined, resolute. _Stubborn._ With a scowl, he turned to walk away.\n\n'Maquin,' Fidele called after him.\n\n'Aye.' He paused but did not look back.\n\n'Thank you. For all you have done for me.'\n\nHe walked away.\n\nThe forest was dark now, ruptured by sporadic bursts of lightning. _Idiot woman, to fight so hard for life, only to throw it away for a dying man. Still, what point freedom if you cannot decide what you will die for?_ Deep down he felt a stirring of respect for her. _Walk on, man. You are free. Free to leave Tenebral, free to hunt down Jael, free to finally seek your vengeance._ He blinked rain from his eyes.\n\n_Damn her._ He stopped. With a snarl he turned and strode back the way he had come. Soon he was back amongst the dead warriors. He passed through the glade like a ghost, not knowing or caring if Fidele was aware of him retracing their steps along the forest trail.\n\nVoices sounded ahead, and then he saw the flutter of torchlight. He stepped away from the path and nimbly climbed a tree, its branches hanging thick and low. He drew one of his knives, the heaviest one with a wide blade and a round iron pommel, the handle carved from bone.\n\nThen he waited.\n\nMen emerged from the gloom. He counted four, six, seven.\n\n_Too many._\n\nA few held torches, including the first, an older warrior with the familiar iron rings bound into his beard. He paused as he passed the tree Maquin was in, crouching to study the ground. His torch hissed as rain dripped upon it.\n\n'They came this way,' the old warrior said.\n\n'We should make camp, continue in the morning. We could miss them in the dark,' another said, a younger man gripping a spear. He was standing at the back of their column, his eyes nervously scanning the darkness of the forest.\n\n'We could, but I doubt we'll lose them,' the older man said. 'They've stuck to this trail so far, and leaving it would  be  slow going.' He waved his torch at the thick undergrowth. 'And my guess is they won't be stopping, not for a while. They'll want to put as much space between us and them as they can.'\n\n'Don't know about you, but I don't like the idea of bumping into Old Wolf in the dark.'\n\nOther warriors muttered agreement.\n\n'There's seven of us, damn you,' the older warrior growled.\n\n'Aye. Still, I've seen what he can do . . .'\n\nMaquin gave a feral grin. They didn't know the half of it.\n\n'Lykos  won't  thank  us  for  letting  them  escape.  Who  are  you more scared of?'\n\n'I'm not scared of anyone,' the young warrior snapped.  'Just being realistic.'\n\n'We'll go on a little further . . .'\n\nThe old warrior stood and moved on, treading slowly, carefully, his eyes scanning the ground. The seven men filed off, the last one hesitating, glancing behind him. The others were  further  ahead now, on the edge of sight.\n\nMaquin snapped a twig and leaf, the sound masked by the rainfall, then stretched his arm out, holding his knife by its pommel, blade hanging down. He let the twig and leaf flutter down, landing upon the path immediately in front of the last warrior, who stared at the leaf, then looked up.\n\nMaquin let go of his knife.\n\nIt smashed into the warrior's face, slicing through the warrior's eye, piercing his brain. He dropped without a sound, one leg twitching.\n\nMaquin slipped from the branch and landed on the path, tugged his knife free and set off after the other warriors.\n\n_Six left._\n\nMaquin was surefooted and light on his feet, his training in the Vin Thalun pits having raised his strength and stamina to new levels, his reactions faster than they had ever been. He ran quickly, the flicker of torchlight ahead guiding him, and in a handful of heartbeats the Vin Thalun were in sight. They were moving in single file, the trail constricting them. Maquin slowed as he drew closer, focusing on the last warrior, who gripped a spear and was using it as a staff, his head down, concentrating on where he was putting his feet. Maquin caught up with him, silent as mist, slipped a hand about the man's face, clamping over his mouth, in the same breath sawing his knife across the warrior's throat. Blood jetted, the man slumped, Maquin holding him upright and lowering him gently to the floor.\n\n_Five._ His heart pounded in his head as he waited for the warrior in front to turn, but the man continued walking.\n\nA cry went up from further along the column, bringing the Vin Thalun rippling to a halt. Maquin saw the last warrior turn; this one held a flaming torch. He saw Maquin looming out of the darkness just in front of him and let out a cry as Maquin's knife slammed into his belly. Both of them tumbled to the ground, Maquin using his momentum to rip the knife upwards, slicing the Vin Thalun from belly to ribs. They both screamed, crashing to the floor, blood exploding in Maquin's face.\n\n_Four._\n\nMaquin rolled to his feet, came up running, snatching at the burning  torch.\n\n'It's the Old Wolf,' a cry went up. Maquin saw fear-filled faces but knew that these men were warriors. They were not so easily defeated. They turned to face him, drawing swords, levelling spears. Surging forwards he hurled the torch at the man trying to circle to his left, sending the warrior stumbling into the undergrowth. Maquin drew his other knife, a blade in each hand, and then he was amongst them.\n\nHe ducked a sword swing, punched one knife into a thigh, left it there, powered on. He swayed away from a spear thrust, grabbed the shaft and pulled the warrior off balance, putting his knife in the man's eye, the blade sticking.\n\n_Three._ Then he was through them, one dead, one injured, maybe bleeding out. Both his knives gone, he drew his sword.\n\nThe older warrior was stood before him, short sword in one hand, torch held like a weapon in the other. The man Maquin had thrown the torch at had extricated himself from the undergrowth but was keeping his distance, eyes glancing between Maquin and the old leader. The warrior with Maquin's knife in his thigh was upright; it didn't look as if Maquin had hit the artery that would have put him down. They all stood, frozen for a dozen heartbeats, then thunder crackled overhead and Maquin was moving again.\n\nHe went for the leader, covered the distance in a few strides and swung at the man's head. His blade was blocked and he swerved right, avoiding a torch in the face. Instead it caught his shoulder, pain searing through him. He grunted, spun away, saw the warrior from the undergrowth closing in, the one with the knife in his thigh stumbling after them.\n\n_Not good. I need to finish this quickly._ The old Vin Thalun clearly had other ideas. He backed away, sword and torch raised, making time for his comrades to close on Maquin.\n\n_Can 't just stand here waiting to be killed._ Gritting his teeth, Maquin charged at the old warrior, who stepped forward to meet him, sword high, torch low.\n\n_Knows what he 's doing._ Maquin skidded, leaning back. The torch whistled over him, a trail of sparks streaming past his eyes and then Maquin's feet were crashing into his opponent, the  two  of  them going down together, rolling. The torch went spinning through the air, both warriors trying to bring their swords to bear, snarling and grappling. The old Vin Thalun gouged a thumb into Maquin's burned shoulder. Maquin grunted and headbutted the man. The pressure on his shoulder disappeared.\n\n_Wish I hadn 't left my knives in other men._\n\nFootsteps thudded; the other two Vin Thalun were close.\n\n'Hold him still,' one yelled.\n\n'Trying to,' the old man grunted.\n\nMaquin glimpsed a warrior standing over him,  sword  raised. With a burst of effort, he rolled away, dragging the old man with him. Maquin felt his sword slip from his grip. They punched, kicked, bit and clawed at each other, then a knee landed in his gut, knocking the breath from him, his limbs weakening for a moment. The old man slid away, staggering to his feet. Pain lanced along Maquin's ribs and he saw the glint of iron. Blood sheeted his side.\n\n_Get up, or you 're a dead man._ He pushed, made it to one knee.\n\n'Finish him,' the old man yelled at the Vin Thalun standing behind Maquin. His sword was stained red.\n\n'MAQUIN!' a  voice  screamed.  They  all  paused,  looked  up  the trail. Lightning exploded overhead, for  a  heartbeat  transforming the forest into a place of light and shadow.\n\nFidele stood twenty paces away, spear in hand. 'Finish him,' the old Vin Thalun said, 'I'll fetch Lykos' bitch.' He grinned and strode towards Fidele. Then he staggered, stumbled forward, sinking into the ground. He looked back, twisting at the waist, a look of terror on his face. With a jerk he sank deeper, as if someone were tugging at his feet from beneath the ground.\n\n_The sinking hole._\n\nMaquin heaved himself upright, grabbed the sword-arm of the warrior over him. They wrestled back and forth. Maquin  twisted the man's wrist, the sword dropping from his grip. They slammed against a tree. Maquin wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and started squeezing.\n\nThe Vin Thalun lifted his knee, connected with Maquin and suddenly he couldn't breathe, was fighting the urge to empty his stomach. Still he would not loosen his grip. The Vin Thalun's eyes bulged, his fists punching into Maquin's ribs again and again.\n\nThen a spear stabbed into the man's chest. Fidele stood with the spear in  her hand. She  stared at the  dead man,  her eyes  fierce, breathing hard. Then she flung the spear down as if it had burned her.\n\nMaquin glanced about, remembering there had been another, the one with Maquin's knife in his thigh. He saw him half a dozen paces away, lying twisted on the trail, face pale, eyes staring. _Knife clipped his artery, then._ Maquin gripped his blade and pulled it free.\n\nHe put his hand to his ribs - a sword cut, not deep but bleeding heavily.\n\n'Thanks,' he said to Fidele.\n\n'You came back,' Fidele said to him.\n\n'Aye. Well, seems you're not the only fool in this forest.'\n\nShe smiled weakly at him, then twisted away and vomited.\n\n'Help me,' a voice cried. The old warrior in the sinking hole. He was submerged to his chest now. Maquin and Fidele walked to the hole's edge and stood silently watching him. He begged and pleaded, offered money, his oath, safe passage through the forest. Maquin and Fidele kept their silence, just watched him as he sank deeper. They did not move or speak until his head slipped beneath the mud.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWELVE\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen rose to the sound of sparring, swords wrapped in leather to protect their edges and mute the noise of a few hundred Jehar warriors sparring with one another.\n\nThey were camped in the fringes of a wood nestled in a wide, steep-sided valley. Mountains surrounded them, their peaks wreathed in cloud. They marked the border between Benoth, the giants' realm, and Narvon to the south, once the realm of Owain, now ruled by Rhin - as were all the kingdoms of the west.\n\nBuddai lay beside her until he saw Storm, a shadow in the woods, and bounded after her. She smiled at them tumbling together, a flash of fur and teeth.\n\n'They act like pups around each other,' Brina said from behind her. Cywen looked to see Craf was perched on her shoulder and another shape fluttered out of the sky to land on a branch close by.\n\n_Fech_.\n\n'Some bonds can never be broken,' Cywen told her. She turned back to watch the sparring, nearly three hundred warriors in a meadow, but her eyes picked out Gar and Corban almost immediately, the two of them moving in a blur, too fast to track individual blows. By some unspoken agreement they stopped, all those around them doing the same, then moved on to new opponents. Corban turned, and Coralen, the girl from Domhain, was standing in front of him. They shared a brief smile and set at each other. It was as fast as the combat with Gar, though with more kicking and punching, Coralen always moving close, using elbows and knees to gain any advantage. It still ended with Corban tripping her and his sword at her throat.\n\nCywen could relate to that, more often than not she had been in the same position when she had practised with Corban back at Dun Carreg. _I   remember  that  feeling. It's  annoying. _ That  was until  Dath had joined them, and she had started putting _him_ on _his_ back. But here even Dath was sparring as if he knew what he was doing. She saw him partnered against Farrell, using his size and speed to swirl around his larger friend. And Farrell was holding his own, confident blocks merging with smooth attacks. _The last time I saw him he was a clumsy auroch. What 's happened to everyone? I spend the year with my hands tied together, and everyone else has become a warrior._ She felt her face creasing in a scowl.\n\nA ten-night had passed since they had escaped Murias, each day falling into a similar  routine. She had wanted to talk more  with Corban, but it seemed that everyone wanted to talk to Corban. And everyone else seemed to have a role, a task that they performed in this fledgling warband. Everyone except her. She was starting to feel useless. She daren't even spar with the rest of them, although part of her was desperate to take part. _I 'm not good enough. Even the worst are better than me._ She felt her scowl deepening.\n\n'Careful, girl:  if the wind  changes, your  face  might stick  like that,' Brina rasped beside her.\n\nCywen smiled wryly. 'My mam used to say that to me.'\n\n'Have some of this.' Brina held out a skin and Cywen sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. _Brot. The giants ' food. Food is too generous a term._\n\n' _YUK_ ,' Craf squawked, eyeing the skin disapprovingly.\n\n' _Tasty_ ,' Fech reproved.\n\nThe giants were gathered in the woods, just darker shadows amongst the trees. Mostly they kept themselves separate. Whilst the warband travelled they took the position of rearguard each day, always grouped together, rarely mixing with the Jehar. Sometimes the younger ones would run alongside the column, racing and tackling each other to the ground, wrestling and even laughing. The sight of it had made her smile, feeling like a taste of normality in this world gone mad.\n\n'Just a mouthful,' Brina said, poking Cywen with a bony finger, and Cywen swallowed some brot, figuring it was easier than trying to argue. It was like porridge, but chewier, with all the pleasure taken out. It filled her stomach like a stone, but it did its job. Cywen had consumed just a mouthful each morning and had not felt hungry until the next day.\n\nBrina took the skin and replaced it with an empty linen bag. 'Come help me,' the old woman said. 'I saw some foxgloves and elder in the woods.'\n\n'Me?' said Cywen.\n\n'Yes, you. My old apprentice seems to have become too busy lately to help me gather plants.'\n\nCywen followed Brina silently into the woods, frowning at Craf, who along with Fech flapped from branch to branch above them.\n\n'Here,' Brina said,  pointing at a bush dotted with  clusters of white flowers. They'd stopped in a small glade, wildflowers opening about them in response to spring's pale sun.\n\n'That is elder,' Brina told  her.  'Too  early  for  the  berries,  but the flowers are useful. Everything on an elder is useful, the bark, the roots.' She pulled out a knife and started cutting stems of flowers, skinning some bark and gesturing impatiently for Cywen to hold her bag open.\n\n'We're a long way from Dun Carreg,' Brina said, peering over a branch at Cywen.\n\n'We are,' Cywen agreed. _A long way from home, all of us different people now. Changed by what 's happened._ She felt a moment of frustrated, helpless rage, aimed mostly at Calidus and Nathair.\n\n'I don't just mean the distance,' Brina said.\n\n'I know,' Cywen grunted. She looked up and saw Brina staring at her.\n\n'He's still your brother. Just . . .'\n\n'Busy?' Cywen finished with a sigh.\n\nBrina grinned at that. 'Yes. Very busy. But he's a good boy. A big heart, a rare loyalty to his kin and friends. And quite a good brain inside that thick skull of his, when he bothers to use it. Don't tell him I said that,' she added.\n\n'Your secret is safe with me,' Cywen said.\n\n' _Safe secret_ ,' Craf commented from above. ' _Trust_.'\n\nIt was disconcerting to have a crow joining in with the conversation. More so when it made astute observations.\n\n'I was sad to hear about Heb.'\n\nBrina blinked at that, sudden pain washing her face. With an obvious effort she smoothed it away.\n\n'Corban told me how he . . . about the battle in the mountains of Domhain, against giants and wolven.'\n\n'Uthas,' Brina said.\n\n' _Bad giant_ ,' Craf muttered.\n\n' _Peck out his eyes_ ,' Fech added, vehemently.\n\n'What?'\n\nSomething dark contorted Brina's features, her eyes narrowing. 'Uthas is the name of the Benothi giant that killed Heb. I've been talking to Fech.'\n\n' _Yes, she has_ ,' Fech confirmed.\n\n'I know Uthas,' Cywen said. 'He joined Rhin and Nathair. He is in league with Rhin.' _I hate him, as I hate all of my captors._ Other faces swam in her mind - Alcyon, Veradis. Faces that had shown her some measure of kindness amidst the bleak horror of it all. _Maybe not all._\n\n' _He is a traitor to his kin_ ,' Fech muttered.\n\n'He killed my Heb. I'm going to kill _him_.' There was no humour, no kindness in Brina's voice now.\n\n' _We_ ,' Fech corrected.\n\n'Sorry, we,' Brina smiled, a cold thing.\n\n' _And then I will eat his eyes_ ,' Fech added.\n\n'Good,'  Cywen  said  fiercely.  'Heb  was  very  brave,  standing against a giant.'\n\n'He was a fool,' Brina said, 'but he was my fool, and I miss him.' Her expression softened. Craf fluttered down and landed on Brina's shoulder, began running his beak through her hair. Brina absently scratched Craf's  wing.  'The  only  other  person I've  told  that  to  is your brother.' She smiled at Cywen. It was very out of character.\n\n'Why are you being so nice to me?' Cywen asked suspiciously.\n\n'I can be nice,' Brina snapped. 'You've been through a lot. And now you're here, back with kin and friends, and yet you feel . . .'\n\n'Out of place,' Cywen finished for her. 'Useless.'\n\n' _Useless, useless, useless_ ,' Craf repeated. Cywen shot a glare at him.\n\n'You're not, you know. Useless, or out of place,' Brina said to Cywen. 'You're in the only right place - around people that care for you. You just need to find your feet again.'\n\n'Are you feeling sorry for me?'\n\n'Aach, you're a proud one, and no mistake.'\n\n' _PROUD_ ,' Craf screeched from Brina's shoulder.  She  shooed him off, rubbing at her ear.\n\n'Not _sorry  _ for  you, Cywen,  I'm  just one  of  the few  that  care about you, that's all _._ And it just so happens that I need a new apprentice.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Cywen asked.\n\n'As you've pointed out, Corban is busy. He was my apprentice - I've taught him much of the art of healing. But he is busy, and that's not likely to change. I need help - my guess is there's going to be a lot of blood spilt before this is all over. Someone has to try and patch the wounded up. And I can't do it on my own.' She shrugged. 'I'm asking you to help me, and as you've just told me that you feel useless, I'm thinking you should be saying yes to my proposition. You need something to do; I need someone to do things for me.' She smiled, a little too sweetly for Cywen's liking.\n\nCywen felt as if she'd been neatly manoeuvred into this position, but as she thought about it, the idea of being Brina's apprentice did not seem so bad. Apart from one thing - or two.\n\n'On one condition. I'll not be told what to do by two crows.'\n\n' _Raven_ ,' Fech corrected.\n\n'By a raven and a crow,' Cywen shrugged.\n\n'You'll have to work that out with Craf and Fech,' Brina said.\n\n' _Craf._ _Orders_ ,' the crow cawed, then clacked his beak repeatedly.\n\n'Is he laughing at me?'\n\n'Yes, I believe he is.'\n\nHooves sounded then, growing closer.\n\n' _Uh-_ _oh_ ,' Craf squawked and launched himself into the branches above them, merging with the shadows.\n\nCywen turned to see a handful of riders coming through the woods towards them. Coralen was at their head. To one side a Jehar warrior rode, a female with a thick white streak in her black hair. On Coralen's other side was Dath, his long bow strung and strapped to his saddle. He flashed a grin at Cywen as they drew up in the glade. Storm and Buddai loped up behind them, Buddai padding forward to nuzzle Cywen's hip.\n\n'Corban was looking for you,' Coralen said. She wore a wolven pelt for a cloak, a sword at her hip, a knife beside it. Another knife hilt jutted from her boot, and Cywen saw a gauntlet hanging from her saddle pommel, three iron claws protruding from it. _Like Corban 's._ 'He wants you back at the camp.'\n\n'He's my brother, not my lord,' Cywen snapped. Something about Coralen's tone irritated her.\n\n'Camp is broken. They're ready to ride,' Coralen said. 'All are waiting on you.'\n\n'We'll leave when Brina is done,' Cywen said, knowing she was being childish.\n\nCoralen shrugged, which annoyed Cywen even more.\n\n'We are done here,' Brina pronounced.\n\nStorm growled, Buddai as well, looking at a cluster of trees at the far end of the glade. A twig snapped. In a heartbeat Cywen had a knife from her belt and threw it. It stuck quivering in a trunk. Dath had his bow in his hand, arrow nocked, Coralen and the Jehar had drawn their blades.\n\n'Come out, if you know what's good for you,' Coralen said.\n\nThere was a drawn-out moment, then a figure emerged from behind the tree. A giant, but slimmer, gangly limbs, and with no hair upon its face, not even straggly wisps of a moustache, like the other giantlings Cywen had seen.\n\n_A giant bairn, a girl._\n\nShe had her hands raised, palms out, and her eyes were wide, flitting from Storm to the array of weapons lined before her.\n\n' _Mi breun chan aimhleas_ ,' the young giant said.\n\n'She means no harm,' Brina said. It took a moment for Cywen to realize that Brina had translated from giantish. _She can teach me that, if she likes._\n\nThe giant looked at Cywen's knife stuck in the tree. She pulled it out, stared at the blade a moment, then ran, faster than Cywen would have thought possible.\n\n'Hey, that's my knife,' Cywen shouted, but the giantling had already disappeared amongst the trees.\n\n'The Benothi,' Coralen spat, then shrugged and looked at Cywen and Brina. 'Nice throw. Now get back to camp if you don't want to be left behind.' She looked up at the branches above them. 'Craf, I know you're hiding up there. Come with me - you've got work to do.'\n\n' _Not fair_ ,' Craf grumbled.\n\nFech clacked his beak, the sound like laughter.\n\n'And  I  don't  know  why  you're  here,'  Coralen  said  to  Fech. 'You're supposed to be flying rearguard.'\n\n' _Talking to Brina. Important_ ,' Fech squawked.\n\n'Not as important as protecting us from Kadoshim,' Coralen said. 'Go on with you.' She spurred her mount on. Dath winked a goodbye and they all rode off, Storm shadowing them. Buddai whined and Cywen rested a hand on his neck. 'Stay with me, Buds.'\n\n' _Tired_ ,' Craf protested.\n\n' _Busy_ ,' Fech complained, but they both took to flight, flapping noisily away.\n\n'They're good birds, but lazy,' Brina said, a half-smile twitching her lips as she watched until they'd disappeared.\n\n'Craf's too opinionated,' Cywen said.\n\n'A terrible affliction, I must agree.' Brina regarded Cywen with a raised eyebrow. Cywen had the good manners to blush.\n\n'Come on, then,' Brina said. 'Make sure that bag's tied properly, and be quick about it. Don't be ruining my supply of elder.'\n\nCywen sighed and rolled her eyes. _What have I let myself in for?_\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin checked over his kit methodically. He'd put a fresh coat of wax on his long bow of yew and had three hemp strings rolled in wax in a leather pouch. A quiver of thirty arrows stood wrapped in oiled doeskin - the ship they were sailing upon was a trader and had a good selection of furs and tanned skins. He emptied his bag, checked over its contents again. A copper box packed with dry tinder and kindling. A flint and iron. Fish-hooks and animal gut for the stitching of wounds. Various medicinal herbs - honey, sorrel leaves, yarrow and seed of the poppy. A roll of linen bandages. An arterial strap. An iron to heat for the cauterization of wounds. A needle and hemp thread. And a pot.\n\n_I 'm looking at the difference between life and death._\n\nMost of it he'd traded or won at dice during the journey from Domhain. Some of it he'd bought. He knew it would be needed, and they would reach their destination soon: Ardan, ruled by the enemy, where they would be hunted.\n\nA horn rang out above him, muted by timber, and shouts followed.\n\n_Land._\n\nCamlin climbed above-decks and rolled his shoulder and lifted his arm, more out of habit than need. It had healed well. Over a ten-night had passed since Baird had pulled the shaft through his shoulder. Three days ago he'd strung and nocked his bow, tested to see if he could draw it. His muscles had protested and he'd not pushed them. He'd done the same each day, and earlier today he'd managed a full draw, a bit shaky, but nothing had snapped, so that was good enough for him.\n\nThe first person on the deck he saw was Vonn, leaning at a rail, staring at a dark  line  on  the  horizon.  A  coastline  rose  up  from the horizon,  dark  cliffs  and  tangled  coves.   _Land.  _Camlin  grinned at the sight of it.\n\n_Ardan._\n\nAround him the ship's crew were busy, climbing in rigging, securing ropes. _Doing what sailors do._ There was a tension in the air now, an excitement. The end of their time at sea had arrived, and they were about to begin something new. _Something more dangerous, most likely,   but  I  don't  care. Another night  on this damn  tub  and I'll  go mad._\n\nOthers were gathering on the deck now, warriors preparing to disembark. Camlin joined Vonn. 'Home,' Vonn told him.\n\nVonn's face was a mixture of emotion - longing, fear. _It 'll be hard for him. His da rules there now._\n\n'You ready for this?' Camlin asked him.\n\nVonn looked at him for a few long moments. 'I'm  ready.  I've always been ready. The night Dun Carreg fell I was ready. If my oath to Edana had not kept me with her, I'd have put a  sword through my da's traitorous heart.'\n\n_Right now, I believe you. But words are easier spoken than deeds are done. How would you feel if you stood before Evnis? Could see him, look him in the eye, hear his words?_\n\n'Is that really Ardan?' a voice said behind them. Camlin turned to see Edana. Her hand rested on a sword at her hip. _Our warrior Queen._ Baird stood beside  her.  The  one-eyed  warrior  had  become her shadow, rarely leaving her side.\n\n'Aye, it is,' Camlin said.\n\n'There were times when I thought I'd never return.' Edana took a deep breath. 'Time to roll the dice.'\n\n_Why does she look at me whenever dice are mentioned?_\n\nThey stood together  and watched the  coast grow  closer, their ship angling towards a cove with steep-sided cliffs. The  sail  was furled and two rowing boats were lowered from the deck to the slate-grey sea. Roisin and Edana spoke to the captain, thanked him, and then the group of them were rowing towards the coast. They scraped onto a thin strip of shingle and clambered onto solid ground,  Camlin  grinning  for  the  joy  of  it.   _I  hate  the  sea.  _It  felt strange, the ground steady beneath his feet, and he stumbled as his body still compensated for the eternal pitch and roll of a ship's deck.\n\nRoisin stood with Lorcan, her warriors spread protectively about them, a score of men. Most of them gazed up at the cliffs. Seamen from the rowing boats deposited a barrel onto the shingle, then with a last goodbye and a wave they rowed back to their ship.\n\n'Smoked herring,' Baird pronounced as he sniffed the barrel. 'Draw lots for who's carrying it?'\n\n'I'll carry it,' a tall and solid warrior said. He didn't seem to have a neck. _Brogan_ , one of Roisin's. Camlin had won a fine deerskin belt from him.\n\n'No complaints from me,' Baird grinned.\n\n'Vonn, with me,' Camlin said, and without a look back he was climbing the slope, following a narrow goat track  into  the  cove's cliffs, twisting its way upwards. He used his  unstrung  bow  as  a staff. The calling of gulls in the air was loud, the cliffs of the cove clustered with nests; here and there were stunted bushes bent by the wind.\n\nCamlin emerged onto a landscape of rolling moorland and hidden gullies. He could see for leagues and took a few moments to check for company, then he turned and waved to those gathered below, all looking up at him. They started their climb.\n\nHe turned back to study the land. To the east the undulating moors dropped and flattened, glistening as sun reflected on a marshy peninsula that continued into the horizon, patches of it darkened by woodland. Here and there pillars of smoke marked holds, farmsteads, a small village. None close enough to worry about, though. _And I am supposed to lead this rag-tag band to Dun Crin, ruined fortress of the giants. Is it even out there, in those marshlands?_ During their voyage Edana had spoken of this with him, of how King Eremon had received word that a resistance was growing in Ardan against Evnis, and that it was based around the ruins of Dun Crin, in the marshes. _Well, there are the marshes. And if there 's a ruin out there, I'll find it. What happens then, I'm not so sure. One step at a time._ Vonn climbed, panting, to stand beside him and they both looked northeast. Towards Dun Carreg.\n\nIt was too far away to see, but Camlin could make out a dark stain on the horizon. _Baglun Forest. Been there. Not my best memories._ That had been when he was part of Braith's crew, come  to  the Baglun to cause some mischief in Ardan. Little had he known at the time that it was all at Rhin's behest. He'd ended up with a knife in the back, put there by one of Evnis' sworn men.\n\nAnd now here he was, a refugee on the other side, playing guide to the fugitive Queen of Ardan and the fugitive King of Domhain. He peered over the cliff, saw them labouring up the twisting path behind him. He'd followed his own twisted path to this spot. _From bandit  to  shieldman.  What  next?_\n\nWarriors emerged from the path, Edana with Baird. Camlin saw she was grinning.\n\n'The cry of gulls, it sounds like home,' Edana answered his questioning look.\n\n'Home is fifty leagues that way,' Camlin said, pointing along the coast. Dun Carreg was there somewhere, and between them a host of Rhin's sworn men, led by Evnis, the man who had slain Edana's father.\n\nEdana's smile evaporated as she stood staring into the distance. Men crouched, drank from water skins. _Warriors in a strange land_ , thought Camlin. They were all hard men in Roisin's company, battle-tested and loyal, hand-picked by Rath.\n\n'Why have we landed here?' Roisin said, frowning at the countryside. She was no longer dressed in her fine velvet dresses, instead wearing dun breeches, a linen tunic and leather vest, over it a dark cloak, but to Camlin she looked just as beautiful as when draped in her court finery. _And as dangerous._\n\n'We are too exposed here, too close to Dun Carreg,' Roisin continued. 'We should have landed in the marshes. Less likely for us to run into Rhin's followers, and it would be harder to track us. This is a mistake.'\n\n_Is this intentional? Undermining Edana?_\n\nEdana gave Roisin a hard look. 'There are reasons why we are here. Dun Crin is our destination, a ruin somewhere in those marshes. We don't know exactly where it is. It could be  twenty leagues to the south, or one league east. Camlin is a masterful scout and he will find it, I have no doubt.'\n\n_I am? I will?_\n\n'He suggested we begin from higher ground. Once we are in the marshes the travelling will be slow going. It will be easier to cover ground on better terrain, skirt the marshes and choose a point of entry.' She paused and gave a moment to look at each one of them.\n\n'This is my land,' Edana said, looking at the warriors gathered about her. 'It's been taken from me. My parents murdered. My people  scattered  and  oppressed.'  She  looked  at  the  gathered warriors, meeting each eye. 'You are all brave faithful men, and I thank you for your courage and your honour. Do not think that Lorcan and I are beaten. We have yet to begin the fight. We will win back our rightful thrones, with your help, and that starts here, today. That starts now.'\n\nWarriors nodded, muttered their approval. Even Camlin felt his blood stirred at her words. _She 's growing up._\n\n'Camlin,' Edana said to him. 'Take us to Dun Crin.'\n\nCamlin sped through the village, his bow strung and arrow nocked. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.\n\nThey had walked all day, steadily descending from the moorlands towards the marshes. Now they were in a kind of borderland, the terrain dry enough for scattered woodland and roads, but dissected by a thousand streams and middling rivers. Camlin had spied the village and planned on circling around it, but something had drawn his eye. The lack of sound or movement. And there were no signs of normal village life, hearth fires, livestock, dogs - nothing. Instinct told him he needed a closer look, and so did Edana when he informed her of his concerns.\n\nNow he was starting to regret it, though.\n\n_Probably another bad idea to add to my long list of bad ideas_ , he berated himself. _Why couldn 't I just mind my own business and walk around?_\n\nHe looked to the far side of the street, where Baird was keeping pace with him, his sword drawn. Camlin had also sent half a dozen men wide around the village, with orders to sit and wait for him and Baird. Unless they heard trouble - then they were to come running. The rest of their crew were camped a quarter-league back,  with Edana and Roisin. Lorcan had volunteered to come with them, but Camlin had told him to sit tight; he'd received a sulky  glare  in return.\n\nThe village was small, built on the banks of a river. Camlin had seen the tips of willow rods in the river, the tell-tale ripple of a current around submerged salmon traps, nets left out to dry along the bank. A dozen coracles, assorted river craft and flat-bottomed marsh boats were pulled out of the river. There were no more than a few score homes, and so far he had not seen a single person, had not heard a single voice.\n\nHe crossed a gap between buildings, paused to look around a corner, saw a crow picking at the carcass of a dog. He walked past it, almost certain now what he would find.\n\nCamlin smelt it first. _Death._ The metallic hint of blood, mixed with rot and excrement. He hung his head, readied himself before he went on.\n\nThe street spilt into an open area, what would have been a market square. A roundhouse stood on its far side. About halfway between Camlin and the roundhouse a gallows had been erected, a dozen or so small figures hanging in the still air. A fury rose within him.\n\n_Bairns._ He took a step forward and then halted abruptly.\n\nThe ground between Camlin and the gallows was black, uneven, and moving.\n\n_Crows. Hundreds of them. And flies._\n\nCamlin and Baird shared a look and they both moved into the square. Crows rose up before them like a wave, cawing and screeching their protests.\n\nPart-eaten bodies were everywhere, the stench verging on overwhelming. Men, women, children, seething with flies and maggots. Over a hundred. _The whole village?_ Camlin saw the glint of iron and checked a body. A warrior in a shirt of mail. His cloak was tattered, torn to pieces, splattered with blood, but Camlin could still make out the black and gold of Cambren.\n\n_Rhin._\n\nHe felt suddenly vulnerable and turned a slow circle, scanning the surrounding buildings, the dark shadows of the  roundhouse. Baird appeared in the shadow of a doorway, shook his head.\n\n_Nothing. They are all dead, or fled to the marshes._\n\nCamlin carried on searching amongst the dead, making his way deeper into the courtyard. He found three more in Rhin's cloaks of black and gold. Reaching down he unclasped one, pulling it free, stirring up a cloud of flies in the process.\n\nThen he heard a noise, looked over at a building with wide, open doors. He heard it again, coming from within. The whicker of a horse.\n\n_Stables? Why are there horses alive, when every other man, woman, child and beast has been slain?_\n\nMore movement, this time from the roundhouse at the far side of the square. Figures emerging. Warriors - five of them - cloaks of black and gold, swords in hands. Eyes fixed upon him, they were striding purposefully towards him.\n\nHe dropped the cloak in his grip and drew an arrow, nocked and released in less than a few of their strides. It took the first warrior through the eye, dropping him like a felled tree. The others began to run at him.\n\n_Not the effect I 'd hoped for._\n\nHe drew and released again, the arrow hissing between warriors as they spun out of its way.\n\nCamlin cursed as he released the next arrow, this one punching low, into a man's belly. He dropped to his knees.\n\nThen a figure crashed into the three still running at him. Baird, sword rising and falling. One of their enemy screamed, his belly open and guts spilling about his feet. Another had grabbed Baird, whose head lunged forward, butting the warrior's nose even as his sword stabbed into the warrior's side. Camlin stood and stared a moment, frozen by the ferocity of his companion. Then his eye was drawn to the roundhouse. Three more men burst from the doorway, two running towards Baird, the other sprinting around the edge of the courtyard, making for the stables.\n\nBefore Camlin realized it he had another arrow nocked and was sighting at one of those charging at Baird. It slammed into the warrior's shoulder, spinning and dropping him. The other was too close to Baird for another shot. Camlin glanced between Baird and the warrior sprinting towards the stables, drew his sword and ran to Baird's help.\n\nHe almost didn't need to. By the time he reached them Baird had put one man down and was trading blows with the other, backing the warrior up. A panicked glance from the warrior at Camlin was all Baird needed, his sword opening the man's throat.\n\nHooves thudded and the last warrior burst from the stables, kicking a horse hard into a gallop. Camlin dropped his sword and drew an arrow, tracked the warrior, who was bent low in the saddle, almost hugging the horse's arched neck. Camlin's arrow took him in the throat; the warrior sagged, slumping from the saddle to be dragged by the still-galloping horse.\n\nCamlin and Baird just stared at one another, chests rising and falling.\n\nThey both turned together to the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.\n\nEdana and a dozen others, including Roisin and Lorcan. Quickly, Camlin moved to intercept them. _She doesn 't need to see this._\n\n'You were supposed to wait for my signal,' Camlin said, hurrying forward to stop her reaching the square.\n\n_Some truths are best not seen._\n\n'We heard screams, the clash of iron. I was worried  for  you,' Edana said with a wave of her hand as she pushed past Camlin into the square.\n\nShe stood there a moment, eyes scanning about her, body rigid. Then she stuttered into motion, picking her way through the square, eyes sweeping the ground until she reached the gallows. She faltered, looked up at the children, their bloated corpses swinging in a gentle breeze. Ropes creaked.\n\nShe saw the black and gold of Cambren upon the dead warriors' cloaks. 'Rhin, even here.'\n\nCamlin came and stood beside her, saw tears running down her cheeks.\n\nLorcan pushed forward and took her hand. 'Come away now,' he said.\n\n'These are my people,' she snapped, yanking her hand out of his grip. 'I am not some innocent girl . . .' She trailed off. 'Not any more.'\n\n'But, why do you stare so? You do not need to be here. We have seen, now let us go.'\n\n'I stare so that I will not _forget_. This is my land, these are my people. Rhin and her ilk have slain them. Slaughtered _children_. They will not be forgotten. There will be a reckoning.'\n\nLorcan looked into Edana's face, then nodded.\n\n'What happened here, Camlin?'\n\n_Good question. And why were there warriors still here?_ He glanced at the roundhouse where the enemy had appeared from. _Something 's wrong. We need to get out of here._\n\n'What happened here, Camlin?' Edana repeated.\n\n'Hard to say. Rhin has warriors down this way, for some reason. Maybe the word that there is a resistance based in the marshes is true? Looks to me like they were making some kind of example.' He nodded to the gallows. 'My guess is it didn't go down too well, got out of--'\n\n'Over there,' Edana blurted, pointing behind Camlin. To the stables. 'Something moved . . .'\n\n_I 'm an idiot. These buildings need checking._\n\n'You should leave,' he muttered to Edana as he set his bow down and drew his sword, Baird following him as he entered the stable. Camlin waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, then started skewering the straw in each stable. He got to the last partition, saw a lump in the straw.\n\n'If you don't want an extra hole in your body, you'd best be standing up now.'\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\n'All right, I warned you,' he said, stepping in.\n\nThe straw exploded upwards. He saw a flash of red hair as a small figure darted past him.\n\n'Got it,' Baird shouted, hoisting the figure into the air. 'I mean _her_ ,' he suddenly bellowed as the child squirmed in his arms and bit his hand.\n\n'Enough, girlie,' Camlin said. He made a point of sheathing his sword for her to see. She slowly calmed, then went limp in Baird's arms.\n\n'We're not going t'hurt you. What's your name?' Camlin asked. She just looked at him, big dark haunted eyes in a dirty face. _She can 't be more'n eight, nine summers old. What's the poor little mite had to witness to put such fear into her?_\n\nWhen Edana saw the child she held her arms out, but the child only stared, her face full of fear and suspicion. Baird put her on the ground.\n\n'We're not going to hurt you,' Edana said, crouching down to look her in the eye. 'We're friends, not enemies. What's your name?'\n\nMore silence.\n\n'If we were going to put a blade in you, we'd have done it by now,' Camlin told her.\n\nThe child looked at him. 'Meg,' she whispered.\n\n'How old are you, Meg?' Edana asked with an encouraging smile.\n\nJust a silent stare.\n\nCamlin's eyes were raking the buildings around the courtyard, his skin prickling. He wanted to take a look inside the roundhouse, but he also wanted Edana out of the village.\n\n'You need to get away from here,' he said.\n\n'Soon,' Edana said with a frown, stooping close to the girl. 'It's all right,' she said. 'We'll not hurt you.'\n\nMeg just stared at her.\n\n_Need to hurry this along._\n\n'How old are you, Meg?' Camlin asked.\n\n'Eight.'\n\n'How long ago did this happen?'Camlin gestured at the square.\n\nShe  frowned,  as  if  unsure.  'Two  nights?'  she  said  hesitantly. Then her bottom lip trembled and she started sobbing.\n\n'We know it was Rhin's men,' Camlin said, feeling sorry for her - no child should have to go through this horror. 'They wear the black and gold. Don't know why they did it, though. And it'd be real helpful if you could remember how many.'\n\n'That's enough for now,' Edana said to him as Meg continued to sob - days of pent-up emotion and fear obviously released.\n\n'There were lots,' Meg suddenly blurted. 'And their chief was called Morcant.' She spat his name.\n\n'Morcant,' Edana whispered. Camlin sucked in a breath as they shared a look. Back when Camlin had been part of Braith's crew in the Darkwood Morcant had joined them and led the raid that had captured Edana and her mam, Alona, Queen of Ardan. Soon after Camlin had found himself  drawing a blade against Morcant and switching sides. Camlin loathed him.\n\nHe looked at the square, at the bodies swinging from the gallows. _Not a surprise that he 's behind this. But what's he doing this far west.  Hunting  rebels?_\n\nSomething nagged at Camlin and he looked about, feeling suddenly vulnerable.\n\nThen he saw Vonn and the others burst into the far side of the square, Vonn waving desperately. Camlin crouched down, placing a palm flat on the ground. A slight vibration. Steady, rhythmic.\n\n_Horses._\n\n#### CHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\n#### VERADIS\n\nVeradis marched forwards, stepping in time with a dozen warriors spread either side of him, over two score more at his back. They were advancing upon a squat stone tower surrounded by a village of thatch and wood. The sun sat low in a blue sky, the air fresh and sharp as they continued their approach through green meadows carpeted with wildflowers.\n\n_A beautiful day._\n\nTo the west, behind a low hill, he saw a cloud of dust appear, marking Geraint's horsemen as they circled the village. _Hidden from the rebels inside._ The plan was that they would go round the village and wait for Veradis' shield wall to flush the rebels out of the town into the open meadows beyond, a killing ground for Geraint's mounted warriors.\n\nVeradis had spent over a moon hunting down the remnants of King Eremon's resistance. The realm was still not stable, and that would not change while its newly appointed vassal king Conall was away chasing after Edana. Domhain had been conquered, the citizens of Dun Taras throwing open the gates in surrender, in acceptance of Conall, one of their own, with the blood of a Domhain king in his veins.\n\n_Even if he is a bastard._ But Rhin sitting upon the throne in Conall's absence had not gone down well. Unrest had escalated into violence, and the streets of Dun Taras had run red. The rebels had notched up a string of minor victories, and even when Veradis and his shield wall had entered the fray it had been hard, bloody work. The shield wall had not been designed for enclosed spaces and back-alley  fighting.  But  eventually  the  rebels  had  been  defeated and fled. Rhin had ordered her battlechief, Geraint, to give chase, and had asked Veradis to lend his support.\n\n_Better to crush them now, put an end to the leaders, than allow them to spread their poison. It will only fester and rear up again,_ she had said to him.\n\nVeradis knew she was right. The stability of the realm meant peace and less bloodshed.\n\nThey reached a field of barley, trampling through the green unripened stalks. A wide street of hard-packed mud opened before them. Veradis heard the bass lowing of a herd of auroch in the distance. He gave his commands and the warriors' shields snapped together, a concussive crack as they marched forwards, no one breaking stride. Veradis peered over the rim of his shield. It was an improved design, oval instead of round, giving more protection to his head and ankles, while making it easier to stab his short sword around its edges. He'd spent much of the winter thinking on his shield wall, considering strategies, strengths and weaknesses, seeing where injuries were most common, and the new shields were one of a few innovations he had made.\n\nThey marched into the village, their iron-nailed boots thumping on the ground like a drum beating time. A narrow street angled away, and Veradis gave more orders. The back row of twelve men broke out of formation and establishing a new compact wall, three men wide, four deep, who took this new street. This was how he'd learned to fight in the city streets - smaller, more compact groups.\n\nThe tower reared over rooftops ahead of them, its unshuttered windows like dark eyes in its granite face. _They are here somewhere, could not have slipped away in the night._ He saw a flash of movement in one of the windows. _Holed up in the tower, then._\n\nA sound seeped into his awareness, more a vibration at first, travelling into his boots, up his legs. It grew louder by the heartbeat, and then a cloud of dust was roiling down the street towards them. He stood, gaped open  mouthed  for long  moments before  he realized what was happening.\n\n'Auroch,' he bellowed, leaping to the side, pulling men with him.\n\nThe huge cattle stampeded down the street, swinging their long horns  from  huge,  shaggy-haired  heads.  Tall  as  giants,  they  were mountains  of  muscle  and  fur.  The  ground  shook  beneath  their hooves.\n\nVeradis  slammed  against  a  wall,  other  men  with  him,  some crashing through doors and shuttered windows. One of his warriors stumbled in the road. Veradis reached out a hand, but the auroch were already upon them. One moment the warrior was there, the next he was gone, blood splattering Veradis' face as a seething, stinking mass of cattle surged by, the thunder of it almost overwhelming.\n\nAnd then they were past, stampeding down the street, out into the fields of barley. He called out to his men, his voice a croak choked by the dust, and he saw shapes scattered on the ground, knowing they were his sword-brothers and that many would never stand again.\n\nFor the first time in an age he felt a deep, mind-numbing fear fill him. The shield wall had been dominant for so long in his memory, crushing any opponent with overwhelming regularity, that to see it broken and scattered so easily was shocking. Not since the very first battle, when he had stood in the wall and faced a charge of draig-riding giants had the shield wall been so easily destroyed.\n\nThen he heard voices, battle-cries, saw shadowy figures emerging from the settling dust. _The rebels, come to finish any survivors before we can regroup._\n\nSomehow he was still holding his shield. He drew his short sword. 'To me,' he managed, more a choking whisper than the battle-cry he was hoping for, then again, louder, the act dissolving the fear that had frozen him, transforming it into anger. His eagle-guard would _not_ fall like this. He glimpsed a handful of his warriors moving towards  him.  Then the rebels  were  on them, screaming their defiance.\n\nVeradis took a blow  on  his  shield  that  reverberated  through his arm. He swept his shield wide, opening his foe's defence, and plunged his sword into the man's belly, wrenching it free in a spray of blood. He snarled and kicked  the  collapsing  man  away,  strode into the chaos, a hot rage filling his veins.\n\nBodies littered the ground, mounds of trampled meat. The rebels were all warriors, stalwarts of Eremon and Rath, not pitchfork-wielding farmers. They attacked with a controlled fury, knowing this was their last, and also their best, chance of defeating Rhin's notorious  ally. Veradis  looked around  wildly, trying  to find men to regroup the shield wall, but they were fractured, embroiled in scores of solitary battles.\n\n'So be it,' Veradis growled. _They 'll see there's more to us than just the shield wall._ He blocked an overhand swing that was about to take a stumbling comrade's head off, twisted and back-swung, opening his attacker's throat. He reached down, pulled his sword-brother to his feet and moved on. Smashed his shield into an enemy's side, stabbed hard, his sword-tip breaking through a shirt of mail to slide across ribs. His opponent cried out, pulled away, was hacked down by another eagle-guard. A spear was thrust towards him; Veradis deflected it with his shield, the spear-tip bursting through layers of ox-hide and beech, punching through a handspan above his wrist. He dropped his shield, wrenching the spear from his opponent's hands, and hacked his blade down into the man's skull. Veradis switched his short sword to his left hand, drew his longsword and fought on.\n\nA horn blew to his left, two short blasts, one long. He grinned fiercely. It was one of their signals: regroup. The eagle-guard that had left the shield wall before the auroch stampede appeared from a side street nearby, a dozen men in formation, their shields locked. He started cutting his way towards them.\n\nOthers did the same, merging into the wall, swelling  it,  and before Veradis reached them it had grown, six men wide, four rows deep. The resistance started to fall before it.\n\nOther sounds emerged over the din of battle - the thunder of hooves and the blowing of horns, growing rapidly louder.\n\n_Geraint and his warband. They must have heard us. Thank Elyon._ He saw Geraint riding a black warhorse at the head of a host of mounted warriors. He skewered a rebel with his spear, let it go, drew his sword and started cutting down rebels as if they were stalks of wheat. It was a matter of heartbeats before the rebels were broken, fleeing in all directions. _No one can stand with a shield wall before them, cavalry behind._ Veradis stood there, panting, both swords bloody.\n\n'Well met,' he said to Geraint as Rhin's  battlechief  pulled  his horse up beside him. The warrior leaned over and gripped Veradis' forearm.\n\n'Think you might just have saved my life,' Veradis said to him.\n\n'Good.'  Geraint  grinned.  'I've  been  meaning  to  return  that favour.'\n\nDun Taras came into view as the road wound between two hills, the fortress' dark walls a brooding shadow against the countryside. Veradis rode beside Geraint, their warriors spread in a column behind them. A cluster of prisoners walked at the centre of the line, hands bound and heads bowed. Thirty men, survivors of the uprising, heading towards Rhin for her judgment.\n\n_Which is unlikely to be merciful, judging by her mood when I left Dun Taras._\n\nGeraint, however, was in fine spirits, laughing and joking as they approached Dun Taras.\n\nVeradis was in the grip of a dark mood, the deaths of his men weighing heavily upon him.\n\n_Thirty-eight men dead. And what honour in that death? Slain by overgrown cows. More men lost than in the battle of Domhain Pass, where we fought against a warband ten thousand strong._\n\nHe looked at the pouch hanging from his belt, filled with the draig teeth he had collected from a dozen of the fallen. _Men who stood with me from the beginning, who stood against the draigs and giants of Tarbesh. Nathair 's first battle, his first victory. Nathair's  Fangs,  we called ourselves. It was my fault. I should not have marched them into that village unprepared. I should have sent scouts first. I have become over-confident, arrogant, thinking my men and shield wall are unbeatable. This proves we are not._\n\nRhin was waiting for them in Eremon's old chambers. Veradis remembered the room all too well; it had been where they had fought the old battlechief Rath and his shieldmen, where his friend Bos had died. He avoided looking at the flagstones where Bos had fallen, scrubbed of blood now, but there was still a faint outline, if you looked hard enough. _Blood always leaves a stain._\n\n'Well, Geraint, I can tell by your grin that my problems with rebels are ended,' Rhin said coolly. Her  silver  hair  was  braided with gold thread, spilling across one shoulder, the paleness of her skin enhanced by her sable gown.\n\n'Yes, my Queen,' Geraint said. 'The rebellion is finished. None escaped - a few hundred dead, and thirty prisoners await your justice.'\n\nRhin raised an eyebrow at that. 'Something to look forward to, then. Come, celebrate with me.' Veradis was handed a cup by a servant and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was a cup of wine, not the mead or ale that was so popular in this part of the world.\n\n'To strong men that will _always_ do my bidding,' Rhin said, lifting her cup, chuckling. Veradis wasn't sure he wanted to drink to that, but the wine smelt good and his throat was dry after their long ride.\n\nRhin enquired of the battle, shrewd as always, asking about tactics and the decisiveness of the conflict. How many dead on both sides, how many survivors? Were the leaders dead? Her eyes bored into him as Veradis told of the auroch stampede.\n\n'Always adapt,' she said when he'd finished. 'War is wits, Veradis. Strength, courage, skill, these are all valuable assets in combat, but wits are what win a battle, and a war. Your shield wall has served us well, but our enemy are not mindless animals. They will study, analyse, adapt. You must be one step ahead, always, or you will stagnate and be outwitted.'\n\n'Aye, my lady,' Veradis said. _This I have learned._ 'And how go things here, my lady?'\n\nShe sighed wearily and rubbed at her temple. 'I am spending my life organizing, administrating and advocating between petty grievances, Veradis, and it is _boring_. I find myself in a position where I command four realms - all of the west, in fact - and it is tedious. There is a lot to do, and I am stuck here in Domhain, waiting for Conall to return to us.' She smiled ruefully. 'It would appear that I prefer to conquer than to rule!' She shifted in her seat, scowling. 'Not to mention that this chair is uncomfortable; no wonder Eremon killed himself.'\n\n'I thought he was assassinated, my lady.'\n\n'Yes, but we'll keep that between us. Took his own life is better, less likely to turn him into a martyr. A cowardly act, suicide. Couldn't face me.' She winked at him.\n\n_I would not like to face you as an enemy, either._\n\n'And what would my orders be, my lady, now that the resistance against you is crushed?' _I do not want to spend another moon here. The God-War is happening, out there, while I play at peace-keeping on the edge of the world._\n\n'Getting a scratch in your boots?' Rhin asked.\n\n_Can she hear my thoughts?_\n\n'Aye,' he nodded.\n\n'I feel the same,' Rhin said with a shrug. 'Once Conall returns I plan on leaving Domhain. Nathair is on my mind.'\n\n'And mine too, my lady.'\n\n'Of course he is. And there are other concerns I would attend. I sent a warband north, after this Corban and his companions - the ones I had trouble with in Dun Vaner.' She pulled a sour face. 'I have not had any news from them, and I am impatient. So I will travel north. I would like you to accompany me, and we can see if I can reunite you with your King.'\n\n'That would be good,' Veradis said. 'How do you know where the boy has gone?'\n\n'He told me,' Rhin said. 'He came to Dun Vaner chasing after his sister. She was with Nathair, riding to Murias with him. I forget her name.'\n\n'Cywen,' Veradis said, her face filling his mind as he spoke her name.\n\n'That's the one. Her brother seemed to have a strong sense of family loyalty. Foolish child. It's an overrated quality in my opinion - I've spent most of my life plotting how to kill off my kin, not rescue them.'\n\n'So you've sent a warband after him?' Veradis asked. 'I'm surprised you have the men available, spread throughout four nations as you are.'\n\n'I've spent many years raising my warbands in preparation for these days. Even so, you are right, things are a little stretched. I've had to send men who were stationed in Narvon. They should be at the border with Benoth soon.'\n\nBooted feet echoed from the corridor; a guard entered.\n\n'Lord Conall has returned, my lady.'\n\n'Excellent,' Rhin said. 'Where is he?'\n\n'His company approaches the gates as we speak, my lady.'\n\n'Come, then,' Rhin said, rising. 'I could do with stretching these old legs.'\n\nThey found over three score warriors dismounting from horses in the courtyard beyond Dun Vaner's keep. Veradis knew in a heartbeat, from the averted faces and the stoop of shoulders, that Conall and his men had failed to capture Edana and Lorcan, Eremon's heir. Veradis saw Rafe dismount, the blond lad from Ardan, two hounds circling him. One jumped up at him, sniffing a pouch on his belt. He cuffed it good-naturedly and went to another horse and helped a grey-faced warrior dismount. The man looked close to collapse, a wide bandage strapped around his neck and shoulder. Spots of blood had leaked through.\n\n'Braith?' Rhin cried out as she strode down the wide stone steps into the courtyard. She stroked the huntsman's face and for a moment it was as if the two of them were the only people in the courtyard.\n\n'Get him to a healer,' Rhin snapped at Rafe. 'I'll be along as soon as I can,' she called over her shoulder.\n\nThen Conall was there, his face set in proud lines.\n\n'They got away,' he said.\n\n'That much is obvious,' Rhin scowled. 'The _how_ I will hear when we are somewhere more private. And I hope you can tell me something of the _where_.'\n\n'I have a prisoner who may be able to help with that,' Conall said, stepping aside and pulling a man forward. He looked remarkably like Conall. Older, lacking the fire and mirth that seemed to war constantly for control of Conall's features, but definitely related. Serious grey eyes regarded Rhin.\n\n'This is Halion. My brother, and Edana's first-sword.'\n\n'Ahh,' Rhin smiled viciously. 'Your jaunt across half of Domhain may not have been entirely wasted, then.' She stood and stared at Halion a long moment, the warrior returning her gaze.\n\n'Eremon's seed,' she laughed, 'all  so  proud.'  Then  she  turned and marched back up the stairs towards the keep. 'Come on, then,' she snapped, 'bring him along and we'll see what we can salvage.'\n\nVeradis leaned against a pillar of stone, watching as Rhin stirred a pot bubbling over a fire. Conall's brother Halion sat in a chair, his wrists tied to the arm-rests, a leather belt tightened about his chest, holding him secure.\n\n'We could try the traditional method of questioning,' Rhin said as she unstrung a pouch from her belt, pulling some dried leaves from it and crumbling them into the pot. 'But I'm inclined to cut straight to the end of the hunt. With the traditional route - you know, flaying, toe crushing, hot irons, the removal of genitals, that kind of thing - there is always so much blood. And screaming. It takes time.' She smiled grimly. 'I don't really have the time to waste. I don't like it here. I need to be elsewhere, so you need to tell me what you know, and you need to tell me _now_.'\n\nHalion watched her, his face an unreadable mask.\n\n_I 'm glad I'm not him._\n\nBitter fumes started to rise from the pot.\n\n'I wouldn't stand too close,' Rhin warned Conall and Veradis, 'unless you wish to tell me your deepest secrets.'\n\nBoth men took a step back.\n\n'Now then, take a deep breath,' Rhin said to Halion, taking the pot by its chain and holding it above Halion's lap. He held his breath before the fumes enshrouded him. He bucked in his chair, trying to break free. Two warriors stood behind, holding it in place. Halion shook his head from side to side, searching for an escape from the fumes, his arms rigid, his back arched. Eventually he had no choice; he took a shuddering breath, then another. Moments passed and he slumped into the chair, tension seeping from his muscles.\n\n'Good,' Rhin muttered. 'Now. Tell me your name.'\n\n'Halion ben Eremon.' He looked surprised, then too relaxed to care. Rhin smiled.\n\n'And whom do you love, above all others in these Banished Lands?'\n\n'Conall ben Eremon, my brother.'\n\nConall took a step back, as if from a blow.\n\n'And who is your lord?'\n\n'I have no lord,' Halion corrected. 'I serve a lady; Edana ap Brenin. Queen of Ardan.'\n\nRhin scowled at that.\n\n'Why are you asking him these questions?' Conall growled. 'How are they relevant?'\n\n'I am establishing that he is telling the truth - that the drug has him fully.' She looked back to Halion. 'And where is Edana now?'\n\n'At sea, I would imagine.'\n\n'What are her plans?'\n\n'To reunite with the resistance in Ardan. To take back her crown.'\n\n'It was never hers,' Rhin muttered. Halion stared ahead.\n\n'And where is this resistance? What is Edana's destination?'\n\n'Dun Crin, the giant ruins in the marshes of western Ardan.'\n\nRhin smiled triumphantly. She reached out and stroked Halion's cheek. 'Thank you. You have been most helpful.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\n#### CORALEN\n\nCoralen looked up as Craf spiralled down to her. She drew her horse to a halt and waited for him, twisting in her saddle to check on the main company emerging from the woodlands of the mountain slopes, as small as ants from this distance.\n\n' _Village_ ,' the crow squawked as he drew nearer, alighting on her saddle pommel.\n\n'Where?' she asked.\n\n' _Ahead. On the road._ '\n\n_Typical._ She'd known it was inevitable that they would encounter other people at some stage but had hoped they'd have escaped detection a little longer than this. They had spent two nights travelling through the mountains and entered Narvon only yesterday.\n\nEnkara and Storm approached her. Even relaxed they both radiated strength and menace. Coralen grinned, for a moment lost in the strangeness of the company she kept. _The world has changed immeasurably since I tracked half a dozen Benothi giants into the mountains between Domhain and Cambren._ That had been where she'd first encountered Corban and his company.\n\n'What is it?' Enkara said as she rode over. She was one of Tukul's Jehar, one of the Hundred that had ridden out in  search  of  the Bright Star nearly twenty years ago. Coralen had a healthy respect for all of the Jehar - their martial prowess and dedication was verging on inhuman, and the fact that the women amongst the Jehar ranks were easily as skilled as the men impressed Coralen. But Enkara had become more than that: a mutual respect had developed, and out of that a hesitant friendship.\n\n'A village, not far ahead,' Coralen said. As she stared she saw faint columns of smoke. _Cook-fires._\n\n'Can we go around?' Enkara mused.\n\n'If we numbered a score, yes, we would go around. Three hundred . . .' Coralen shook her head. 'There's no point. We would have to march leagues out of our way not to be spotted. And this is only the first of many villages that we are going to come across.'\n\n'So we just go straight through it?'\n\n'Yes. Fast.'\n\nEnkara thought about that a moment, then smiled. 'I like it.'\n\nThe rest of the scouting party joined them.\n\n'So what now?' Dath asked, sitting relaxed and confident in his saddle. He was starting to lose the nervousness that had seemed to cloak him like a mist. _He 's found something he's good at. He's made to be a huntsman, can track, scout, has a remarkable eye for details. And he's a better shot with his bow than I am, or anyone else I've known._\n\nCoralen gave them her orders, splitting the crew, Enkara and two others leaving to warn Corban and the warband, the rest going with her to scout out the village. It still felt strange, giving orders. She had ridden with a hard crew most of her life, with Rath and his giant-killers, but they had numbered around a score or so, and she had grown up with them. And she'd never given them orders. Now she was responsible for three hundred lives and was making decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for them all.\n\n_If it is strange for me, how must it feel for Corban, sitting at the head of this warband, having the Jehar, Benothi giants and one of the Ben-Elim looking to him?_\n\n' _What about me?_ ' Craf squawked.\n\n'Stay with me,' she said, clicked her tongue and touched her heels to her horse, spurring it to a canter.\n\nCoralen lay hidden amongst gorse and heather, studying the village in front of her. She had led Dath and a dozen Jehar wide around the village and approached through woodland from the south, leaving the majority  of them  hidden in the  trees. Coralen  and Dath had crept closer for a better look, accompanied by Kulla, a young Jehar warrior who always seemed to be somewhere close to Dath. Coralen just ignored her.\n\nThe small village spread along the riverbank, consisting of forty or fifty buildings of undressed stone and turf roofs, a large round-house at its centre. Women were scrubbing clothes in the river shallows, bairns playing on the riverbank under their watchful eye. Men worked in fields of wheat and rye spread to the west, and to the east Coralen saw a herd of goats dotting the valley slopes, their bleating drifting on the wind.\n\nAs Coralen watched the women about their work she saw a girl - six or seven summers, maybe - creep up on one of the women and splash water over her back, then run away in a burst of spray and giggles. The water must have been icy cold, fresh from the mountains, but the woman didn't turn, just continued her scrubbing against a boulder. In time the girl crept back again with exaggerated stealth, but just before she put her cupped hands into the water, the woman turned and dashed after her, sweeping her up and kissing her repeatedly. Coralen heard them both laughing.\n\nAs she watched she felt something tighten in her chest, and to her horror she felt tears bloom in her eyes. _I can 't remember  one moment in all my life like that with my mam. I was never the child she wanted._ She blinked, sending a fat tear rolling down her cheek, and sniffed.\n\n'You all right?' Dath asked beside her.\n\n'Fine,' she snapped, swiping at her face. 'A fly in my eye.' She paused a moment, then crept back to her horse and swung into the saddle. Dath and Kulla followed her.\n\n'Where are you going?'\n\n'To the village.' The original plan had been to stick to their position until Corban and the warband appeared, and make sure that no one headed south from the village in an attempt to spread word of the warband's coming. Suddenly, though, the fear and panic that the villagers would feel were things she wanted to try and avoid.\n\n'Why?' Dath asked her. 'It's dangerous.'\n\n'You should stay here,' she said as she rode towards the village. Dath caught up with her.\n\n'You're mad, but Corban and Farrell would have my stones if I let you go riding into that village alone.'\n\n'Displeasing the Seren Disglair must be avoided,' Kulla said, a horrified expression creeping across her face. 'At all costs.'\n\nDath raised an eyebrow and Coralen scowled. 'I can look after myself,' she snapped.\n\n'I know that.' Dath shrugged. 'But I'm still coming.'\n\n'We,' Kulla amended.\n\n'Suit yourself.'\n\nThey rode into the village. Dogs barked, children shouted and people gathered about them, more filtering from the surrounding fields. Coralen saw many making the ward against evil as they saw her, causing her to scowl. Strangers obviously weren't welcome and in these troubled times she could understand why. _But if they fear me, wait until they see Corban with a warband of giants and wolven._ She pulled on her reins, saw the gauntlet of wolven claws she wore on her left arm and realized she was also wearing her wolven fur, the head draped across her shoulders, jaws gaping and teeth bared.\n\n_Perhaps they have good reason to fear me._\n\nA man stepped out of the crowd surrounding them. Dath and Kulla looked around warily, prepared for trouble.\n\n'Greetings,' he said. 'Excuse the poor welcome - strangers are rare this far north.' Despite his polite tone he clutched  a  thick-hafted boar spear in his hands. With disapproval Coralen noted the blade was rusted. Other men were moving forward, most hefting woodcutters' axes. One had a battered sword sheathed at his side. She saw the mother and child that she'd watched in the river huddled together and remembered her purpose.\n\n'You're about to see a whole lot more,' Coralen said. 'I've come to warn you that a warband is approaching from the north. They'll be here soon.'\n\nGasps rippled  around the  crowd, a  hint of panic, some faces sceptical. Questions flew at her, raised voices.\n\n'There is nothing to fear, they are peaceful and just travelling south. They will not stop, they will not attack. They want nothing from you. You'd be best going to your homes and closing  your doors.'\n\nCoralen saw expressions of doubt, disbelief, fear spreading through the crowd.\n\n'Peaceful! When is a warband peaceful?' someone yelled.\n\n'They mean you no harm is what I mean.' Coralen felt her temper fraying.\n\n'Who are you?' the man who had greeted her shouted. People filtered away from the crowd's edges. A group began to hurry to the east, towards the wooded valley slopes. Some made to pass her, heading south, and she turned her horse, blocking the road.\n\n'This isn't going well,' Dath whispered to Kulla, which didn't make Coralen any calmer.\n\n'Go where you wish, except south,' Coralen said, then stood in her saddle. 'No one heads south.'\n\n'They mean to slaughter us all,' a cry rose up, and hands grabbed at her bridle. She slapped them away, clenched her fist, causing her wolven claws to chime, and gripped her sword hilt. More people surged towards her.\n\nDath shot an arrow into the ground at the spokesman's feet and Kulla drew her sword.\n\n'Stay back, or die,' Kulla said, her voice flat and cold.\n\n_I 've managed to bring someone less gifted at diplomacy than me._\n\n'Next man goes to lay a hand on her gets an arrow through the eye,' Dath said, loud and clear.\n\n_This isn 't going as I planned._\n\nMen were gathered in a half-circle about her, Dath and Kulla, a score at most, balanced on the brink of violence.\n\nThere was a moment's hush, and in it another sound grew, a distant thunder. Coralen looked to the north, saw figures appear on the valley's  horizon,  more  pouring  from the woodland. Mounted warriors, beside them the giants striding on long legs. Ahead of them ran a hound and wolven.\n\n_Corban._\n\n'They are here. Go back to your homes,' Coralen shouted, and the crowd was suddenly moving in all directions. Most of them headed into the village, some broke away east and west. A handful swerved past her, heading south.\n\n_My scouts will send them back._\n\nCoralen leaned down and reassured the woman from the river, who was standing frozen, wondering what to do, her daughter gripped in her arms.\n\n'Trust me,' Coralen said. 'Go to your home. No harm will come to you.'\n\nThe  woman  looked  at  her,  obviously  torn  between  fight  and flight. The girl just stared, big brown eyes unblinking.\n\n'I'll do as you say.' The woman took long strides and disappeared into the village.\n\nCorban's warband was soon upon them, a wing of Jehar warriors a hundred strong riding west of the village, thundering across fields of wheat and rye, the rest marching down the centre of the valley and through the settlement. Corban rode into the silent village, Meical on one side of him, Farrell on the other, a huge grin splitting his face.\n\nCorban nodded a greeting at Coralen's group.\n\n'How are you, girlie?' Farrell winked at Coralen.\n\n'Well enough, and don't call me girlie. I've spoken to you about that before.'\n\n'Sorry - habit.' He winced, a hand moving protectively to his groin. Dath chuckled.\n\n'Everything all right?' Corban asked, frowning as Coralen fell in beside him.\n\n'Aye. Just trying to prevent a mass panic.'\n\nCorban looked around; the village appeared almost deserted. Here and there a face could be spied peering from shuttered windows.\n\n'Looks like you succeeded.'\n\n'It wasn't easy,' Dath said. 'Don't think they're used to seeing even one or two new faces up here. The sight of you lot coming towards them . . .'\n\n'What's the road ahead like?' Meical asked.\n\n'I've sent Craf and the Jehar scouts ahead. Haven't heard anything, so it must be clear. I'm going to wait until everyone's through the village, then I'll join them.'\n\n'Something bothering you?' Corban asked.\n\n'No. Just want to make sure there's no harm done.'\n\n'We've no quarrel with these people.'\n\n'I know, but fear can lead to rash acts.'\n\n'True enough. You've done well.'\n\nShe felt a smile twitch at her mouth, then scowled at herself. _I 'm not a bairn to blush at praise._\n\n'I'll see you after,' she muttered, and reined in at the side of the road, Dath and Kulla silently joining her. Together they watched the warband sweep past, three hundred of the Jehar, Gar and Tukul leading them, a cluster of giants, Balur with his black axe at their centre. Brina and Cywen rode by, heads close in conversation. The bird Fech sat on Brina's saddle, his head bobbing, beak opening and closing as if he were joining in their discussion.\n\n_Craf won 't be happy about Fech getting a ride while he's off working for his supper._\n\n'You're supposed to be our rearguard eyes,' Coralen called out to the raven.\n\n'Fech is educating me,' Brina said to her.\n\nThe last of the warband passed through, the Jehar Akar riding rearguard with a score of his warriors. Coralen waited a moment and then followed.\n\nShe rode away from the settlement and into the treeline, pausing to look back at the village beside the river. A flicker of movement drew her eyes upwards, to a bird high above. For a moment she thought it was Fech, but then she saw the bird hovering, raptor-like, and then it dived,  hurtling  towards  the  meadow  and  scooping up something in its talons. Coralen heard a faint squeak, a spray of blood and the hawk landed, its beak ripping into flesh.\n\nIn the village a huddle of people had emerged from their homes. One of them raised a hand to Coralen - the woman from the river. She returned the gesture with a smile and rode into the woods.\n\nTwo nights  had  passed  since Coralen left  the  village behind,  the warband ploughing deeper into Narvon. The terrain was similar to the north of Domhain where she had spent most of her life: leagues of rolling moor and black rock, shifting slowly towards  greener vales, the horizon to the south carpeted with dark woodland and twisting rivers. Storm loped alongside, the rest of her scouts spread in a half-circle either side of her across a league or so of ground.\n\n_Domhain. Home._ She felt a flash of guilt at the thought of her homeland, its warbands broken, her father King Eremon murdered. And now Rhin was sitting upon its throne. _And Conall, her puppet-king._ The thought of her half-brother ruling in Domhain would have been ludicrous _,_ if she had not seen him at Dun Vaner, if she had not looked into his eyes and seen the rage and pain radiating from them. _What has happened to you?_\n\n_And what of Rath and Baird, of the Degad?_ Rath had near enough raised her. Fech had told them of Eremon's death and the fall of Domhain,  and  periodically  guilt  would  rise  up  and  consume  her. _I should have been there, fighting beside Rath_.\n\n_And what would that have achieved? Me dead as well?_ It was Rath who had sent her from Domhain, Rath who  had  ordered  her  to guide Corban north through the mountains, but she knew that she had not been unhappy about that order. Another pang of  guilt spiked at that. But somehow the guilt would always retreat, overcome by another emotion entirely. There was something about riding with this crew that felt different. As if she had been around them all her life.\n\nAnd then there was Corban. She found her thoughts straying to him more and more often when she rode alone. She tried to convince herself: _It is concern, for a friend, over the choices he is being forced to make._\n\nA flapping from above drew her attention, Craf swooping down from a slate grey sky. He was flustered, squawking as he descended.\n\n' _Warband, warband, warband_ ,' the bird screeched as he alighted on her saddle pommel.\n\n'Where?' Coralen demanded.\n\n' _Ahead._ '\n\n'How many?'\n\n' _A forest of spears and swords_ ,' he croaked gloomily.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban crawled across spongy grass, through red heather and fern, Coralen's boots just in front, Gar and  Meical  right  behind  him. After a quick discussion with Meical about Craf 's sighting of the warband Corban had called a halt so he could take a look at what faced them.\n\n'Down there,' Coralen pointed down a long slope to where the land levelled. First he saw the scouts, a score of horsemen strung out across the incline, making their way steadily uphill. About half a league behind them a warband was emerging from woodland, halting upon the banks of a wide stream to refill water skins and barrels. The broken branch of Cambren fluttered on banners, framed in black and gold.\n\n'Rhin's,' Corban muttered.\n\n'Who else?' said Meical. 'She's defeated every other realm within a hundred leagues.'\n\n'At least three hundred swords,' Gar whispered as he drew alongside Corban. More warriors were still emerging from the trees, a steady flow. The first ranks crossed the stone bridge that spanned the stream. From this distance it was a slow-moving forest of leather and iron. A line of wains rumbled into view, shaggy-haired aurochs pulling them, bellowing as they climbed. Steadily they crossed the bridge, continuing along the wide giants' road.\n\n_What are we going to do?_\n\nIt was one thing to lead three hundred warriors across a remote countryside, through small villages whose inhabitants hid or ran. It was another thing entirely to be marching towards an enemy who probably outnumbered you. _But they are not Jehar warriors or Benothi  giants,  _a voice whispered in his mind. _If  we  fought  them  we would  win._\n\n_And how many of those who are following me would die?_\n\nGar tapped his shoulder and signalled they should move back.\n\nThey crawled away, stood when the ridge hid them and mounted in silence.\n\n'Craf, keep an eye on them,' Corban said to the crow.\n\n' _Work, work, work,_ ' Craf muttered as he flapped into the air.\n\nCorban looked around and saw Meical, Gar and Coralen all staring at him.\n\n'What are you going to do?' Meical asked him.\n\n_I don 't know. Fight? Flight?_\n\nFear had settled in his gut like a heavy stone. Not fear of fighting or even of his own death - he had experienced enough battles now, and while there was always an element of fear present, he knew that he had the mastery of it. And besides, he had seen more terrifying sights recently, not least Kadoshim demons made flesh and the horrors they had inflicted.\n\n_What am I so scared of?_\n\nHe touched his heels to Shield and rode away, heading back to the warband, the others following in silence.\n\n_Back to the warband. Back to my warband._\n\nAnd then he realized. It was one thing choosing to enter battle yourself. And if others chose to follow you, well, that had given him some worry, but in the end it was their decision, not his. This time, though, he had led people here, to this point. He had chosen this course. He had expected resistance, to encounter the enemy, but not yet, and in his mind the resistance had consisted of minor skirmishes along the road. Part of him had hoped that they would be able to avoid any large conflict at the very least until they had reached the border with Ardan. Certainly he had not expected to march straight into a warband of Rhin's so soon, especially not one where the outcome of battle was so uncertain.\n\n_I am scared of people dying because of my decisions, my mistakes._\n\nGar cantered closer.\n\n'Are you all right, Ban?'\n\n'No.' The warband came into view, spread along the slope. Corban looked about: undulating moorland surrounded them. _If we were to fight, the terrain here is no good_. _Too open against an enemy that outnumbers us._ The sun glowed behind thick cloud. _It 's  highsun. Plenty of the day left. I need some time to think._\n\nConcerned faces watched him - men, women, giants. _Everyone always seems to be watching._\n\nHe took a deep breath. 'Prepare to move out,' he cried. 'We're turning around.'\n\nThey rode hard, retracing their steps, Corban at their head. Craf had returned, reporting that the warband was heading due north, straight towards them.\n\nHe sent Coralen and a handful of Jehar back to watch the enemy, Storm loping beside her, as Craf had collapsed exhausted upon Brina's saddle and refused to fly another handspan.\n\nHe had asked Fech to scout for them, but the raven refused, which annoyed him. _Here I am, the chosen avatar of Elyon, the Bright Star; the high captain of the Ben-Elim listens to me, and yet a scruffy old raven refuses me._ Apparently Fech was explaining something vital to Brina. For once she did not overrule the bird, but sat there quietly, just nodding her head. She had the book in her hands, the one that she had been teaching him from. It lay open across her saddle.\n\nHe stared at the book. _The giant 's book from Dun Carreg, full of their histories and lore. And of their magic._ Brina would have clipped him around the ear for calling it that, but that was how he thought of it. He remembered Vonn's confession that he had stolen it from his da, Evnis, and then how Brina and Heb had taught him from it. _When was the last time I even thought about that? Or Brina? I have just abandoned her._ At least Cywen was with Brina. In fact, she seemed to be spending almost every waking hour close to the healer. _I need to see more of Cywen, too. I ride hundreds of leagues to find her, and when I do, we hardly share two sentences._\n\nCorban sighed. It seemed that being the Bright Star meant sacrifices. 'Fine, have it your way,' Corban said to Fech. 'I'll not be forgetting your helpfulness, though.'\n\n' _Sarcasm won 't help,_' Fech squawked.\n\n'Bribery usually works,' Cywen leaned in her saddle and whispered to him.\n\nCorban considered. 'Fech, the next thing that Storm catches, I'll let you have its slimy bits all to yourself.'\n\nFech cocked his head at Corban. ' _Agreed._ _Fly soon_ ,' he croaked.\n\n'Good.' Corban kicked his horse on, annoyed at Fech and just wanting to be alone, if even for a few moments without some decision or another needing to be made. He cleared the front of the warband, where Meical, Tukul and Gar were riding, Balur and his daughter Ethlinn striding beside them. He clicked his tongue and Shield opened his stride, pulling ahead into an open space. Corban leaned forward, patting Shield's neck; the horse snorting with pleasure.\n\n_I 've missed you, boy._\n\nHe looked back over his shoulder at the warband spread behind him, the bulk of giants mingled with the grim-faced Jehar. _How did I end up here? Leading a warband, hailed as the champion of Elyon? I 'm not champion of anything. And why would Elyon, maker of all, choose me? It doesn't make sense._\n\nAnd yet Corban knew it was more than the mad delusions of a handful of fanatical warriors. Meical was one of the Ben-Elim. Corban had seen him in the Otherworld, transformed with white wings and eyes that blazed, but still most definitely Meical. And more than that, he had seen Asroth. Spoken with him. Asroth had been in no doubt that Corban was Elyon's chosen, had been quite prepared to cut Corban's heart out. He shuddered at the memory, a faint echo of the terror that had filled him.\n\n_Asroth wants me dead._\n\nHooves drummed louder and he turned to see Meical spurring his mount to join him. Gar and Tukul rode with him, Balur jogging beside them.\n\nCorban sighed and slowed a little, dropping back to them.\n\n_Here it comes_.\n\n'What are we doing?' Meical asked him.\n\n'Giving ourselves space - time. I would not throw us into battle without thought.'\n\n'Time is something we don't have,' Meical said. 'Asroth is moving. He has been planning for this war for hundreds of years, and now he is striking. We do not have the time to ride back and forth like this. You _must_ lead us.'\n\n'That is what I am trying to do.'\n\n'No, you are hesitating, undecided, and it will achieve nothing.'\n\nCorban felt a flash of anger at Meical's words, mostly because he knew they were true. His eyes flickered across the others, all watching him keenly.\n\n'We should turn and fight. Ride through Rhin's warband,' Meical told him.\n\n'And how many of our own would die? It is not a decision I would lightly make.'\n\n'Aye, well, decisions must be made, and they all have their consequences. You chose to ride south, and that means riding through the heartland of your enemy. It means blood being shed.'\n\n'That is what I am worried about,' Corban muttered. 'Your blood? Their blood?' He gestured at the few hundred following behind them.\n\nMeical sighed. 'Corban, this is the God-War. It is inevitable that _oceans_ of blood will be spilt by the time it is over. All that matters is that Asroth is defeated. So, yes, I am prepared to see my blood shed, your blood, and the blood of _all_ those riding with us to achieve that aim. It is all that matters.'\n\nCorban thought about that a while, looking back at the faces who would follow him blindly into battle and beyond - into death - if he required it of them.\n\n'You're wrong,' he said eventually. 'There is more to this than victory or defeat. I will not throw lives away. They matter. My heart broke when my da was slain, and it broke again in Murias when my mam died in my arms.' He paused, willed the tremor in his voice to pass. 'And it has broken for every friend that has died in between. Yet I am but one man, surrounded here by hundreds, each with kin, with loved ones. Balur - who is dear to you here? Who would you give your life to save?'\n\nThe giant looked surprised, then frowned, his already creased face wrinkling into a place of deep valleys. 'Ethlinn, my daughter,' he rumbled.\n\n'And you, Tukul? Who would you give your life to save?'\n\n'You,' Tukul replied without hesitation. He  shrugged.  'Every soul here.' His eyes fixed on Gar. 'Most of all, my son.'\n\nA gentle smile crept across Gar's lips.\n\n'Every one of us here has those dear to them, hearts that would grieve at their deaths. We do fight for a cause. Against a great evil. But I also fight to save those I love. So I will not throw away their lives unnecessarily.'\n\n'Admirable sentiments,' Meical said, though he looked more confused than understanding. 'Nevertheless, in this case, your sentiment is delaying action, and that will have a worse result - most likely all of us dead, eventually, and Asroth reigning over the Banished Lands. You are our leader. _Lead us_.'\n\nCorban scowled. Meical shook his head in despair and dropped back, Balur and Tukul following him. Corban's thoughts churned. Eventually he looked over at Gar.\n\n'I don't know what to do, Gar,' he said. 'I'm scared.' He remembered making a similar confession to Gar in a meadow below Dun Carreg, about his fear of having been bullied by Rafe. He almost laughed at the thought of it. _It feels like a lifetime ago, yet here I am, still scared. Just scared of something else, that 's all._\n\n'All men feel fear,' Gar said.\n\n_You 've told me that before._\n\n'I know. It's what we do about it that counts.'\n\nGar smiled at him.\n\n'This is different,' Corban said. 'I'm not scared of what may happen to _me_. I'm scared of getting people killed.'\n\n'Fear is fear,' Gar shrugged. 'It will disable you if you let it; freeze you, crush you.'\n\n'What would you do in my place?'\n\n'Fight. We have no choice. Try and go around, they'll pick up our trail and chase us across Narvon. Sooner or later we'll find someone else in front of us that wants a fight. When that happens you don't want three hundred men with swords at our back.'\n\nThey rode on, the sun sinking, the mountains that marked the border with Benoth looming closer. As the sun was melting into the horizon they came upon a thick stretch of woodland, to the east a fast-flowing river, to the west a gentle hill swathed with pine and spruce. An idea started to form in Corban's mind. He stared back at the woods, remembering passing through them. A few leagues deep, and beyond them the village they had passed through. _Can 't lead Rhin's  warband  onto  that  village. _ He  raised his  hand  and  reined  in Shield, the warband rippling to a halt behind him.\n\n_Meical 's right, I can't just lead this warband winding all across the Banished Lands. And it is a warband; warbands are for war, sooner or later we will have to fight._\n\nHe turned and stood in his saddle, staring long and hard at the terrain about them.\n\n'We'll make camp here,' he called out, 'and on the morrow this is where we'll fight and crush Rhin's warband.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\n#### UTHAS\n\nUthas paused and gazed ahead. It was late in the day and the sun was sinking behind hills to the west. The mountain cliffs that had shadowed the pass they'd been marching through had gentled to pine-shrouded slopes, and beside them a white-foamed river carved a valley, widening into the green meadows of a flood-plain only half a league ahead.\n\n'Narvon,' Calidus said beside him.\n\n'Aye. Once it was Benoth, as were all of the western realms.'\n\nThey moved on. Before them Nathair rode his draig, the lumbering beast scattering stone and gravel with each footfall, pine cones falling from shaking trees. Alcyon marched beside Nathair, a handful of the Kadoshim spread about them. Calidus rode close behind. His eyes were never far from Nathair.\n\n_He does not trust him, yet._ Nathair had given no sign of rebellion, had ridden mostly in silence every day, any conversation he did participate in was usually with Alcyon. _Time will be the judge. He will have to act upon his new oath soon enough._\n\nThe Kadoshim and Benothi were strung behind them: over a thousand men and women lending their strength pulling the wains. It had been hard going through the mountain passes, Kadoshim massed around each wain's wheel, straining to turn them across the ancient and pitted road and through deep banks of wind-piled snow. They had made it, though, and now they were moving ever downhill, the road smoother and wider with every league.\n\n'I was a lord of western Benoth, once, governing for Nemain from Dun Taras,' Uthas said.\n\n'How long ago was that?'\n\n'Six hundred years, give or take a moon.'\n\nUthas felt a prickling on his neck and turned to see Calidus staring at him.\n\n'You drank from the cup.' It wasn't a question.\n\n'I did,' Uthas said, looking away. He didn't want to talk about the starstone cup.\n\n'You know I need the Treasures. They are vital to our plans.'\n\n'I know.' Uthas tugged on his long white  moustache,  a  habit when he was troubled, or anxious.\n\n'Do you know something that could help me?'\n\n_It is too late to go back now._\n\n'I have knowledge of two of the Treasures: the cup and Nemain's necklace. I know where they were last seen.'\n\n'What?' Calidus hissed. His hand snaked out and gripped Uthas' shoulder. It was cold. 'Where are they?'\n\nUthas took a deep breath and swallowed.\n\n'I would be king of _all_ the giant clans, not just the Benothi. And I want Forn as my seat. As the new seat of the reconciled clans.'\n\n'That is a lofty dream indeed,' Calidus said, looking at Uthas through narrowed eyes. 'Your ambition exceeds even what I expected from  you.'\n\nUthas shrugged. 'The world is changing. Why not reforge something that was broken.'\n\n'Indeed,' Calidus said with a calculating stare. 'In return for the Treasures you speak of I will aid you in this. You have my word.'\n\n'I suspect your generals might disagree with you. Rhin, Nathair, Lykos - they will not be as enthusiastic to see the strength of the giant clans restored. I need to hear that assurance from a higher power than you.'\n\n'You would bargain with Asroth?' Calidus said, raising an eyebrow.\n\nUthas shrugged. 'Why not. I rolled the dice when I betrayed Nemain - I don't think they have stopped rolling yet.'\n\nCalidus laughed, a genuine warmth in it. 'What is the phrase I have heard amongst men and giants? You have some stones, Uthas. I shall arrange a private conversation for you.'\n\nUthas felt suddenly scared at the thought. _It 's done now._\n\nThe path led through woodland, the scent of pine strong in the air, the ground spongy with fallen needles. Cries rang out from ahead: the Kadoshim. Calidus kicked his horse on. Uthas lengthened his stride to keep pace.\n\nThey powered through shadowed woods and then burst into sunshine, Uthas blinking for a moment against the glare of daylight.\n\nThey were in a valley, the river flowing fast through its middle, meadows rolling either side into hills. Ahead of them lay a village, faint screams drifting on the breeze. A handful of the Kadoshim were running towards it, faster than Uthas thought possible.\n\nBy the time Uthas and Calidus caught up with them villagers were scattering in all directions, Kadoshim flooding the streets, crashing through doors and windows, killing anything that moved with a childlike glee.\n\n'I need to work on their discipline,' Calidus said, glancing casually at a Kadoshim pinning a screaming man down, taking bites out of his throat.\n\n'They must learn to control themselves,' Uthas said in horror. 'They cannot behave like this throughout the Banished Lands - the whole world will turn against you.'\n\n'I know, but they are new to their bodies and this world. I remember the wonder when I first became flesh. And the taste of it . . .' He paused, eyes wistful. 'And besides, they have had only brot for a ten-night. A little indulgence, one last time.'\n\n'They are animals,' Salach muttered beside Uthas.\n\n'As are we all,' Calidus said flatly. 'Creatures of flesh and blood that must consume flesh and blood to live.'\n\nUthas saw a Kadoshim leap from a rooftop, land running and dive onto a fleeing bairn, roll with it, biting and wrenching. The child's high and terror-filled scream suddenly cut short.\n\nNathair and his draig thundered into the village. Someone burst from a shuttered window, falling into the street: a woman, a Kadoshim peering out from between  the  broken  shutters  behind her. Nathair viewed the carnage with a flat stare, his lips twisting briefly in distaste.\n\n'There is no need for this,' Nathair called over his shoulder to Calidus. 'They are slaughtering innocents.'\n\n'The unfortunate casualties of war,' Calidus called back.\n\nNathair just stared at him.\n\n'I have neglected to teach the Kadoshim the code of combat,' Calidus said. 'They are fresh to this world. I shall rectify that soon.'\n\n'Not soon enough for these,' Nathair said.\n\n'Aye, but not all here are innocents,' Calidus answered. 'Look ahead.'\n\nOther villagers were making a stand by the roundhouse, clutching weapons -- spears and axes bristling. Some of the Kadoshim were learning to use their weapons, harnessing  the  memories  of their hosts. With a last shake of his head Nathair whispered to his draig and led a handful of the Kadoshim at the villagers, the Kadoshim with swords drawn, swinging with greater speed and strength than any human could possibly manage, even the Jehar. The draig crashed into the knot of warriors, Kadoshim behind, and then limbs were spinning through the air, blood spraying and in moments the resistance was shattered.\n\n'We shall make camp here,' Calidus declared, looking at the sun sinking into the hills to the west. Screaming drifted about them, the stench of blood and excrement thick in the air. Uthas and Salach shared a look and marched on, through the village and out the other side. Survivors were running through the fields, Kadoshim hunting them like hounds chasing down hares. A group of villagers reached woodland to the south, disappearing into the shadows, but a handful of Kadoshim saw them and followed.\n\n'You'd better call your kin back in, before they get lost in the woods.'\n\n'They are like bairns,' Calidus said fondly.\n\nMore screams drifted from the woods.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban  snapped  awake,  jerking  to  one  elbow.  Instinctively  he reached for Storm, but she was not there.\n\nIt felt as if something had woken him. _A scream? Was it a dream?_ He rubbed his eyes, stopped himself when he realized he was still wearing his wolven gauntlet, and climbed to his feet.  They  had made camp close to the river; the trees were widely spaced here. The ground was damp with dew, the world fresh and new for a few moments beneath the sun's first rays, yet Corban felt tired already. He had hardly slept, the weight of his decision bearing down upon him, though it seemed that the rest of the world had snored quite contentedly around him.\n\n_We will fight._ He had felt sure yesterday, once he'd made the decision, determined. Now, though, he found himself hoping that Rhin's warband would turn away and march east or west, anywhere but across their path - wishful thinking. By now they would have come across the trail of Corban's warband. He was resigned to battle now.\n\nAn idea had formed in his mind yesterday when he'd seen the terrain of the land, based on his memory of an ambush that Camlin had orchestrated back in Cambren. He had consulted with Meical, Tukul and Balur, and they had agreed on his strategy. The bulk of the warband would remain within the woods where they were camped and would emerge to face the enemy warband head on. A smaller force, a score of giants and a hundred Jehar, were hidden on the slopes to the west, a flanking ambush. Meical would lead them. Between them the plan was to pin Rhin's warriors against the banks of the river and crush them.\n\nA Jehar appeared close by - Akar, captain of the Jehar that had travelled with Nathair. He held a warning finger up to his lips.\n\nCorban heard it again then. A scream to his left, distant, filtering through the woods. At first he thought it was a fox, the cry high pitched and childlike. Then he heard another, closer, straight ahead. Akar gripped the sword hilt upon his back but did not draw, other Jehar guards moving about them, more rousing from sleep. A figure emerged from the shadows - a Jehar running swift and silent, a guard from deeper within the wood.\n\n'People are out there, coming this way,' he breathed to Akar and Corban.\n\n'Who? How many?' Akar asked.\n\n'Hard to tell. They sound scattered through the forest.'\n\nHooves drummed behind him and he turned to see Coralen riding into the camp, back from a night's reconnoitring to the south. Storm and Buddai were with her, Jehar riders at her back.\n\n_That 's where you've been,_ he thought, looking at Storm.\n\nCoralen reined in before him, opened her mouth to speak, then her eyes stared past him, deeper into the woods.\n\nLight streamed in broken patches through the canopy above, punctuating the perpetual woodland twilight. Undergrowth crackled and voices called out. Corban could make out a group of people staggering through the trees towards him - twenty, thirty people, maybe more. Behind them shapes moved. Fast. A woman hugging a child to her chest ran stumbling into the undergrowth. Something rose from the ground behind her, blood dripping from its chin.\n\n_Kadoshim._\n\nCorban felt a shiver of fear course through him,  somewhere along the way transforming into a white-hot rage. He heard a giant bellowing in its guttural language, then he was yelling his own battle-cry, running at it, swinging his sword. Two dozen strides and he was almost upon it. His mind flickered to his last encounter with a Kadoshim; this time his rage didn't blind him, instead he focused it, the world evaporating away, leaving only the pale, black-veined creature before him. He feinted high with his sword, shifted his weight and twisted his wrist, swinging suddenly low, putting his hips into it, the weight and strength of his back and shoulder. His wolven claws caught the Kadoshim's blade as it swept high to block a blow that didn't land, Corban's sword hacking into the creature's leg, just above the boot. There was a meaty slap, Corban's blade shearing almost clear through the leg, lodging in bone, then his momentum was carrying him past the Kadoshim, one of its hands reaching out, snatching at his cloak. He staggered away with the Kadoshim lunging after him, swung his wolven claws, cutting into a hand. Severed fingers fell away and he was free, the creature stumbling as its injured leg betrayed it.\n\nThere was snarling and then Storm smashed into it, teeth ripping at its throat, hurling it to the ground. Corban yelled a command, fearful as he remembered the injuries  she'd  sustained from her last encounter with the Kadoshim. Reluctantly she released her grip and backed away, snarling at the fallen enemy as it scrabbled on the ground, pushing itself upright, Corban's sword still lodged in its leg.\n\nThen the Jehar were there: Akar first, others close behind, Gar amongst them, swirling about the injured Kadoshim, their swords gleaming as they sliced and cut. The Kadoshim's sword was a blur as it blocked a dozen blows, snaking out and drawing blood. A Jehar warrior staggered back, gurgling as blood jetted from his throat, but no one could defend against a sustained attack from half a dozen Jehar at once, not even a demon from the Otherworld. Corban saw a severed hand spinning through the air, thick black blood trailing it, the Kadoshim still struggling forwards, grabbing at those around it, its face twisted with hatred.\n\nAbruptly it was over; there was an explosion of shadow above the Kadoshim, the demon's winged spirit emptying from its headless host, a frustrated screech and then it was gone, evaporating into the morning air.\n\n'Better that you hang on to this,' Gar said reprovingly as he returned Corban's sword. 'You won't take a head off with one swing of those claws.'\n\nAround them small pockets of combat raged. For a moment Corban had feared that the entire host of the Kadoshim had descended upon them, but now he saw there were only a score at most, all of them surrounded by Jehar and giants. Even as he looked, Balur took the head from one with his black axe.\n\n_But why are they here? And how far behind is the rest of their host?_ He stared into the gloom, searching for any hint of movement, of a host hidden just beyond sight.\n\nHe watched as Coralen spurred her horse past him, towards the woman and bairn that he had seen earlier. They were still running, a dark shadow chasing them.\n\nCoralen angled her course to head off the Kadoshim, swerving around trees, crashing through undergrowth. Corban felt a flush of fear, a weightlessness in his belly, and started running.\n\nThe Kadoshim leaped a fallen tree and was upon its prey, the three of them falling in a tangle of limbs, the child flying free, snagging in a bush of thorns. The Kadoshim and woman came to a halt, the Kadoshim on top, pinning the woman down. Its teeth sank into her shoulder, ripped away a chunk of flesh. The woman screamed.\n\n_It 's eating her._\n\nThen Coralen was upon them, leaping from her horse as it hurtled by. She crashed into the Kadoshim, rolled with it, somehow got her feet into its belly and sent it flying through the air, crunching into a tree trunk.\n\nShe rolled to a crouch, drew her blade as she rose, without pause surged forwards, her sword a blur. The Kadoshim pushed away from the tree, drew its own sword. Their blades clashed, a cascade of sparks bright in the woodland shadow, ringing out, five, six blows, faster than Corban could follow. Coralen was ducking, pivoting, slashing with sword and claws, the Kadoshim countering and striking with a force that sent Coralen reeling away. It followed, relentless, blood welling from  half a dozen cuts,  struck again, Coralen tripping and falling to the ground, cracking her head on a moss-covered stone.\n\nThe Kadoshim stood over her, sword raised, then staggered back a pace, an arrow jutting from its chest. Something else slammed into it, snapping its head back, a knife hilt protruding from an eye socket. The Kadoshim's remaining good eye fixed on Coralen, who was trying to stand, and it surged towards her, a bloody butchered mess that still radiated menace and power.\n\nCorban jumped over Coralen, still on her knees, and stood before her to meet the Kadoshim, sword raised two-handed over his head. The Kadoshim's mouth shifted - smile or snarl, he could not tell - then their blades met, a crunch that numbed Corban's wrists. They traded blows, Corban forcing the creature back a step, then another.\n\n_It 's weakening._ He swept its sword up, turned his parry into a downward cut, chopping through its wrist, severing its sword hand, kicked it in the chest, sending it staggering back another few steps. An arrow slammed into its belly, another knife followed, and Corban was aware of figures closing all around them: Jehar, giants, Storm and Buddai snarling behind them. Farrell appeared beside him, hefting his war-hammer. It was black with blood.\n\nThe Kadoshim powered forwards; Farrell smashed his hammer into the creature's chest. Bones shattered, flesh mangled as the Kadoshim flew backwards. Then Corban's sword  flashed,  hacked into the Kadoshim's neck, half severing its head. It jerked, tried to turn and grab Corban. Farrell gripped its wrists as Corban's sword rose and fell again. The head fell away, black shadow-like oil pouring from the severed neck, rising to take winged shape, then drifting apart, a frayed and tattered banner.\n\nCorban stood there, chest heaving; everyone around him stared for a frozen moment.\n\n'Elyon's stones, but they're hard to kill,' panted Farrell.\n\n'Too hard,' Corban agreed, feeling the notches in his sword. He patted the flat head of Farrell's war-hammer. 'You need a blade for them.'\n\n'Aye.'\n\nHe walked to Coralen, who was on her feet but still groggy.\n\n'Thank you,' she said. He squeezed her arm.\n\nCywen put her foot on the Kadoshim's severed head and pulled her knife from its eye. Brina was crouching over the woman it had attacked, staunching the blood from her injury. Corban looked around and saw the combat was over. _But for how long?_ Pockets of Jehar and giants spread out amongst the woods, searching for any survivors. _Meical is right: there is no running away from this God-War. I ran from Dun Carreg all the way to Domhain, and it followed me. I travelled to the far north and walked into the middle of it. And now it finds me again. It cannot be escaped. At best I can choose where and how I fight._ He took a deep breath.\n\n'We need to get out of here,' he said to no one in particular.\n\n'Gather the Kadoshim heads,' Tukul yelled beside him.\n\nThey formed up on the meadow beyond the woods, gathering up any who had survived the Kadoshim attack in the woods, of which there were at least a score. Corban searched out Brina. She and Cywen were tending the wounded. Three Jehar and a young giant had died and were laid out on the grass, having cairns piled around them. Brina was applying a salve to the shoulder of the woman whom Coralen had saved. She was grimacing with pain; her child, a girl of seven or eight summers sat silently in the grass beside her. She was plucking meadow flowers, twirling them between dirty fingers.\n\nCorban knelt beside the woman.\n\n'What is your name?'\n\n'Teca,' the woman said.\n\n'Where are you from, Teca?' Corban asked her.\n\nShe stared at him. 'You helped me. You and the girl, red hair.'\n\n'You had a lot more help than just us two,' he said. 'I need to know, where are you from?'\n\nShe told him of her village, of a host of the Kadoshim arriving, led by a warrior riding upon a great draig.\n\n'Some stayed and fought. I ran,' she said. Tears welled in her eyes.\n\n'You were wise to.' Corban gripped her hand. 'There is no standing against them yet. Did they all chase after you, are they close behind?'\n\n'I don't know,' she breathed through clenched lips as Brina bound a strip of linen about her shoulder.\n\n'Would you come with me, please?' Corban asked Brina when she was done.\n\n'What for?'\n\n'I wanted to talk to you about something. And I'm about to make a decision: I'd value your advice.'\n\nShe blinked at him. 'Do you have a fever?' she asked him.\n\n'Sarcasm isn't an attractive quality, and it's also not very helpful.'\n\nShe shrugged and followed him, the sound of flapping wings accompanying them.\n\nCorban gathered up what was becoming his war council: Meical, Balur and Ethlinn, Tukul, Gar and Brina. He noticed Cywen had also joined them. Craf and Fech were nearby.\n\nHe felt the familiar tingle of  fear. _I am  making  plans,  changing plans, and people's  lives  will  depend  on  my choices. _ The weight of that was huge. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts.\n\n'The plan has to change,' he said to them. 'Calidus, Nathair and a host of the Kadoshim are behind us, to the north. At best they are a day's ride away, at worst . . .' He shrugged, looking at the dark wall of trees behind them.\n\n'And what about Rhin's warband?' Meical asked him.\n\nHe paused. _When I speak it, there 's no going back._ Took a deep breath. 'Can't go around, so we'll have to go through them.'\n\n'Is that wise?' Brina said. 'You risk being ensnared with one foe while another gets to stab you in the back.'\n\n_I asked her for advice, not criticism. Though the two are often entwined where Brina is concerned._\n\n'My da used to tell me, don't hit if you can help it, but if you have to, hit fast, and hit hard.' Corban saw a grin split Gar's face and he heard Cywen grunt. _They remember him saying that, too._\n\n'That makes sense,' Meical agreed. 'But how? Ride straight at them? Many will likely be lost.'\n\n'I've had a few thoughts about that.' Corban said. 'I think I have an idea.'\n\n#### CHAPTER NINETEEN\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin peered through a crack in the roundhouse's shutters, loosely holding his bow and a nocked arrow. The sound of hooves was growing louder. He swore quietly.\n\n_I wanted them to ride around. Why the hell do they want to come back to this stinking hole?_ And he didn't mean that metaphorically. The roundhouse stank of death, flies buzzing in lazy circles around half a dozen corpses of villagers who had obviously sought refuge there. He'd had a superficial look around, wondering why Rhin's warriors had been in here, but a quick glance had revealed little, and the sound of hooves bearing down upon them outside hadn't helped his concentration. When the news of riders approaching had reached them, Edana had looked to Camlin. He'd been frozen for a moment, conflicting interests warring in his brain, then ordered them all into the roundhouse, pausing a few moments to unclasp a few of the black and gold cloaks from Rhin's fallen warriors.\n\n_Once upon a time it would have been a simple decision - prepare for an ambush, use the buildings around the town square. Spread our swords. If it came to it, kill and run. Regroup at an appointed spot._\n\nNow, though, he had twenty-six lives other than his own to think of. That included a deposed king and queen and an eight-year-old girl. Meg, the bairn they'd found hiding in the stables, was sitting by his leg. She didn't talk much, but every time he moved she moved with him, straying no further from him than his shadow.\n\nHe frowned as he glanced down at her now.\n\nThe shutters started to shake, the drumming of hooves becoming deafening.\n\n_There 's a lot of them. Just gets better._\n\nSo his plan had been to stick together and hide. Hide and hope they passed through.\n\nHe looked over his shoulder, saw pale, serious faces staring back at him. Roisin stood at the back of the hall, a dozen of her shieldmen tight about her. Lorcan was close to them, sitting on a blanket-covered chest, his feet dangling. He glimpsed Vonn and Baird, backs bent, digging at the wattle and daub wall with spear and sword. _Always need an escape route. If they find us . . ._\n\n_We 'll deal with that if it happens._\n\nHe peered through the crack in the shutter again. It was sunset, the sky was a wash of pink and orange clouds, shadows long and wide. _That 's in our favour, at least._\n\nHe felt a presence behind him: Edana, trying to peer over his shoulder.\n\n'You should get back,' Camlin whispered.\n\nShe ignored him.\n\nRiders thundered into view, spreading around the edges of the market square. _No horse wants to stand on a corpse._ Camlin counted sixty, but he could hear more beyond his vision, hooves thumping on the hard-packed earth.\n\nThe warrior at their head sat tall in his saddle with an easy grace about him. He was clothed in a shirt of gleaming mail and a black leather surcoat, a sable cloak draping his shoulders.\n\n'Morcant,' Edana whispered venomously.\n\nCamlin shared her hatred, remembering the last time he had seen the man. Back in the Darkwood Morcant had led the ambush on Queen Alona, Edana's mam. Both of them had been taken prisoner, as well as Cywen, Corban's sister. Soon after, Morcant had ordered Cywen's death, and that had been the last straw for Camlin. He'd drawn his sword and stood in front of her.\n\n_What kind of fool am I, standing against Rhin 's first-sword?_ Even now he couldn't explain exactly why he'd done it.\n\n'Don't do anything stupid,' he whispered.\n\n'He's evil.'\n\n'I know. But let's live long enough to kill him and tell the tale.'\n\nEdana glared, then gave a sharp nod.\n\nMorcant turned. Camlin saw him take a deep breath and wrinkle his nose.\n\n'Let's make this quick,' Morcant said to the warrior beside him. 'I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. Bring them up.' He paused, looking across the square to the roundhouse. 'Where are the guards I left?'\n\nCamlin wrapped one of the cloaks about his shoulders, threw one to Baird and the two of them stepped into the roundhouse doors. Camlin raised a hand to Morcant.\n\n'Ah,' Morcant said. He stared a moment, but then another rider appeared, leading a line of half a dozen riders by a rope, men and women with hands bound sitting upon them. Prisoners.\n\n'Look around you,' Morcant said to them, languidly gesturing with a hand to the corpse-strewn ground. 'This is what happens when I am defied. This could happen in your village too.' He tapped his heels against his mount, guided it through the dead to the gallows, where he pushed at the body of one of the hanging bairns. It spun lazily in the fading sun. 'Men, women, children. I will spare _no one_.'\n\nOne of the villagers on horseback bent over and vomited.\n\nMorcant's horse picked its way back to them.\n\n'It  doesn't  have  to  be  like  this.  All you have to do is tell me. Where are the outlaws based?'\n\n'We don't know,' one of the prisoners said, a white-haired woman. 'We are peaceful people, we want no trouble.'\n\n'Neither do I,' Morcant said. 'I'd rather get my task finished and be on my way back to Dun Carreg. Marsh life is not for me.' As if to emphasize his point, he slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck. 'So tell me where they are. My patience is wearing, my temper fraying.'\n\n'You're a monster,' one of the younger men snarled, 'a woman-killer, a bairn-slayer.' He spat in Morcant's face.\n\nMorcant's expression shifted from annoyance to blind rage in a heartbeat. In a blur his arm moved, there was the ring of iron and a head was spinning through the air, Morcant's face splattered with the dead man's blood.\n\n'I. Am not. A monster.' Morcant calmly cleaned his blade on the headless corpse's shirt. Slowly it toppled back in the saddle and slumped to the ground. He sheathed his sword and with the hem of his cloak wiped the dead man's blood and spittle from his face. 'I do, however, admit to a temper. It gets the better of me sometimes. As to what I did here - in my defence, the people of this village did more than just refuse me information. I had reason to believe that they were supplying provisions to the outlaws in the marshes.' He shrugged. 'That could not be allowed to continue.'\n\nHe rode along the line of the remaining prisoners, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. 'I do not just punish those who oppose me. I reward those who help me. I will pay well for the right information. Enough silver to feed and clothe your entire village for a year. Or you could just share it between the five of you. Our secret.'\n\n'You're lying,' one of them muttered.\n\n'Am I? There's a chest full of silver in that roundhouse. Bring it out.'\n\nCamlin looked at Baird, then back into the roundhouse. He stared at Lorcan, who looked at him in horror, lifted the blanket off the chest he was sitting upon and kicked it with his heel. It chinked. Everyone in the room stared at him.\n\n_Asroth 's stones. And I call myself a thief. I'm ashamed._\n\n'Bring out the chest,' Morcant called impatiently.\n\n'Some help,' Baird shouted back, then shrugged at Camlin.\n\nMorcant gestured to two warriors. 'Go fetch it for me.' The warriors rode towards the roundhouse.\n\n'Baird, Vonn, how's that bolt-hole coming?' Camlin snapped.\n\n'Nearly there,' Vonn hissed.\n\nThey heard horses come to a stand outside the roundhouse, boots hit the ground. Footsteps.\n\n_No time now._ Everyone scrambled for the dark corners of the room, hiding behind an overturned table, chairs, anything. Camlin shoved Edana behind him and drew his knife.\n\nThe wooden doors creaked open. It was dusk now, almost dark in the roundhouse. A weak wash of light filtered a little way into the room, silhouetting the warriors as they strode inside.  Camlin  let them take a few steps in, out of sight from the square, then leaped forwards, one hand clamping over a mouth, his knife plunging into a back, slicing between ribs, puncturing a lung. The warrior in his grip stiffened, hissed. Camlin stabbed again, and again. The other warrior  was  turning,  sword  already  half  out  of  its  scabbard,  his mouth open, drawing breath to yell.\n\nA sword crunched into his neck, cutting deep, blood spurting. The sword swung again, wildly, hit him in the face, taking off half his jaw and spinning him. Teeth, blood and bone sprayed as he collapsed to the floor.\n\nCamlin turned, saw Edana standing with her sword gripped in both hands. She was staring at the fallen warrior. Camlin peered through the shutter.\n\n_No one 's noticed. Yet._ He swept up his bow and arrow and ran to the back wall, where Baird and Vonn had finally cut a hole in the wall. Pale light seeped through. _We 've about a fast count to thirty, if we're lucky . . ._\n\n'Out, now,' he hissed.\n\nCian was first through, Roisin behind him, another half-dozen shieldmen straight after. Camlin stuck his head through the hole.\n\n'Don't wait - head south, to the river. Saw some boats - they're our best chance.' He searched the room for the bairn Meg, jumped a little when he saw her standing beside him. 'Meg, show Cian the way to the river and boats.'\n\n'You coming?' she asked.\n\n'I'll be along after.'\n\nShe chewed at her lip a moment, then nodded, slipped through the hole and sprinted off into the dusk. Cian and the others hurried after her.\n\nEdana was still standing by the door, clutching her sword. Vonn was whispering to her, but to no  apparent  effect.  Camlin  strode over, took one look at her and shook her by the shoulders.\n\n'You've killed a man,' he hissed at Edana. 'Good. He was your enemy and would have killed you. Now sheathe your sword and get out, 'fore someone else comes and tries to kill you.'\n\nShe blinked at him, then nodded, tried to sheathe her sword but her hands were shaking. Baird helped her and hurried her through the hole in the wall, other warriors following.\n\nMorcant's voice called out and Camlin felt his heart freeze. Hooves, footsteps.\n\n'Move,' Camlin hissed, pushing men through the hole. 'Lorcan, you next.'\n\n'I shall wait with you and defend Edana's escape.'\n\nCamlin sighed.\n\nThere were only a handful of them left: Camlin and Lorcan, a couple of Roisin's shieldmen, one of them Brogan - the shieldman with the barrel of herring still strapped to his back - and Vonn.\n\nCamlin calmly pulled a handful of arrows from the quiver at his belt and stabbed them into the ground.\n\nFeet drummed at the doors, warriors strode in, half a dozen at least. They saw Camlin and his companions, froze a heartbeat or two and Camlin put an arrow through the first man's throat. He fell back in a spray of blood, crashing into those behind him. Draw, breathe, release, and Camlin put another arrow into them. Then they were charging, calling to their comrades outside as they came.\n\nVonn was through the hole.\n\nCamlin nocked, drew, released, another warrior stumbled to the ground, tripping others behind him.\n\nOne of Lorcan's shieldmen shouted a battle-cry and ran at the warriors. He swung his sword two-handed, gutted the first man he reached, ploughed into the others shoulder first, sending them all staggering.\n\n'Come on,' Vonn yelled through the hole.\n\n'Time to go,' Camlin said to Lorcan, grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him through.\n\n'You next, big man,' Camlin told Brogan, at the same time drawing his bow and releasing. More warriors in black and gold were crowding through the roundhouse doors. Brogan grunted, stuck in the gap, as the barrel on his back wedged tight. Camlin took a step back and hurled himself at the warrior, both of them exploding through the wall. Camlin rolled on the ground, looked back, saw feet pounding towards them and caught a glimpse of the chest full of silver. He gave one last wistful look at it. _Once upon a time . . ._ Then he was running. Vonn and Lorcan were just ahead of him, swerving between wattle-and-daub buildings, Brogan hard on his heels. Hooves were drumming, warriors yelling somewhere behind him, far too close for Camlin's liking.\n\n_The river, find the river._ It was near dark, a bluish tinge to the air as the sun faded. Camlin heard the sound of water, ran around a hut, stopped to yank open the gate of a pig pen and then ran on. There was a stampede of feet and squealing pigs, followed almost immediately by swearing, crashing, falling. Camlin grinned and then burst out of the village onto the riverbank.\n\nThe boats were tied along the bank, Roisin and Cian already in a canoe, a dozen others sat in boats, pushing away from the bank into the wide, sluggish river.\n\n'Lorcan,' Roisin cried out when she saw her son, and he clambered in beside her.\n\nBaird stood over Edana in a larger flat-bottomed boat, gesturing frantically to them. Then a hand was slipping into his, Meg, tugging him towards the boat. He didn't need much encouragement, rushed to the riverbank and boarded.\n\nHorses thundered along the bank, warriors yelling. Spears whistled past them, splashing and disappearing into the river. Close by someone screamed and fell from a boat.\n\n'Upriver, into the marshes,' Camlin yelled as he saw a coracle with two warriors in it start to paddle downriver.\n\n_It 'll be faster going downriver, but they'll track us with no problem. Only chance is to head into the marshes._\n\nThen Camlin saw Morcant. He burst from between two huts, saw the boats pushing into the river and snarled. Camlin nocked another arrow, drew and sighted, aiming for Morcant's chest. A spear suddenly slammed into Brogan; the big man grunted and dropped the steering pole, the boat veering. Camlin's arrow skittered wide as he tried to regain his balance. Swearing loudly, he drew another arrow from his quiver but the boat was starting to spin, caught in the sluggish current. Camlin clambered to his feet, the boat rocking; he grabbed the pole and started pushing. In seconds they were moving in the right direction, heading upstream into the marshes with half a dozen other river craft. Brogan groaned and pushed himself up.\n\n'Thought you were dead,' Camlin said to the big warrior.\n\n'Spear hit the barrel of fish on my back.' Brogan grinned and held up a herring from the shattered barrel. Baird  laughed,  the sound strange amidst the panic and fear of their flight.\n\n'Come on, fish-man, lend a hand,' Baird said.\n\nMorcant was leading riders along the bank, shadowing the boats.\n\n'Meg, do you know your way around these marshes?'\n\n'A bit,' the girl confessed.\n\n'Appreciate it if you'd be our eyes, take us where they can't follow.'\n\nIt did not take long before Meg was guiding them off of the main river down narrower tributaries, ever south and east, sometimes pushing their way through great banks of reeds, sometimes coasting like ghosts on the liquid dark, always heading deeper into the marshes. It was darker now, the moon and stars veiled by ragged cloud. Camlin watched with satisfaction as their pursuit slowed, the terrain becoming unnavigable for the horses in the dark.\n\nEventually Camlin heard a splash and a horse neigh wildly. Before they disappeared into the darkness Camlin saw a rider come close to the bank. For a moment the clouds cleared and moonlight shone bright upon  them, silvering  the dark river and  the warrior upon his mount. It was Morcant, and he stared straight at  him. Camlin returned the gaze with a mocking grin.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele watched Maquin as he gutted and skinned a rabbit, his movements efficient and practised.\n\n_If I were alone out here I would have starved to death long ago._ She felt a surge of frustration as she observed Maquin, a moment of shame at how useless she was proving to be. _What can I actually do? Run through woodland, and that not very well. Rule? And I didn 't prove to be too successful at that, either._ She felt a wave of shame, thought of how the world had changed in so short a time. _It was not so long ago that I dwelt in Jerolin with my husband and son. Now Aquilus is dead, Nathair gone who knows where, and I am living hand-to-mouth in the wild. Who even sits on the throne in Jerolin now? Who rules the people of Tenebral? My people._ She felt a failure, felt that she'd let down all those who depended upon her.\n\n_All of those years living a life of service, bound by  duty  and  honour. Aquilus was almost a stranger through our last years of marriage, so consumed and driven by Meical's prophecy, and yet  it  all  came  to  nothing, ended by a traitor's blade. And Nathair,  my  own  son,  left  me  and  then chose Lykos over me._ She felt a flush of anger - the two men in her life whom she had trusted wholeheartedly, both abandoning her. Neither of them taking her into their confidences. The emotion was swiftly followed by shame - _Aquilus was a good man, just preoccupied by these dangerous times.  And  Nathair  is  a  good  man,  again,  swept  away by the dark times we live in._\n\n_As I have been._\n\n_But I was betrayed. It all changed with the letter from Nathair, his orders for me to step down as regent of Tenebral and hand over the stewardship of the realm to Lykos. Why did he do that? How could Nathair side with Lykos? I fear for him. Have they bewitched him too? Or is he just misled, deceived?_ With an effort she focused on Maquin, wrenching her thoughts away from their dark spiral, forcing herself to watch Maquin's hands as he prepared the meat for their evening meal.\n\nThey had stopped a little earlier than usual, the sun still a handspan above the horizon as Maquin had set snares around a network of burrows that he had spied. She'd watched with fascination as he'd cut, looped and tied twine to overhanging branches, bending and pegging them to the earth, and then settled beneath a densely leaved oak a score of paces away. It had been dark when she finally heard the snap and creak of the snare tripping. Maquin had grinned at her, a rare thing, transforming his dour expression.\n\n'Hot meat for our supper,' he'd said.\n\nShe couldn't express how happy she was  about  that.  It  had been raining all day, a soft drizzle that had soaked her through long before highsun. Maquin's hard pace had allowed no time for rest, keeping her breathless and exhausted as usual. She was glad to stop before the darkness settled about them.\n\n'Is a fire safe?' she asked as Maquin searched for kindling that wasn't soaked through, cutting away at a rotted branch to reach the dry wood within.\n\n'So much cloud, and it's so low, smoke shouldn't give us away, and we've gone a ten-night since we last saw any Vin Thalun. I can bank and hide the fire, keep the flames low and covered. Reckon it's worth the risk, eh? Feels like my bones are damp.'\n\n_I 'm glad to hear him say  that.  He  seems  inhuman,  all  of  him  distilled down to strength and will._ Maquin  skewered  the  quartered meat of the rabbit and set it on a spit above the small fire.\n\nThey were a ten-night into the heartland of Tenebral, keeping as much as possible to the dense woodlands that carpeted the undulating landscape.\n\nAfter that night in the woods when Maquin had slain the Vin Thalun - _with some help from me -_ they had set out east. Fidele had still not recovered from that night - she had killed a man. She'd put her spear through his throat, and had had nightmares about it ever since. _Idiot woman. He was my enemy, would have killed Maquin and  then  me._\n\n'Teach me how to do that,' she asked abruptly, nodding at the rabbit.\n\n'Don't think it's something for a fine lady's hands,' Maquin said.\n\n'Well, it should be,' Fidele snapped. 'What use am I, otherwise? I am like an infant, unable to fend for myself.'\n\nMaquin shrugged. 'We all learn what we need to,' he said. 'People like you learn how to govern, give orders. People like me, to do what we're told. To learn something useful.'\n\n'And what is your useful trade, then?' Fidele asked him.\n\n'Death. I deal in death.'\n\nHis gaze dropped to his hands, and her eyes followed. They were surprisingly fine and long-fingered, like a musician's hands at court, though as he turned them she saw thick calluses on his fingers and palms, the whorls of his skin marked by earth or blood.\n\n'I'll teach you to catch a rabbit, prepare it for cooking, make a fire, if you'd like. Though there may not be another opportunity before we reach Ripa.'\n\n_If we reach Ripa._\n\nThe injured warrior of Tenebral, Drusus, had died the same night, but not before he'd told them that Peritus had set a rendezvous point with every member of his small rebellion. Ripa, fortress of Lamar. That had made sense to Fidele, as Lamar and his eldest son Krelis had always borne an ill-concealed hatred for the Vin Thalun. _If anyone would declare openly against the Vin Thalun it would be Lamar of Ripa_.\n\nMaquin passed her a piece of the quartered rabbit and she bit into it, burning her lips but not caring, it tasted so delicious. She realized Maquin was watching her and she wiped her mouth.\n\n'Sorry, not very ladylike.'\n\n'Don't mind me,' Maquin said. 'It all goes down the same.'\n\n'Tell me, Maquin. How did a man of Isiltir end up here?'\n\n'It's a long story,' Maquin grunted.\n\n'And we have many dark nights ahead of us. You don't have to finish it all tonight.'\n\nHe stared silently at the fire a while, as if trying to remember.\n\n'I was shieldman to Kastell ben Aenor. His cousin, Jael, killed him in the tombs beneath Haldis. He killed Romar, King of Isiltir as well, though he didn't hold the blade.' He spoke to the fire, not taking his eyes from the flicker of the flames. 'I fought against Jael in Isiltir. Lykos came with his Vin Thalun and turned the battle.' He paused, as if remembering. A hand lifted to his ear, which Fidele noticed was only a stump. 'I was captured. Lykos took me as part of his spoils, put me on an oar-bench, gave me this.' Maquin touched the scar on his back, where Lykos had branded him.\n\n_He speaks as if it didn 't happen to him, as if he is recounting someone else's tale._\n\n'He threw me in the pit, told me that if I lived long enough he'd set me free, that I could seek my vengeance on Jael.'\n\n'Is that what you want?'\n\nHe looked up at her now, his eyes dark pools, a glint of firelight a spark in their depths.\n\n'Aye, with all that I am.'\n\nFidele resisted the urge to recoil at the hatred she heard in his voice. It emanated from him, throbbing like the pulse of a wound. He had spoken of Lykos, and at that name she had felt her own anger stir and bubble.\n\n'I feel the same about Lykos,' she whispered fiercely. 'I hate him. I am scared of him too. If he lives I would wish to spend my life hunting him until he were dead. But another voice within me says that I would run, as far and as fast as I could to escape him. To the very edges of the world.' She ground her teeth, fear, anger, shame, all swirling through her.\n\n'He's high on my list of people to see dead, I'll not deny,' Maquin said. 'If he's not already dead. I saw you put that knife into him; it went deep. Wouldn't be surprised if you killed him.'\n\n'Aye, maybe. And then again, he may still live.'\n\nMaquin shrugged. 'Can't change that. Yet.'\n\n'No, but it doesn't stop me being scared. Don't you feel fear?'\n\n'Fear? I left that in the pit. I have nothing left to lose, nothing to fear for. I have lost everything - my kin, Kastell, my sword-brothers. My pride. In the pit I lost my honour and humanity. All that's left is revenge.'\n\n'Then why are you here?'\n\nHe shrugged again. 'I made you a promise.'\n\n'You were going to break your promise, though. You left me. You walked away.'\n\nHe stared at her. _Why did I say that?_\n\n'I did. I won't do that again. Not until you're safe.'\n\nThe effect of those words was comforting, seeping through her like hot soup on a cold day.\n\n'I didn't blame you for leaving. Or judge you.'\n\n'I judged me. That was enough.'\n\nFidele woke to a touch, Maquin's hand on her shoulder. She half rose, then paused as she saw his face.\n\n'What's wrong?' she said.\n\n'Listen.'\n\nShe did.\n\n'What is that?'\n\n'Hounds,' Maquin said. 'We have to go. Now.'\n\nShe leaped to her feet and in moments they were hurrying through the undergrowth.\n\nFidele hoped that Maquin was mistaken, or that the hounds were just a coincidence, out on a hunt with a local woodsman. But all morning the sounds trailed them, becoming clearer, an excited baying. The land around them changed, the woodland growing denser, the ground rising into a steady incline. The scent of pine grew around them as they climbed higher, the woodland opening up, pine needles dense and spongy underfoot. The baying behind them was louder now, and Fidele had started looking over her shoulder, fearing to see hounds and men behind her.\n\n'They are a league or so behind us,' Maquin said.\n\n'They sound . . . so close,' Fidele gasped.\n\n'Sound carries in this woodland,' Maquin grunted.  'But  they were double that distance away at daybreak.'\n\n_What are we going to do?_ She was walking with a spear in her hand, the same one that she had used to kill the Vin Thalun. Now, though, she was using it as a crutch to keep herself upright. Her grip on its shaft tightened. Sweat ran down her face, dripping into her eyes, stinging, her lungs heaving, the aching in her legs a constant companion. They were following a fox trail. _Animals know the way through the forest better than I do,_ Maquin had said to her. _Better to trust them than try cutting a new way through the undergrowth._ Blessedly, the ground levelled beneath them, to one side a cliff rising steep and sheer, pines crowding close on the other. A new sound made itself known, growing with each step. Running water.\n\nMaquin pulled up in front of her and  grabbed  her  about  the waist as she stumbled past  him,  her  legs  not  instantly  obeying the order to stop. She was glad he did.\n\nA ravine opened up in front of her, a river roaring through it some distance below. She fell to her knees, sucking in great lungfuls of air.\n\n'What are we going to do,' she asked.\n\n'Well. If the dogs weren't onto us I'd say we climb down this ravine and swim for a bit. Come out a few leagues downriver. It would take a huntsman a ten-night to pick up our trail again, if ever they could find it.'\n\n'Let's do that, then.'\n\n'No point. They'll know we've used the river, and with those hounds they'll pick up our scent and trail again within a day; we'll be back to square one.'\n\n_Hunted again. Death breathing down our necks, again._\n\n'I am sorry to bring this upon you.'\n\n'Well, I'll not deny, you're proving to be a great deal of trouble.'\n\n'So what do we do?' Fidele felt that old companion squirming in her belly. Fear. _I cannot be caught. I cannot go back to Lykos._\n\nMaquin reached inside his bag and pulled out the ball of twine he'd taken from the woodcutters' hut.\n\n'Got to kill those hounds.'\n\nFidele crouched behind a tree, peering back down the track in the twilight.\n\nThe sun was setting behind the treetop canopy, its last rays dappling the ground pink and orange. Fidele thought she saw movement.\n\n_Please Elyon, let it be Maquin._\n\nHe had set out his plan to her - if it could be called that - and left her soon after. Fear had been steadily filling her since then, like the drip of ice melting into a bucket.\n\n_No. I will not die scared. Or live scared any longer. Maquin is right. There is nothing I can do other than face it._ She gripped her spear tightly.\n\nA figure emerged out of the gloom: Maquin sprinting towards her and skidding to the ground beside her.\n\n'Well, I think I got their attention,' he said through ragged breaths.\n\nMen were visible on the path now, the first one straining  to control three hounds, all barking frantically and straining on their leashes.\n\n'Didn't think there'd be three,' Maquin muttered, pulling one of the many knives he carried. 'Woodsmen usually hunt with two.'\n\nHe stood and let their pursuers see him.\n\nThe first man let the dogs go, all three of them bursting along the path towards Maquin. They were big grey-coated hounds with broad heads and wide muzzles, the type she'd seen bring down boars when accompanying Aquilus on hunts. Their bared teeth glinted in the twilight.\n\n_We 're dead._\n\nOne pulled ahead of the others, tongue lolling, so close that Fidele could see the muscles of his chest and shoulders bunching and flowing with each ground-eating stride. He stumbled on something across his path and suddenly the undergrowth was in motion, a long branch whipping out of nowhere, sharp spikes slamming into the hound's flank, impaling it a dozen times. It howled, squirmed, the howls slipping to a whine, then it slumped, blood dripping from its mouth.\n\nThe other two hounds paid it no attention, surging past.\n\n'Remember, do what I told you,' Maquin hissed as he spread his feet, crouching, drawing another knife. Fidele shifted the weight of her spear, eyes focused on the nearest hound. It was thirty paces away now. A heartbeat, and it was twenty. She shuffled involuntarily backwards, heard the roar of the river behind her, set her feet.\n\nThe hound jolted to a stop, one leg wrenched into the air, its body swinging around, dragging on the branch that it was now snared to. Fidele held her breath but the snare and branch held.  The  other hound powered past it and leapt at Maquin. As she rushed forward, she glimpsed Maquin tumbling away, the hound slamming into him.\n\n_Finish your task,_ she screamed at herself as she ran forwards and plunged her spear into the snared hound's chest. Dimly she remembered Maquin telling her to stab it in the belly, that it would be softer there, at the same time feeling the spear head slide on bone. She put all her weight onto the shaft and pushed, felt the spear slip past ribs, deeper, into something softer, the hound whining, snapping and writhing. It shuddered and then collapsed.\n\nShe pulled on her spear but it was stuck; she tugged more frantically, then heard the shouts of men running towards them down the track. A hundred paces, closing quickly. She left her spear in the dead hound and turned.\n\nMaquin lay beneath a pile of fur, the last hound slumped on him.\n\n_He 's dead._ Fidele rushed to him, feeling as if her heart was lurching in her chest, and heaved the dog away _._ Maquin groaned and she felt a tide of relief wash her.\n\n'Thought I was dead,' he blinked.\n\n'So did I,' Fidele breathed as she helped him stand. 'What now?'\n\n'Didn't think we'd get this far.' He glanced down the trail at the onrushing warriors, then over his shoulder at the river.\n\n'Time to get wet,' he said. He gripped her hand in his and together they ran at the ravine's edge, leapt into the air and plummeted towards the river below.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\n#### LYKOS\n\nLykos wandered in a world of grey. Grey plains undulating into the distance, a charcoal river curling through it like some fluid serpent. Grey trees, branches swaying, slate-grey clouds boiling above him. In the distance he saw a structure, arching out of the land.\n\n_A bridge?_\n\nOn its far side was a wall, stretching into the sky, merging with the clouds. Or was it a wall . . . ?\n\nHe squinted, saw that there was movement within it, a billowing, like sails in a fickle wind.\n\n_It is not a wall. It is mist. A fog bank._\n\nHe saw a rock and sat to assess the situation.\n\nPain spiked, in his face and back. He put his hand to the greater pain, his back, and his fingers came away red. Blood red.\n\n'How did that happen?'\n\nHe felt a flicker of worry, but almost as soon as it had come it was gone. It was hard to care in this world leached of all colour. Of all life.\n\nHe looked about again, knew where he was.\n\n_The Otherworld._ He had been here before, since he had made his pact with Asroth, summoned here on rare occasions by Calidus for some clandestine communication or other. But this time it felt different. Time was different here, hard to measure, but he knew somehow that he'd been here . . . _a while? How long?_\n\n'Long enough. Longer than ever before.'\n\n_Is this death?_\n\n'No,' a voice said beside him, startling him. 'But near enough.'\n\nIt was Calidus, sitting upon a boulder. He looked younger, his white hair softer, less brittle, the creases in his face lines instead of grooves. He wore a coat of chainmail, dark leathery wings folded behind him. A smile spread across his face.\n\n'You look pleased with yourself,' Lykos commented.\n\n'I am. Things are going well.'\n\n'So why am I here?' Lykos asked him.\n\nCalidus' smile disappeared. 'I have not summoned you this time. You found your own way here. You are dying.'\n\n'Oh.' _I guessed as much. I should feel scared, but I don 't._\n\n'And that, over there?' He pointed to the bridge and the wall of mist.\n\n'The bridge of swords, and what comes next,' Calidus told him.\n\n'What does come next?'\n\n'Death. Whatever that is.'\n\nLykos felt indifferent to it. Not even any hint of curiosity.\n\n'I don't want you to die,' Calidus said. 'I need you to live.'\n\nLykos shrugged again.\n\n'Here,' Calidus said and passed him an apple. Lykos took it in both hands, ran his fingers over the featureless skin. _A grey apple. Not very appealing._\n\n'Would you walk away from it all, then?' Calidus asked him.\n\n'From what?'\n\n'Your life.'\n\nLykos thought about that, maybe for a few heartbeats, maybe for a moon, he could not tell. Eventually he shook his head. 'I can hardly remember it.'\n\n'Your heart's desire was to unite the Three Islands. To become Lord of the Vin Thalun.'\n\n'The Three Islands?'\n\n'Aye. Your father was a Vin Thalun corsair, and Lord  of  the Island of Panos. You inherited that island, though you had to fight for it.'\n\nA dim memory stirred. The corpse of his father lying upon a bower of thorns. Flames. Blood in the firelight.\n\n'I did.'\n\n'You made a pact with Asroth. He helped you win the Three Islands. You united them, forged a nation out of the Vin Thalun and became their king.'\n\nLykos felt a flicker of emotion, an echo of the joy that had consumed him as he had sat before the defeated captains of Nerin and Pelset and heard their oaths of fealty.\n\n'Take a bite of your apple.'\n\nLykos lifted it to his lips and saw there was a pink flush to its skin, faded and pastel, but there now, stark against the grey of this world. He took a small bite, tasted . . . something. Faint, bland.\n\n'And you have done more. You rule in Tenebral, are regent in Nathair's stead.'\n\n'Aye. But that hasn't gone so well.'\n\n'Tell me of it.'\n\nAs Lykos spoke, he remembered: the effigy of Fidele that Calidus had gifted him, the power it gave him over her. Passion stirred in him at the memory of her, the sensation of her skin beneath his fingers, the taste of her fear. He remembered the arena, his wedding day, Fidele as beautiful and desirable as he had ever seen her. Maquin and Orgull duelling in the fighting-pit. Maquin throwing down his weapons, the explosion of eagle-guard from amongst the spectators.\n\nChaos.\n\nBattle.\n\nFighting Maquin, Fidele plunging a knife into his back. He felt a wave of anger at that, but it soon subsided into a self-deprecating chuckle. 'I suppose I had that coming.'\n\n'No. In your world you take, or it is taken from you.'\n\n'I remember those words. My da spoke them to me.'\n\n'Aye. And you have taken, and tasted.'\n\n'I have.' He thought of Fidele again, felt a spark of anger at Maquin, the man who had taken her from him.\n\n'Your face, Lykos. What happened to it?'\n\nHe touched his cheek, felt gouges in his flesh, blood congealing into crusted scabs.\n\n'She attacked me, clawed me like an animal. The bitch.' He licked a drop of his blood from a finger. 'She was magnificent.'\n\nCalidus grinned at him.\n\n'Do you want to go back?'\n\n'Aye.'  Lykos  grinned  in  return,  took  another  bite  from  his apple. It was blood red now, the flesh sweet, juice dripping down his chin.\n\nLykos' eyes fluttered open.\n\n_Where am I?_\n\nThe swaying sensation gave it away. _On a ship._ He reached out, gripped the side of a cot and pulled himself up. Pain throbbed in his back but he gritted his teeth and managed to sit upright. He sat there long moments, head in his hands, fighting the pain, the swirling sense of nausea and the fact that he felt weak as a newborn pup.\n\nA door creaked and a figure peered into the cabin, a woman. He blinked, remembering her.\n\n_Nella._ She had been his woman before his obsession with Fidele. Or one of his women. Something was strapped across her chest, a lump wrapped in linen.\n\nShe put a hand upon his head, her face creased with worry.\n\n'I'm fine, woman,' Lykos said irritably. Or at least, that's what he meant to say. It came out strangled and unintelligible. She poured water from a jug, which he drank greedily.\n\n'Slowly, or you'll bring it back up,' Nella scolded him. He waved her away.\n\nOthers came through the cabin door - old Jayr, his ship's healer, Alazon, the white-haired shipwright, and another, a warrior bristling with hilts and iron. _Where 's Deinon, my shieldman?_\n\nMemories and dreams were starting to blur. The arena, fighting the Old Wolf Maquin, Fidele. She'd put a knife in his back. After that everything was vague. Being carried, half-dragged, from the arena. Then nothing.\n\n_No, not nothing. The Otherworld. Calidus. He gave me a task to do._\n\nHis stomach growled, complaining about the sudden influx of water or the fact that he felt half starved, he did not know. _Probably both._\n\n'Slow down with the water,' old Jayr said as his fingers probed at Lykos' throat, then lifted bandages from his waist, checking the wound on his back. 'You're well,' he sniffed.\n\nThat didn't mean much from Jayr, who pronounced everyone healthy until they were a handspan from death. _But that in itself is encouraging, I suppose._\n\n'Where's Deinon?' Lykos managed to get out, his voice a croak.\n\n'Dead,' Alazon said.\n\nThat hit Lykos like a punch in the gut. Of course they lived and usually died by the sword, but Deinon had seemed invulnerable. And he had been the closest thing to a friend that Lykos had known, his presence always reassuring.\n\n'The Old Wolf, so men have said,' Alazon continued. 'This is Kolai. I appointed him as your chief shieldman until you were able to choose Deinon's . . .' He didn't finish the sentence.\n\nLykos gave Kolai a perfunctory nod as he looked him over. His age was hard to gauge, his skin weathered and scarred, but Lykos vaguely remembered him, had bet money on him. _Another one from the pits. It always ages them on the outside. Thirty summers, maybe._\n\n'How long have I been out?'\n\n'Over a ten-night,' Nella said, fetching a bowl and dipping a linen cloth into it. 'Goat's milk. Take a few drops, then stop,' she ordered. His eyes dropped to the lump strapped to her chest and he saw a shock of black hair as she leaned over him. It gave out a whimper.\n\n'What's that?' he asked as he grabbed the linen from her.\n\n'Your son,' she snapped.\n\nHe blinked at that, abruptly remembering that she had been heavy with child the last time he'd seen her, back on Panos. He slurped a mouthful from the linen, then took the bowl and drank it down.\n\nNella tutted at him.\n\n'She's right - slow down,' Jayr said to him reprovingly.\n\n'My son,' Lykos said, feeling a grin split his face. 'What's his name?'\n\n'Rodas.'\n\nLykos reached over, pulled the linen sheet back and stroked his thumb across the child's cheek. 'Well met, Rodas,' he said, patting him on the head. That didn't go down too well, the boy's face wrinkling as he sucked in a breath and wailed.\n\n'He's not a hound,' Nella said, slapping Lykos' hand away.\n\n'He needs to be strong,' Lykos said as he stood. 'My sword? My knives?' The world felt as if it was moving, more so than he would expect from a ship's cabin, but he refused to lie still  a  moment longer.\n\n'Report,' he ordered as he pulled on a linen shirt and a leather vest, wincing at the jolts of complaint from the wound in his back.\n\nAlazon spoke to him of all that had happened since the uprising in the arena. He had taken control while Lykos was incapacitated, a decision which Lykos approved of. Apparently a bloody battle had raged on the meadows  and streets  of Jerolin for half  a day.  The steady influx of Vin Thalun from ships moored on the  lake  and others arriving by river had turned it. Since then the Vin Thalun had been  going  door  to  door,  searching,  burning,  executing.  The uprising had not spread, in large part due to the fact that many of the eagle-guard of Jerolin had stayed allied with the Vin Thalun. Fidele had been wed to Lykos, after all, so with her missing - kidnapped, Alazon had announced, by a madman and murderer - Lykos was to all purposes her representative until she was found. Slowly the unrest had died down and a semblance of peace had been restored, at least within Jerolin and the surrounding vicinity. Meanwhile Alazon had sent hunting parties out after any survivors of the uprising.\n\n'What of the Old Wolf and Fidele? I want his head, and I want her back.'\n\n'Got someone you might want to talk to about that.'\n\nLykos leaned against a timber frame in the shipyard that stood on the lakeshore before Jerolin's dark walls, resting for a moment as the sun beat down upon him.\n\n_Damn, but it 's hot._ Without a word Alazon handed him a skin. Lykos sniffed and drank, cool watered wine. A glance at the village on the lakeshore and Jerolin on its low hill had been reassuring. All seemed normal, people going about their everyday business. _It 's as if there was no uprising._\n\nThe only visible difference was that there were more Vin Thalun about the place. In the village, on the lakeshore, standing watch on the walls of Jerolin alongside the fortress' eagle-guard.\n\n_Alazon has done well. The situation could have polarized us._\n\nThe lake was a forest of masts and black sails, a Vin Thalun fleet settled on it like crows upon a field of corpses.\n\n'I've had word from Calidus. A fleet must be readied for sail. War-galleys and transporters for a warband two thousand strong. Room for horses and baggage.' _And something else._\n\n'That's fifty ships, at least. We can do that,' Alazon shrugged.\n\n'Good. We'll talk more of it later.'\n\n'This way,' Alazon said, striding bow-legged through the shipyard, and led him to the arena that still stood on the plain before Jerolin. Its earth was hard packed now, dried out by the sun. Dark stains betrayed the violence that it had witnessed.\n\nThere were cages on the far side, designed to hold pit-fighters. The cages were full. A score of Vin Thalun warriors guarded them, lounging in the sun, some sparring half-heartedly, some drinking.\n\nAlazon called out a name and a warrior separated from the guards, a young Vin Thalun, his beard oiled and bound with only a few iron rings. He looked as if he'd seen combat recently, his nose crooked, his jaw swollen, bruises fading.\n\n'This is Senios,' Alazon said. 'He's got something to tell.'\n\n'I saw Fidele and the Old Wolf,' he said, eyes unable to meet Lykos'.\n\n'Where?'\n\n'The forest - I was guarding the timber fields, the day of your . . .' He trailed off. 'Aye. Go on.'\n\nSenios told of his capture by Maquin, bargaining for his life and time. How he had tried to escape, fought hard with the Old Wolf, only losing because Fidele had struck him from behind.\n\nLykos looked him up and down. _I saw the Old Wolf kill Herak, trainer of pit-fighters. Can 't see you besting him._\n\n'What did you offer in return for your life?' Lykos asked him.\n\n'Information.'\n\nLykos just stared at him.\n\nSenios looked at the ground, shuffled his feet. 'The giantess and her whelp,' he muttered, just above a whisper. 'I took the Old Wolf and Fidele to see them.'\n\nLykos felt a hot gush of rage, fear entwined about it. His most closely guarded secret. Twelve years he had kept them safe from harm and prying eyes on the island of Pelset, but things had become so fluid, danger everywhere, that he had wanted them close to him. And now Fidele and the Old Wolf had seen them.\n\n_The Old Wolf must die and Fidele must be returned to my side, where I can seal her flapping lips._\n\n'And,' he managed to say, bottling his rage.\n\n'I  escaped,'  Senios  said,  raising  his  head  and  meeting  Lykos' gaze. 'They ran. Some of the giants' guards gave chase.'\n\n'How many?'\n\n'Seven, eight.'\n\n_Not enough._\n\n'When did this happen?'\n\n'Twelve nights ago,' Alazon said. 'Senios reached us eight nights gone. I sent a score more into the forest, hounds and a local woodsman with them.'\n\n'Good, Alazon,' Lykos said, patting the old warrior's shoulder. He looked hard at Senios, reached a decision.\n\n'Kolai,' he snapped to the warrior whom Alazon had appointed as his shieldman.\n\n'Aye,' the warrior said, stepping forward.\n\n'I need new shieldmen. See if Senios is worthy.'\n\nKolai drew a short sword and knife from the impressive array of weapons strapped about his body. Senios blinked and took a step away.\n\nKolai moved into the arena, beckoned for Senios to follow.\n\nSenios' eyes darted about, fell onto Lykos, who was watching him like a horse trader at market.\n\n'What are you waiting for?' Lykos said.\n\nSenios walked hesitantly after Kolai. He drew his short sword and shrugged a buckler onto his arm.\n\n'Begin,' Lykos said and Kolai exploded forwards. Iron met iron, sparks flying, feet shuffling on the dusty earth. Senios fought well - any Vin Thalun who reached adulthood knew how to fight, but Kolai steadily broke down his guard, Senios' blocks and lunges becoming wilder as Kolai's skill became more apparent. In a dozen heartbeats Senios was bleeding from many small wounds, blood sheeting into his left eye. He knew it was only a matter of time and decided on an all-or-nothing attack.\n\n_I admire that, at least. But he betrayed my secret._\n\nHe ended up flat on his back, Kolai's boot on his chest, sword hovering over his throat.\n\n'Live or die?' Kolai asked, not taking his eyes from Senios.\n\n_There was only ever one outcome I wanted from this. Senios betrayed me to save his skin for an extra day._\n\n'Die.'\n\nKolai's sword stabbed down, a gurgle and a rush of blood, then he was cleaning his blades and sheathing them. Lykos nodded to him as he resumed his position a few steps behind Lykos. _He knew this was as much a test for him as for Senios. Unlike Senios, he has just passed._\n\n'Who are they?' Lykos asked Alazon, pointing to the men crammed into the cages at the far end of the arena.\n\n'Prisoners. A mixture. Mostly locals who got caught up in the rioting. A few eagle-guard. Pit-fighters who turned on us.'\n\nLykos remembered that, could see in his mind's eye Maquin and Orgull smashing the locks to the cages, the pit-fighters inside rushing out. Lykos walked to the cages, paced slowly alongside them, studied those inside. Local people, farmers, trappers, traders, a handful of battered and bloodstained eagle-guard. He stopped suddenly.\n\n'Javed.'\n\nJaved was a pit-fighter, one of the few who had risen up through the ranks with Maquin. He was from Tarbesh in the east - small, slim, seemingly built solely of wire-like muscle. Lykos had offered him and a handful of others their freedom, one last fight and a chest of silver at the end of it for the victor. Javed had won his bout, earned his freedom and his silver, and yet he had chosen to fight beside Maquin and Orgull. He sat with his head bowed, refusing to look at Lykos.\n\n'I  saw  the  Old  Wolf  set  you  free.  He  used  you,  you  know. Needed some help in getting out.'\n\nJaved looked up then, glaring, but still he said nothing.\n\n'You could have had a chest of silver, and yet you're back in a cage.'\n\n'I saw my chance for freedom and I took it,' Javed said.\n\n_No doubt I would have done the same._\n\n'Not for long, by the look of things.' Lykos grinned.\n\n'I'll earn another chest from you,' Javed said.\n\n_He always had a pair of stones on him, I 'll give him that._\n\n'Maybe, but you'll have to earn your way back into the pit first. It's an oar-bench for you.'\n\nHe saw the light dim in Javed's eyes as the horror of his fate swept him.\n\n'That's right. Back to the very beginning. Then the first level of the pits, if you're still alive. Perhaps I'll see you back here in a year or two.' He walked on, Javed's eyes burning into his back. He counted five eagle-guard warriors within the cage, ordered that they be brought out.\n\n'Peritus was behind your uprising. Where is he?'\n\nNone answered. He drew his sword and buried it in a warrior's belly, ripped it out, intestines spilling to the ground like a barrel of writhing snakes. The man screamed.\n\n'Where is Peritus?' Lykos asked again.\n\nSilence, except for the agonized screams of the man who had just been gutted.\n\nLykos swung at the next warrior's ankle. There was a crack as the bone broke. Lykos struck again, hacking through flesh and bone, leaving the man's foot hanging by a thread of skin. Lykos felt a sharp pain in his back, stitches pulling, tearing. He brushed hair from his face, breathing hard.\n\nThe warrior with his guts on the ground had stopped screaming, was now making pitiful mewling sounds, like a hungry kitten.\n\n'Where is Peritus?'\n\nThree men looked silently back at him. One grey-beard stared flatly, one glared. The third was a young man, barely past his Long Night. Urine dribbled down one leg, pooling in the dirt. Lykos left him, went to the man who glared.\n\n'Where is Peritus?'\n\nThe warrior spat in his face. Lykos smashed the pommel of his sword into his mouth. Blood and teeth spattered the ground. Lykos punched and punched the iron hilt into his enemy; the man slumped unconscious, face a bloody pulp. Lykos swung two-handed at his neck, half-severing the head.\n\nHe paused to catch his breath and wipe blood from his face, felt something warm trickle down his back and onto his hip, knew he'd opened his wound, but didn't care.\n\n'Where. Is. Peritus?'\n\nNo answer, the one that had soiled himself now whimpering.\n\nLykos took a step towards him.\n\n'No, please, no,' the young lad pleaded.\n\n'A warrior should not beg, it is unseemly,' Lykos said. Laughter rippled through the Vin Thalun. He took another step closer, raised his sword.\n\n'Ripa,' a voice said. Not the young warrior, but the grey-beard. 'If he still lives, Peritus is in Ripa.'\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\n#### HAELAN\n\n'I'm hungry,' Haelan said.\n\n'You'll have to wait for the highsun bell, like  everyone  else,' Tahir replied, not even bothering to look at Haelan.\n\nThey were in a huge paddock, Tahir inspecting the saddle-straps on a bay stallion. It dug at the ground with one hoof. 'I'm surrounded by impatient souls,' Tahir muttered.\n\n_Mam never made me wait_ , Haelan thought. He felt a pressure behind his eyes at the memory of her and blinked hard. 'I hate waiting,' he said.\n\n'Don't we all,' Tahir grunted as he adjusted the straps,  then stood and patted the animal's neck. 'Shouldn't you be at your chores?'\n\n_I hate chores._ There were a good score of children living at Gramm's hold who were too young to set foot in the Rowan Field, but of an age where they could be put to some practical use.\n\n'You could  go and  get me  some food,' Haelan said, ignoring Tahir's mention of chores. He looked back at the feast-hall that sat at the crown of a hill, smoke from the kitchens wafting into a grey sky. His stomach growled.\n\n'No,' Tahir said, pausing to look at Haelan, his gaze hard. Haelan knew that look, had seen it many times now, although he was still struggling with it.\n\n_No one ever used to say no to me, except Mam and Uncle Varick, and that was rare enough._\n\nTahir's eyes softened, responding to something that swept Haelan's face. 'There's no special treatment here, lad. You _have_ to blend in. It's too dangerous for you to stand out; you know this. We've spoken about it more than once, haven't we?' The young warrior looked sternly at Haelan, holding his eyes until the boy nodded.\n\n'Now I'm going to let this lad know what it feels like to have me on his back. You should be at your chores, anyway - blending in. You're supposed to be in the timber yard, aren't you?'\n\nHaelan grunted a response.\n\n'Besides, it'll be highsun soon enough and you'll be filling your belly before you know it.'\n\n_I 'm not a bairn_, thought Haelan. _When I have my crown I 'll make you fetch me food all day long._ He scowled at Tahir's back as the warrior pulled himself into the saddle, the bay dancing a few steps.\n\n'Go on with you, then,' Tahir said. 'I'll not be going far; just around the paddocks. If harm comes knocking I'll be close enough to shut the door, as my old mam used to say.'\n\nWith a sigh he began walking across the paddock.\n\nGramm's hold spread before him, a sturdy timber wall surrounding a collection of buildings scattered across a low hill, the main hall standing at the hill's peak. People were busy, working on the various trades that kept the hold thriving - timber and horses being the main ones. Gramm had built this place with his own hands within sight of Forn Forest's borders, raised his sons and daughters here, and now more than two hundred souls dwelt about the hill.\n\nOver half a year Haelan and Tahir had been here. Gramm had taken them in, looked after them, protected them. At first Haelan had thought his mam would come for him soon. After a ten-night he'd asked Tahir what was taking her so long. The young warrior had just muttered about patience - one of his annoying sayings, of which there were many. After a moon had passed Haelan asked again. This time Tahir had not been able to meet his eyes. Soon after, Gramm had come to him and sat him down.\n\n'How old are you, lad?' Gramm had asked him.\n\n'Ten summers; but I'll be eleven on Midwinter's Day,' Haelan had replied.\n\n'Aye. Well, you're still a bairn, but I'll talk to you like a man, nonetheless. It's the only way I know how, and it never did my boys much harm.' He'd scratched his beard; a sadness in his eyes had stopped his words for a moment.\n\n'We've had word from the south, from Dun Kellen. About your mam.'\n\nHaelan's heart had beat faster.\n\n'She's dead, lad. Or so my messenger tells me, and I've no reason to doubt him.'\n\n'Dead,' Haelan had echoed, the word sinking in his chest like a heavy stone dropped into deep water.\n\n'Aye. Jael's put her head on a spike. And he's looking to do the same to you.'\n\nThe tears had come then, a seemingly endless flood.\n\n'Doubt that it helps much, but I share your grief. My eldest son died there. Orgull. He was a captain of the Gadrai, friend of Tahir. He held the door to the tunnel you escaped in.'\n\nHaelan did remember him, the huge bald man with no neck, looked as if he could never be defeated. In blurred images he remembered Gramm trying to comfort him, then leaving the room and Tahir entering. He'd sat quietly, waiting for Haelan's tears to run their course.\n\n'I'll look after you,' Tahir had said. 'We're two of a kind, you and me - the last of our kind. Me, the last of the Gadrai; you the last of your line. But things will be different from now on. You're hunted - Jael knows we escaped Dun Kellen and he wants you dead. You're the rightful heir to Isiltir, and Jael wants that crown - so you mustn't be found . . .'\n\n_I know I 'm hunted,_ Haelan thought. Once a group of warriors had been spied riding towards the hold. As they'd drawn closer Haelan had made out the banner that rippled above them; a lightning bolt on a black field, a pale serpent entwined about it. Jael's banner. _They have come to kill me,_ Haelan remembered thinking, the fear as he had seen them cantering along the road freezing him in the courtyard. Tahir had swept him up in his arms and run, hiding him in the cellars beneath the feast-hall's kitchens. They had stayed there together, Haelan trying to control his shaking limbs, Tahir staring at the trapdoor, one hand permanently fixed to his sword hilt. It had felt like days before Gramm had opened the door and told them the warriors were gone. That had been over four moons ago.\n\nThe courtyard was heaving with activity. A score of warriors were climbing into saddles, horses stamping and blowing. Wulf, Gramm's eldest son, shouted a call and led them clattering towards the gates. Haelan jumped out of their way, aiming for the shadows, trying to hide from Wulf's eyes - the warrior had scolded him more than once for shirking his duties around the hold.\n\nHaelan put his head down and ran across the courtyard, heading for the timber yard, which was situated in the far north of the settlement, beside the river. He sprinted along the edge of the feast-hall, pausing for breath as he crested the hill the hold was built upon. His eyes were drawn eastwards, towards Forn Forest, the river disappearing into the endless expanse of trees that consumed the horizon. Closer on the river Haelan saw line after line of felled timber bobbing in the water, like the body of some half-submerged creature, the current and long barges speeding it towards the hold.\n\nAn open gateway in the hold's wall led to the river, and to the stone bridge that spanned it, remnant and reminder of the giants that dwelt here once. Haelan saw figures moving on the bank amongst the moored craft. He glimpsed Swain, Wulf's boy, the closest thing to a friend that he'd ever known. Back at Dun Kellen he'd had playmates, but there was always a divide between the future heir and future subjects. _I am still heir of Isiltir, but here that does not seem so important._ Sometimes he struggled to remember his mam and da's faces.\n\nSwain was the natural leader of those who were not old enough for the Rowan Field, and from Haelan's first day at the hold had looked out for him.\n\nHaelan ran down the hill, through the gates onto the riverbank.\n\n'There you are,' a voice boomed, old Kalf beckoning to him, as barrel-chested as the boats he tended.\n\n'You're late, but better late'n never, so here you go,' Kalf said as he handed Haelan a mallet and a bucket, Haelan wrinkling his nose at the hemp and pine-tar inside. 'Get cracking, then, before the day's over.'\n\nHaelan found a barge without workers and began.  He  knew what to do now, having performed the same task every day for the last ten-night. Gramm's hold had grown wealthy  on  timber  from Forn Forest, and most of it was transported down the river, great floating rafts of it tied and pulled by barges. Over a dozen of those barges had been dragged from the river and now hung suspended on timber frames in various stages of repair. All of their hulls needed caulking with the pitch in Haelan's bucket.\n\n_I can do this now._ Haelan felt a flush of pride as he banged tarred fibres into gaps between the timber strakes of a barge's hull, the pine-tar sticking to everything. He managed to get most of the tar in the right place, unlike his first day, when his wastefulness had earned him more than one clump around the back of his head by Kalf. He'd felt ashamed and useless, until Swain had taken pity on him and shown him how to scoop and spread  the  pitch  without losing half of it to the ground. Now with something resembling competence he scooped, spread, hammered and repeated, kept going until his arms were aching.\n\n'You're getting better at that,' a voice said close by. Swain appeared with a bucket of his own, his younger sister Sif and a scruffy dog at his heels. 'I'll help you finish up.'\n\n'I'll help too,' his sister said.\n\n'No,' Swain said firmly. 'Last time you tried you ended up with more tar on you than the boat. You looked like a river-wraith. Mam had to cut your hair and Da nearly killed me. You sit there and play with Pots.'\n\nSwain was half a year away from entering the Rowan Field, his limbs looking too long for his body, wiry muscles stretched upon his frame. He was all energy and ideas, always coming up with ways to brighten each day, whether it was leading stealthy night-time excursions to catch river rats or organizing raids on the kitchen ovens. Tahir had caught Haelan more than once as he was sneaking after Swain and a dozen others - _You can 't go_, Tahir had said, _it 's too dangerous_ - but lately either Haelan had perfected his skulking skills or Tahir had decided to turn a blind eye to the adventures.\n\nSwain climbed the scaffolding to work on the parts of the hull that Haelan couldn't reach; working together they made quick progress along the barge. The sounds of Sif giggling drifted around them as she played with the dog, a wiry ball of white fur that took a willing part in Swain's adventures, sniffing out pies that had been hidden in the kitchens or rooting out rats' nests along the riverbank. All of a sudden the dog abandoned Sif and began jumping at the scaffolding below Swain, trying to bite his dangling mallet.\n\n'Stop it, Pots,' Swain ordered.\n\n'Why do you call him Pots?'\n\n'He was born in a cook pot in the kitchen, him and six others. And he kept going back after the litter was grown and given out. Maybe that's why he's so good at finding the pies.' Swain grinned conspiratorially as he climbed down from the scaffolding. He crouched low, beckoning Haelan closer, and pulled something from a pouch at his belt.\n\n'Here's some of the last pie Pots found, keep us going till highsun.' He passed some to Haelan and Sif, then threw the rest to the dog, who swallowed it without chewing.\n\n'Thank you,' Haelan mumbled over pie-crust. He gave his last bit to Pots and scratched him behind an ear.\n\n'Well, it's a family business, looking after you.' Swain winked at him. 'You mean Orgull. He was your uncle? Your da's brother,' he said, steering his thoughts away from his mam and Dun Kellen.\n\n'Aye. He left here a long time ago, joined the Gadrai in Forn Forest after killing a giant from the north.' Swain's hand dropped to a hatchet hanging from a loop at his belt, running a thumb along its edge. 'He gave me this, when he left.'\n\nIt was a perfect, smaller copy of the throwing axes Haelan saw the warriors of Gramm's hold carrying.\n\n'What was he like?' Swain asked him, something other than his usual confidence in his face.\n\nHaelan shrugged. 'Big.'\n\nSwain laughed. 'I remember that. He used to throw me around like Pots with a rat. Do you remember anything else?'\n\nHaelan thought hard. This obviously meant a lot to Swain, and Haelan was grateful to him for many things since he'd arrived here, not least the piece of pie he'd just gulped down.\n\n'Tears,' he said at last. 'Tahir wept as we left Orgull and the other one. They were good friends, is my guess.' He knew there was a tale there, of sword-brothers. Part of him wanted to know more, another part shying away from anything that reminded him of the circumstances in which his mam died. He looked at Swain, saw a desire for more, a need to know. 'I'll ask Tahir about him.'\n\nSwain patted Haelan's shoulder and gave him a weak smile.\n\nA murmur of sound drifted over to them, growing quickly. Haelan saw a dozen or so lads and lasses gathered in a huddle down by the riverbank. He and Swain hurried over, Sif trailing after them.\n\nIt was Trigg, holding a willow-trap high.\n\n_The half-breed._\n\nTrigg was of an age to Swain, but she stood a head taller than him, her face broad and angular, limbs long and muscular. Her mam and da had been part of Gramm's hold, and part of an expedition that had rowed up the river into Forn. They hadn't returned. The barges they'd used had eventually been found, half-sunk in the river, signs of battle on the vessels, but no bodies.\n\nA year later Trigg's mam had staggered back into the hold from across the bridge that led into the Desolation. Her belly was swollen with child and she was half-mad, babbling about being made slave to the Jotun giants.\n\nTrigg had been born, her mam dying in the act of giving birth, so the hold had raised Trigg, not one person taking  her  on,  but many of them. Now she was just part of the hold, although Swain and the others behaved differently around her. Nothing they said, but Haelan could see a wariness in the way Trigg was treated, like an unbroken colt. As if she were dangerous. Haelan had only spoken to Trigg fleetingly, the tall girl always standing on the edges, when she was around at all. She disappeared for long lengths of time, Swain told him that she travelled into Forn. What for he didn't say.\n\n'What've you caught?' Swain asked, pushing through the crowd.\n\n'Biggest rat you've ever seen,' Trigg grinned, hefting the basket. Whatever was in it was heavy, as even Trigg was straining to hold it high. As Haelan watched the basket bucked and rocked.\n\n_And angry._\n\n'It was in the river, after the salmon.'\n\nSwain peered through the willow slats and whistled. 'I've caught bigger,' he said, winking at Haelan.\n\n'I don't believe that,' Trigg said flatly, no anger in her tone, no insult, just a statement of a fact as she saw it. Pots was yapping at Swain's feet, jumping up at the basket. 'Looks like your ratter wants a go. How about a wager?'\n\nHaelan had seen Pots sniff out and kill a score of rats down by the river, and he was good at it, quick and deadly, the rats always dead within heartbeats.\n\n'No,' Sif said. She tugged at Swain's hand. 'Don't do it,' she said.\n\nSwain peered back into the basket and frowned. 'Old Kalf 'll catch us, then we'll be scrubbing these barges till midwinter.'\n\n'There's an empty barn over there.' Trigg smiled, sensing a victory over Swain. 'Are you scared for your pup?'\n\nSwain snorted. 'What's the wager, then?'\n\n'My knife for your axe.'\n\n'No chance.'\n\n'Don't have much faith in your dog, do you?'\n\nSwain was silent a moment, then he nodded and they were all rushing to one of the timber barns. As he hurried with the others, Haelan glanced across the river. Beyond a strip of green vegetation the land to the north quickly changed, turning into a wasteland, barren and pitted, punctuated by a scattered range of mountains receding into the distance. The Desolation, it was called, a peninsula of land where the Scourging had raged hottest, so Tahir had told  him.  The  battleground  where   Asroth   and   Elyon's   hosts had met, the Ben-Elim and the Kadoshim. The land was still scarred and broken from the outpouring of Elyon's wrath, a place of rock and dust, of ruins and bottomless chasms. Haelan often looked out at the northlands, imagining the clash of angels and demons filling the landscape. He shivered. Now only giants were supposed to roam the wasteland, occasionally raiding across the river on their great bears. A huge war-hammer and a bear pelt hung in the feast-hall to remind Haelan that the giants and their bears were more than just tales.\n\nOnce inside the barn Swain and Trigg threw together a circle from hay bales while others started shouting wagers. Haelan was holding  Pots.\n\n'Kill it quick,' he whispered in Pots' ear; the dog gave his face a quick lick.\n\nSwain came and took Pots, holding him  by  the  scruff  of  the neck as Trigg placed the willow basket on the far side of the makeshift ring. Pots growled, his hackles standing, and Trigg opened the basket.\n\nSomething black and sinuous leaped out, a collective gasp issuing from the small crowd. It was a rat, but bigger than any that Haelan had ever seen before. _From snout to tail it must be as long as my arm._ Yellow incisors gleamed in a malevolent face, thick bristly hair coating its body, and suddenly Haelan was scared for Pots.\n\nPots was surging towards it, all fur and snarls.\n\nThe rat didn't try to run, it just bunched up, then leaped.\n\nThey collided with a meaty thump, Pots twisting, trying to get his jaws at the rat's neck. They rolled on the dusty ground, teeth snapping, spittle flying, then parted, skidding in different directions, Pots' feet scrabbling for purchase.\n\nThe rat found its balance first, darted forwards, and the two animals were a swirling mass again. Abruptly there was blood spattering the ground, an animal whine. Haelan closed his eyes, scared, saw a memory of blood flying in a dark tunnel and quickly opened his eyes again. The fighting animals crashed against a hay bale. Haelan saw the  rat's  jaws  clamped  around  Pots'  shoulder,  the  dog  squirming frantically, teeth snapping, head twisting as he tried to get to the rat.\n\nPots  shook  violently;  the  rat  flew  off  with  a  ripping  sound, bouncing off of a hay bale.\n\nThe  two  animals  stood  staring  at  one  another,  Pots  holding a front paw in the air, blood pulsing from a ragged gash in his shoulder.\n\n_He 's going to die,_ Haelan thought, knowing Pots killed with speed. That was gone now.\n\n'Help him,' he whispered to Swain.\n\n'I can't,' Swain said, looking on in shock.\n\nSif buried her face in Swain's breeches.\n\nThe rat approached Pots, slower this time, nose twitching. Pots lunged forward, teeth snapping and stumbled, the rat leaping aside, then it was on Pots' back, teeth gouging, Pots crying out, high-pitched. Haelan screwed his eyes shut, clenched his fists, trying to blot out the sound. Memories surged, Pots' screams becoming deeper, morphing into something else, something worse; the sound of men dying in a dark tunnel, blood flowing. He grabbed his head, fingers squeezing, trying to stop the sound, but Pots' cries of pain filtered through everything. Distantly he realized he was moving, a hand grabbing at him, but he shook it off, voices shouting at him, then his arm was rising and falling, faster and faster, warm liquid spraying his face, in his mouth, blurring his vision.\n\nThen silence; only the heaving of his breath, a dog whining.\n\nHe wiped blood from his eyes, saw Swain's hatchet in his hand, slick with blood. The rat was a twitching mess on the floor, hacked into savage ruin, intestines spilling about Haelan's feet. Pots had crawled away, watching him.\n\nHe looked up, around the ring, saw faces staring back at him, mouths open. Sif was crying.\n\n'Not fair,' Trigg said. 'My rat was winning.' Swain stepped into the ring and picked Pots up.\n\nHaelan felt tears bloom, leaving tracks through the blood on his cheeks. His shoulders started to shake.\n\n'Come on,' Swain said, putting an arm around Haelan. Sif came and took his hand.\n\n'Look at my rat,' Trigg said, frowning. 'I would have won. You put him up to it.'\n\nSwain stopped and turned, then took the hatchet from Haelan's grip and threw it at Trigg's feet.\n\n'Your prize,' Swain said.\n\n'No, you can't,' Haelan blurted. 'Orgull gave it to you.'\n\n'That is fair,' Trigg said. 'I'd have won it anyway.' She stooped and picked up the weapon, wiping its shaft clean on a hay bale.\n\nA horn call echoed through the barn, all of them looking to the entrance. Swain strode away.\n\nThey stood outside, the horn call ringing out again.\n\n'What's that about?' Haelan asked.\n\n'Look,' Swain said, pointing north, across the river towards the Desolation.\n\nHaelan stared, frowning. In the distance a cloud hovered low over the land.\n\n'What's that?' Haelan asked.\n\n'Dust. Look to the land beneath it,' Swain replied.\n\nAt first Haelan saw nothing, then he caught movement. A line of riders emerged from the wasteland, approaching Gramm's hold, metal glinting in the sunlight.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas felt a wave of relief fill him as he saw the river come into view, a dark, shimmering vein winding across the land. Beyond it was Isiltir. _And goodbye to this pox-ridden land of ash and stone. And giants. And bears._\n\n'It is always good to return home, after a long journey,' King Jael said to him as they cantered down a gentle slope, the hooves of two hundred mounted warriors raising a cloud of dust behind them.\n\n'Aye, my King.'\n\n'And a successful one,' Jael added, quieter this time.\n\nThe meeting with the Jotun had gone well enough. No one had died, and King Jael's spirits had seemed much improved on the return journey. Ildaer, the Jotun's warlord, had appeared most impressed with the gift of ancient weapons that Jael had given him. _Impressed enough to hunt down a runaway princeling, though?_ Ulfilas wasn't so sure about that. And he couldn't shake the sense of wrongness about the situation. Giants were the enemy, as they had always been, for time without end. Ulfilas had grown to manhood beneath the shadow of Forn Forest, where the threat of giant raids had been very real - admittedly the Hunen, a different giant clan from the Jotun but giants were giants, warlike, savage and not to be trusted. So making deals with them was just wrong.\n\n_But who am I to judge? These are strange days . . ._\n\n'What's wrong?' Jael asked him.\n\n'I was thinking on the wisdom of making alliances with giants,' Ulfilas said.\n\n'A polite way of saying I'm a fool,' Jael replied. He smiled, but there was a sharpness in his features, no warmth in his smile.\n\n'Never, my King.'\n\n'I hate giants,' Jael said. 'And wish every giant clan dead, have dreamed that since the Hunen slaughtered my mam and da, burned out my home.' He paused, the flare of his nostrils giving away a measure of his anger. 'But I wish to be king more.'\n\n'The greater good, then,' Ulfilas said.\n\n' _My_ greater good, at least,' Jael said with a grin. 'And who knows, my dream may yet come true. We have seen the Hunen of Forn broken, destroyed. That is one less giant clan. But I need the Jotun.'\n\n'Do you think they'll find the child?' Ulfilas asked Jael.\n\n'Maybe -' Jael shrugged - 'if he has reached this far. He may be dead. He may be alive and still in Isiltir, hiding in some woodsman's shed. Many would help him, out of misguided loyalty to a dead king. Or he may have escaped north into the Desolation. I do not know, but I will not rest until I see his dead body at my feet. While Haelan is out there, alive or dead, there is a challenge to me. He is a rallying point for every naysayer. He must die, and be seen to be dead by all.'\n\nWarbands had been set to scouring Isiltir, circling ever wider after the fall of Dun Kellen. Ulfilas guessed that Jael was probably correct when he said that Haelan was already dead. _Probably lying in a ditch somewhere, food for crows._\n\n'We'll find him,' Ulfilas muttered.\n\n'Aye, we will. Us or the Jotun. Little travels through the Desolation without their knowledge.'\n\n_I believe that._ Ulfilas glanced back at the hills they were finally riding out of. At the edge of his vision, far beyond the column of Jael's shieldmen, there was a flicker of movement, a shape outlined against the horizon for a moment. It looked like a bear.\n\n_Making sure we leave their lands._\n\nHe turned his eyes forwards. To the east the bulk of Forn Forest loomed, dark and brooding. The river was closer now, dark shapes of boats appearing upon it. To the south-east was a bridge, beyond it a hill with a timber hall at its crest, a palisaded wall circling it. Buildings sprawled down the slope, almost right to the river's banks.\n\n'A desolate and dangerous place for a hold,' Jael remarked.\n\n'Aye. Who would be mad enough to build here? Forn Forest to the east, the Desolation to the north.'\n\nDag the huntsman dropped back to join them. 'That is Gramm's hold. He's been here a good long while: twenty, twenty-five years.' Dag had a set of scars down one side of his face that stretched from skull to jaw, looking like the raking of claws. Part of one ear was missing and the hair on that side of his head only grew in patches.\n\n'Has he, now?' Jael said. 'Perhaps he needs reminding who really is king.'\n\nHooves clattered on stone as the warband crossed the bridge, the river's dark waters clogged with dressed timber, cut and ready to be shipped downstream. Faces peered over the palisaded wall as Jael and his shieldmen cantered onto a road that skirted the wall, taking them past the usual array of boats beached for repair, smokehouses, tanners' yards and grain barns, eventually bringing them around to the southern approach to the hold. Ulfilas noted the glint of sunshine on iron along the wall. _Ten armed men, at least._\n\n'More like a village than a hold,' Jael said to Ulfilas and Dag.\n\n'It is, my lord.'\n\nThey rode alongside sweeping fenced meadows where herds of horses ran. _Impressive, powerful horses_ , Ulfilas noted, remembering now the reputation Gramm's hold had for more than just timber. Ulfilas eyed them covetously. _They would make fine warhorses_.\n\n'Magnificent. They are wasted up here,' Jael said with a grin.\n\n'Just what I was thinking,' Ulfilas replied.\n\nThe road sloped up the hill, the hold's gates open and they cantered through the gateway into a wide courtyard. Guards with long spears stood on the palisade's walkway, a handful more around the courtyard's edge. _Well-equipped guards_ , Ulfilas thought, taking in their coats of mail and weapons - all of them with swords hanging at their hips, spears in their hands. _And all with an axe strapped across their back. Unusual. A dozen guards that I can see around the gate. Five more in the courtyard. Must have been another ten on the palisade wall as we passed. How many more here? Is this all of them, a display intended to impress us? They would have seen us coming, had time to prepare a welcome._ Ulfilas smiled as Jael's shieldmen filled the courtyard, which was big, but nevertheless hard-pressed to contain two hundred of the King's shieldmen, all on proud warhorses. _I think we will impress them more._\n\nA figure emerged from the feast-hall and stood at the top of wide steps. He was thick muscled, though with a large belly as well, tall and fair, streaks of grey in his hair and braided beard. He wore plain breeches and a woollen tunic tied at the waist.\n\n'Greetings,' the man shouted. 'I am Gramm, lord of this hold, and I bid you welcome.' He looked at the banner carried by one of Jael's shieldmen, snapping in a stiff breeze from the north. A lightning bolt on a black field, a pale serpent entwined about it.\n\n'You are Jael's men, then. I say welcome again. Come, enter. I will find you some food and drink.'\n\nUlfilas dismounted and climbed the steps, dipping his head to Gramm.\n\n'We are more than King Jael's men,' Ulfilas said, accenting the word _King_. 'We are his chosen shieldmen, guarding him on this journey to the north of his realm.' Ulfilas swept a hand to Jael, who sat tall on his stallion, wrapped in a sable cloak, looking as regal as any king that Ulfilas had ever seen.\n\nGramm stood frozen for a moment, something sweeping his face. Ulfilas felt the hairs on his neck prickle, the possibility of violence suddenly thick in the air. Then the expression on Gramm's face was gone.\n\nUlfilas frowned, disconcerted.\n\nSlowly, clumsily, Gramm dropped to one knee.\n\n'You do me honour,' he said. 'Be welcome in my hall, King Jael.'\n\nJael dismounted and climbed the steps of the hall, resting a hand on Gramm's shoulder, bidding him stand.\n\n'Welcome to my hall,' Gramm repeated.\n\n_He looks flustered, but then it is not every day that a king comes calling._\n\n'My thanks,' Jael said.\n\n'If I had known of your arrival I would have prepared a feast and fine beds worthy of a king and his company.'\n\n'It is not a planned visit,' Jael said. 'In truth I am riding the northlands of Isiltir in pursuit of rebels and brigands. We came upon your hold by chance. It seemed to be a good opportunity to meet someone I have heard much talk of.'\n\n'You honour me,' Gramm said.\n\n'My apologies for descending upon you unannounced,' Jael said. 'We will not be staying long, but something to wash the throat and fill the belly would be welcome.'\n\n'My mead and meat is yours,' Gramm said the guest-greeting. 'Food and drink for our guests,' he shouted, waving his arms in the air.\n\nAll was chaos for a short while as warriors dismounted, a swarm of children appearing from nowhere to take reins and tend to horses. Gramm put his arm about one lad and bent to whisper in his ear. The boy cradled a dog in one arm, a ratter. It was bleeding from a gash on its shoulder.\n\n'Go fetch your da,' Ulfilas heard Gramm say.\n\n'Yes, Grand-pa,' the lad replied and scurried off across the courtyard. Ulfilas caught Dag's eye and nodded after the disappearing boy. Dag slipped away through the crowded courtyard.\n\nGramm barked orders as he led Jael and Ulfilas into his hall, other warriors following.\n\nThe hall was big, two long tables running down the sides, leaving a path down the centre. Embers still glowed in a fire-pit. Another table ran the length of the back wall. Hanging from the wall above it was a huge bear pelt, its mouth open and snarling. A giant's war-hammer was mounted above it.\n\n_It 's obvious that the relationship with their Jotun neighbours is not that friendly._\n\nThe food that came out of Gramm's kitchen was good - simple but hot and lots of it. A fair-haired child offered Ulfilas a jug of mead but he refused it, taking cold water instead. As Jael's shieldman he was always on his guard, but here that sense was heightened. He felt unsettled.\n\n'That jug looks too heavy for you, child,' he said to the girl with the mead.\n\n'Grand-pa says we should lift more than we can handle,' the girl said, freckles wrinkling as she concentrated. 'He says it makes us strong, inside and out.' Her eyes flickered to Gramm.\n\n'A good lesson,' Jael said, smiling good-naturedly.\n\n'Life's hard in these northlands,' Gramm said. 'Now run along, Sif,' he added to the child.\n\n'You have children, then?' Jael asked.\n\n'Aye,' Gramm muttered.\n\n'And grandchildren,' Jael added, his eyes following the girl as she took her jug of mead to a table full of Jael's shieldmen.\n\nAfter Gramm's initial surprise at meeting the King it seemed that his nerves had calmed. Jael was courteous and charming, as Ulfilas had seen him on countless occasions. Now Gramm was telling Jael of how he had built the hold with his own hands, braving close proximity both to Forn Forest and the Desolation to take advantage of the timber and the river.\n\n'A bold endeavour,' Jael remarked.\n\n_And one that has paid off_ , Ulfilas thought as he looked at the size of the hall.\n\n'You have carved out a fine living for yourself,' Jael said. 'Profits must be high indeed to provide for so many.'\n\n_Jael is no fool - he has no doubt seen all that I have seen, and more._\n\n'Trade is good, I'll not deny,' Gramm said.\n\n'And your warriors - I've not seen so many in a single hold, and uncommonly well equipped,' Jael commented.\n\n'Life is dangerous this far north.' Gramm pointed to the bear pelt and giant's hammer hanging on the wall. 'They are not there for decoration, but as a reminder. We are close to the Desolation and to Forn Forest. A cold winter is often all that's needed to lure giants across the river or entice creatures from the forest with more legs and sharper teeth than is entirely good for us. Warriors with sharp swords are a necessity here, not a luxury. And besides, what with all the goings on further south -' his eyes flickered to Jael - 'there has been an outbreak of lawlessness and thievery the likes of which I have never seen before. Brigands seeking to take advantage of Isiltir's upheaval. My lands have been raided more than once.'\n\n'That will all end, now. I will see to it. Isiltir has a new king, and I mean to bring peace to the land. These brigands' days are numbered.'\n\n'Glad to hear it,' Gramm said.\n\n'And talking of the _goings on in the south_ , where do your loyalties lie?' Nothing about Jael's tone changed, but the hall seemed to quieten, an indrawn breath waiting upon Gramm's answer.\n\nGramm looked at Jael with an undecipherable expression. 'We are a long way from anyone here. Isolated. Priorities change when you live on the edge of the wild. In truth I have little interest in the goings on in Isiltir. Family. Food on my table. Trade. That the giants stay on the north side of the river. Those things are highest on my list. But if a choice had to be made, then I am a man of Isiltir, and my loyalties lie with its King. Of that you need have no doubt.'\n\n'That is good to know,' Jael said. 'I thank you for your honesty.'\n\n'It's all a man has,' Gramm shrugged.\n\n'Indeed.'\n\nUlfilas saw a shadow appear at the hall's open doors: Dag the huntsman. The man nodded to him and then stepped from view.\n\n'And let me return the favour and be honest with you,' Jael said to Gramm. 'It would please me greatly if we could work together.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Gramm asked.\n\n'I need information. If I know where my enemies are hiding, then I can end these dark times that you speak of. We would both benefit.' Jael stopped eating and stared at Gramm.\n\n'Hiding?' Gramm said, pausing as he ripped a chunk of bread from a loaf. Slowly he looked at Jael, returning his gaze.\n\n'Aye. These northlands are vast, with countless places that a cunning enemy may hide. But you are well placed to hear of them. If you could send me information of the whereabouts, the movements of these brigands that you speak of, it would be helpful information. And I always reward those who are helpful to me.'\n\nGramm remained silent.\n\n'There is one in particular that I speak of, who I am searching for,' Jael continued. 'One enemy who may be hiding somewhere in these northlands. A boy and a warrior.'\n\n'They don't sound so dangerous. Hardly a band of brigands,' Gramm said with a smile.\n\n'No, but nevertheless, it is important that they are brought to me. I _will_ catch them. The boy is eleven summers, red hair. The warrior young - no more than twenty summers. A survivor of the Gadrai.'\n\n'I thought the Gadrai were servants of Isiltir, loyal to the King,' Gramm asked.\n\n'Not this one. For the most part the Gadrai fell in Forn Forest, slain in combat with the Hunen. Not as skilled at giant-slaying as their reputation would have you believe.' Jael chuckled at his joke, as did some of his shieldmen. None of Gramm's people did.\n\n'But this one still lives, or did, when Dun Kellen fell. He is a traitor, a renegade. Have you seen anyone matching their description, or heard any news of two such roaming the land.'\n\n'No,' Gramm said.\n\n'I would appreciate it if you would help me find them.'\n\n'I will do what I can,' Gramm said, going back to his bread.\n\n'Of course you will. You seem like an honest man, so I should take you at your word. Unfortunately my experiences of late . . . Well, let us say that I find it difficult to trust anyone. My own fault, granted, but I often suffer with feelings of doubt, mistrust. I am feeling them now.'\n\n'I can only give you my word, my assurance--' Gramm began, but Jael cut him off.\n\n'Assurance. Yes, just what I was thinking.' Jael touched Ulfilas' arm.\n\nUlfilas launched himself over the table, scattering bowls, food, jugs, as he lunged forwards. There was a high-pitched yelp and then Ulfilas was holding the serving-child, Sif. He drew his knife and put it to her throat.\n\nA woman screamed, tried to reach Ulfilas, but Jael's shieldmen stood, forming a wall about Ulfilas and the child.\n\n'No,' Gramm yelled, standing, his chair falling behind him. Other men were shouting, the sound of swords leaving scabbards.\n\n'I wouldn't,' Jael said, standing too, slowly, wiping food from the corner of his mouth. He walked calmly to Ulfilas.\n\n'She is your grandchild, and family are your first priority, as you have just told me. I think she will come with me. My guest. She will be looked after, not harmed, so long as you do as I ask. An assurance. Do you understand me?'\n\nGramm just stared at Jael, muscles bunching in his face, his fists.\n\n'Do you understand me?' Jael repeated. 'I'll not ask you a third time.'\n\n'I understand you,' Gramm said flatly.\n\n'Good.' Jael looked at Sif. 'Stop snivelling, child,' he said. 'She is dear to you, I guess. But just one amongst many, and only a girl. I think I need more assurance than this.'\n\n'If you think I will parade my grandchildren before you, you are a fool,' Gramm snarled.\n\n'True, I would be. Far better to just take another.' Jael called out and figures appeared in the doorway - Dag, holding the lad that Gramm had sent off earlier. The boy was bleeding from a swollen lip, still clutching his ratter under one arm.\n\n'Swain,' Gramm gasped, and the woman who had run to the girl cried out and sank to her knees, sobbing.\n\n'Good,' Jael said with a smile. 'Now I am confident that I have my assurance.' He strode from the hall into the pale sunlight and mounted his horse.\n\nUlfilas was behind him, followed by all in the hall. Sif struggled as Ulfilas climbed into his saddle and he shook her.\n\n'Be still, girl, or you'll get a slap,' he snarled.\n\nThe boy in Dag's care lunged for him but Dag grabbed his tunic and clumped him across the back of the head with his knife hilt. The boy collapsed to the ground. His dog stood protectively over him, growling at Dag.\n\nJael laughed at the sight of it. Dag kicked the dog, sending it rolling away with a whine, then hoisted the lad up and slung him across his saddle.\n\n'You are now my eyes in the north,' Jael cried. 'The boy and his guardian. Bring them to me, or send me word of them, and your kin will be returned to you unharmed.' With that Jael turned his horse and cantered out of the courtyard.\n\nUlfilas caught up with Jael on the long road that skirted the paddocks.\n\n'Think you made an impression.'\n\n'Aye. Gramm won't be forgetting his new king.'\n\n'Didn't get a new horse, though,' Ulfilas said as he looked into the paddocks.\n\n'Next time,' Jael replied.\n\n'Do you trust Gramm now?'\n\n'I don't trust anyone, Ulfilas, not even you, though you've been my shieldman since before I could hold a sword.'\n\n_Nor I you._\n\n'But trust is overrated, as are love, loyalty and devotion. Fear, Ulfilas. That is what is important to me. As long as he fears me, all will be well.'\n\nUlfilas looked back at Gramm's hold, ringed by its stout wooden walls. Ulfilas had not seen fear on Gramm's face when he'd first greeted the new King. No. What had swept Gramm, only for an instant and quickly masked, had been something else entirely.\n\n_It was hatred._\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\n#### TUKUL\n\nTukul sat close to Corban, patiently waiting as the warband prepared to leave. Idly he leaned forward and rubbed one of Daria's ears; she whickered quietly. All were gathered and waiting upon Corban, who was in close conversation with Brina and Ethlinn. They parted, and Corban pulled himself onto Shield's back, the stallion stamping a hoof and snorting, making Daria whicker in response next to him.\n\n_Something has changed within him. Yesterday he was unsure, worry leaking from him. Now he looks . . . resolved._\n\nCorban looked about at the faces watching him.\n\n'Foes ahead and foes behind,' Corban yelled. 'The only choice to make is who do we fight first. We'll head south, see what Rhin's warband thinks of us. The only running we'll do is at them.'\n\nTukul felt a thrill go through him, part fear, part excitement. He welcomed it. Corban stood tall in his saddle, Storm pacing around Shield. 'We'll leave the Kadoshim for another day.' Laughter rippled through them at that. Corban raised a fist. 'Truth and courage, and I'll see you all on the other side.'\n\nTukul heard his voice joined to many others in a shared battle-cry.\n\n'Craf, Fech, I need you both now,' Corban said.\n\nBoth birds were perched on Brina's saddle and regarded Corban suspiciously with their beady eyes.\n\n'Please.'\n\n' _Fech will fly. You asked nicely._ ' The raven dipped his head in what looked like a mock-bow.\n\n'Thank you,' Corban said, lips twitching. 'Fech, you fly ahead, give us warning of Rhin's warband. Craf, see if you can spot Nathair and the Kadoshim.'\n\nCraf and Fech flapped into the air, spiralled upwards together, then separated - one heading south, the other north.\n\nThe warband jerked into motion, Corban leading a central column along the crumbling road. A number of the Jehar horses now bore an extra rider - the villagers who had escaped the Kadoshim in the woods.\n\n_Only a score or so._\n\nMeical had counselled to leave them, but Corban had steadfastly refused.\n\n'They will slow us,' Meical had told him.\n\nCorban had looked horrified. 'I cannot abandon them to the Kadoshim.'\n\n'Leaving them is not a death sentence; they will likely survive here, all they need do is hide until the Kadoshim have passed by.'\n\n'And what if the Kadoshim find their trail? What if the Kadoshim are hungry?'\n\nThey had all seen how the Kadoshim in the woods had started feasting on those they caught, and the survivors were telling similar tales from the attack on their village.\n\n'This is war, Corban. Hard decisions must be made - they can make the difference between victory and defeat.'\n\nCorban had asked the villagers if they would rather accompany the warband or stay and hide. Not one of them wanted to stay behind.\n\n'I'll not leave them,' Corban said stubbornly, and that had been the end of that. Meical shook his head but said no more.\n\n_Our Ben-Elim is finding his Bright Star less compliant than he expected._ Tukul had just shrugged. _An extra score we can absorb. And besides, we may have some spare horses soon. Those of our own dead or of our enemies._\n\nThey'd been travelling a little while when a squawking drew Tukul's attention. There was something frantic about it. He turned and looked back, saw a black dot in the sky, growing larger.\n\n_Is that one of ours?_ He could not remember which bird had flown north - _Craf or Fech?_ Something was in the sky higher above it, another black dot, suddenly streaking downwards.\n\n'Craf!' Brina shouted, and she was riding back. Corban followed her, the warband slowing, rippling to a halt. Tukul wheeled his mare around and galloped after Corban.\n\nCraf had just reached the woods when the hawk hit him.\n\nBrina screamed.\n\nThere was an explosion of feathers and the two birds spun together, Craf squawking in terror, the hawk's talon's snatching at the smaller bird.\n\nThe whole warband watched helplessly as the birds fought and twisted through the air. Dath had his bow strung and an arrow nocked, but it was impossible to take a clear shot.\n\nThen another bird crashed into them.\n\n_Fech._\n\nThere was another explosion of feathers and one of the birds dropped straight down, plummeting into the tree canopy. There was a crashing and snapping of branches, then a black form fell to the ground. It flapped feebly, one wing twisted and not moving.\n\n' _Craf hurt_ ,' he squawked as Brina rushed to the crow, sweeping him up in her arms.\n\nAbove the trees Fech and the hawk twisted, separated. An arrow whistled through the air, missed the hawk by a handspan, then they were together again, surging past the trees, over the meadow, hurtling towards the river. They were low now, skimming the meadow grass. The ground rumbled as Balur broke into a run, chasing after the two birds.\n\nThey crashed into a flat-topped boulder at the river's edge, the two birds rolling apart. The hawk righted itself first, and with a flap of wings leaped upon the still-tumbling Fech and with another beat of its wings it was airborne, rising, gripping Fech tight. An arrow skittered off the rock, just missing it.\n\nMore arrows sliced the air as it rose - and the hawk veered, Fech wriggling feebly in its grip. The hawk hovered overhead a moment and gave a savage twist of its talons. Tukul heard the crackle of tiny bones snapping. The hawk's beak slashed down, came away trailing droplets of blood and it dropped Fech. The old raven plummeted like a stone to the ground, hitting it with a dull thump.\n\nThe hawk rose swiftly, more arrows sailing past it. In moments it was out of range, flying north. Balur reached Fech and scooped him up, wings dangling. The giant's face twisted and Tukul knew that Fech was dead.\n\nThey rode in silence along the crumbling road, a grim mood hovering over the company after the death of Fech.\n\n_He was only a bird, and three of my sword-kin died this morning fighting the Kadoshim._ Yet Fech's death still seemed to affect them all.\n\nCorban had said that he'd recognized the hawk, had sworn that it had belonged to a trader who had betrayed him in the mountains near Dun Vaner. He called it Kartala. _A servant of the enemy. That would make sense. And now we are no longer the watchers, but the watched._\n\nTukul shrugged to himself.\n\n_No use worrying about things I cannot change. A battle is ahead of us. That I can do something about._\n\nIt was highsun now, and they had made good time. The terrain was shifting from wooded hills to rolling moorland. _We should be upon them soon._ He felt the reassuring weight of his sword strapped across his back and his hand dropped to the axe at his side, gifted to him by Wulf at Gramm's hold. It had served him well so far, split more than one skull. _And there will be more to come._\n\nTo Tukul's left Corban called out, glancing down the slope of the road's embankment to the white-foaming river.\n\n_It is time, then._ Tukul liked Corban's plan; there was a simplicity to it that appealed to him. The only issue he had was the part that Brina and the giantess had been asked to play. Things could go drastically wrong where the earth power was concerned.\n\nBrina was riding close by, Ethlinn the giantess striding beside her. They shared a look and started to chant, long rhythmic sentences in a language Tukul did not understand. Meical added his voice to theirs.\n\nAhead of them the river began to churn, a white mist boiling out of it, spreading across the meadow, creeping up the embankment and across the road, covering the warband. Tukul looked across to his son, riding just behind Corban. The mist swirled about their horses' hooves like cords of silk, rapidly expanding, creeping higher until it engulfed them.\n\nRiding in the mist was strange. It limited Tukul's vision, Gar and Corban becoming fleeting shadows. He risked a glance behind him, at the handful of Jehar and giants he saw staring grim-faced back at him, then focused on the space in front of him, straining his ears for any hint of their enemy.\n\nThere was a scream to his left, a crash and a wild neighing, then silence. In front of him a shape loomed, solidifying in heartbeats into a warrior on horseback, his face twisted in panic, clutching at a horn hanging at his belt.\n\n_One of their scouts. We are close, then._\n\nWith a hiss, Tukul drew his sword and took the warrior's head, blood jetting startlingly bright against the white mist. Sounds rang out along the line of the warband - similar encounters. Tukul felt a wave of exultation sweep him. _Riding into battle with my son, behind the Seren Disglair. Praise be to Elyon, Lord of Hosts, that I lived to see this day. May our hearts stay pure and our swords sharp._ He laughed, long and loud, adrenalin pumping through his veins. Now they were moving at a canter. Tukul yearned to kick his horse into a gallop, but he held back. The mist started to thin about them, evaporating. A horn blast rang out nearby, roughly where Tukul judged Corban should be.\n\n'With me,' Tukul yelled, guiding his horse right, sweeping out from the warband. A hundred warriors followed him. They left the dissipating mist behind them, the sunlight suddenly bright, making Tukul blink.\n\nThe enemy were there, spread along the wide road, a mix of mounted warriors and men on foot, those mostly gathered about the wains that brought up the rear of their column. _Three, four hundred swords._ Tukul could see expressions of shock and horror upon his enemies' faces as their warband emerged from the mist, wolven and giants snarling and yelling battle cries.\n\n_I think even I would be scared at the sight,_ Tukul thought.\n\nA moment later there was a great crash as Corban and the bulk of the warband smashed into the front lines of the enemy. He saw Storm leap high, tear a rider from his saddle. Tukul's eyes searched for Gar, thought he saw him, a curved sword rising and falling. Fear for his son fluttered in his belly. _He will live or he will die,_ he told himself, dragging his eyes away.\n\nHe touched his reins, guiding his horse into an arc that led back towards the road, fixed his eyes on a pocket of warriors who seemed to be organizing quicker than the rest. They were gathered about the wains, were spreading along the embankment of the road, moving to flank around Corban's arrowhead that had punched into the heart of the enemy. He glanced behind him, saw the Jehar and Benothi were following him, spreading either side. They would be a wall when they hit the enemy, not a point. He saw Akar's face, the man nodding grimly to him. Tukul had mixed both groups of the Jehar, having noticed a polarization occurring between the Hundred that had followed him from Telassar and the survivors of those who had followed Sumur. _That is not good. We are kin. What 's done is done and there should be no grievance between us. And nothing binds like battle._\n\nTukul was two hundred paces away when he urged Daria to a gallop and let her go. She did not need telling twice, exploding forwards. Wind whipped his face. He looped his reins around his saddle pommel, pressing his knees tight against her flanks, flicked open the leather catch on his axe's saddle holster.\n\nA hundred and fifty paces.\n\nThe ground was drumming to their charge, hooves and ironshod giants. He pulled his axe free, drew his sword from his back in one long sinuous move. All about him he heard the Jehar echoing him.\n\nA hundred paces.\n\nBattle was raging further along the road, Corban and his followers carving deep into the warband, their progress slowing, horses jostling and heaving in a mass of flesh. Closer to Tukul men amongst the enemy were screaming orders, moving to meet Tukul and his hundred.\n\nFifty paces, and Tukul fixed his eyes on a trio of warriors standing together, braced, shields raised, spears dipped like stakes. _Elyon above, I give you my sword and my soul._\n\nHe charged them, Daria not slowing as she hit the embankment, powering up the small slope. Heartbeats before collision Tukul threw his axe, at the same time nudging Daria to the left. He saw the axe smash into a face, the warrior falling back, blood erupting, and he slashed at another with his sword as he pounded past, felt the blade cut through leather and flesh. Then he was beyond them, hooves clattering on the stone of the road. A mounted warrior appeared from amongst the wains, saw him and charged. Tukul raised his sword two-handed over his head. Sparks flared as their blades clashed, the momentum of their mounts carrying them past each other, Tukul back-swinging, decapitating his enemy. The horse carried on, disappearing down the embankment, its headless rider slowly slipping off its back.\n\nThere was a thunder of hooves; he looked to his left and a horse crashed into him, its rider slashing at his head. Pain exploded in his leg. He blocked, a part of his mind disapproving his technique. Daria neighed wildly as she was bludgeoned backwards, hooves slipping, scrabbling, almost falling. She bit the enemy's horse in her frustration and Tukul grabbed his opponent's wrist, pulled and stabbed his sword up, into the man's armpit, piercing chainmail and sinking deep into flesh. He fell away, Tukul ripping his sword free, blood spraying his face.\n\nDaria righted herself and with a grimace he sent her plunging deeper into the battle. He slashed either side, great looping strokes, left a trail of blood and dying men in his wake. Blows came at him but the stark clarity of battle had taken him - everything bright, sharp, every blow seen as if in slow motion. Men came at him and they died.\n\nAbruptly Daria was sliding, plunging downwards. Tukul felt a moment of disorientation, then realized they had cut their way across the wide giant road and were sliding down the embankment on the far side. For a moment Tukul could see the river, the meadow before it heaving with battle. Then they were hurtling towards a press of warriors looming before him, mostly men on foot. Daria collided with a solid wall of flesh, their momentum stalled, and then Tukul was hurtling through the air, thrown from his saddle. He fell into a warrior, bones crunching - _not mine -_ he thought, then he was on the ground, rolling clear, somehow still clutching his sword.\n\nHe came to his feet, his left leg throbbing, sword held in the stag's guard, met a surge of blows, his blade parrying and striking faster than he could think, his years of training and discipline taking over, counteracting more rapidly than conscious thought. In a matter of heartbeats half a dozen men lay dead or dying about him. He stood frozen, sword raised, breathing hard.\n\n_I am getting old._\n\nOther men appeared - four singling him out. They spread around him in a half-circle. Then one in the middle hurtled forwards in a spray of blood, knocked down by Daria's hooves as she reared behind him and lashed out. Tukul was moving before the others could understand what had happened, sidestepping to the right, his sword sweeping left to right, opening a throat, following through with his momentum to slash downwards, his blade ringing against a rushed block. He rolled his wrists, shifted his feet and his sword was slashing across a face, his enemy reeling back, screaming, hands reaching for his ruined eyes. A lunge and the screams stopped.\n\nOne man was left of the four. He looked at Tukul, then turned and ran.\n\nDaria trotted forward and nuzzled his shoulder.\n\n'Good girl,' he said as he swung back into the saddle.\n\nSilhouettes loomed on the road above him, one clearly a giant, others on horseback, instantly recognizable as Jehar. More appeared as Tukul looked, and they swept down the embankment to him. A Jehar rider pulled up beside him - Akar.\n\n'Regroup?' the warrior asked him.\n\n'No,' Tukul said. He blinked away sweat from his eyes, felt the battle joy spreading through his veins, overwhelming the pain in his leg and a dozen smaller wounds.\n\n'We press on, give them no respite.'\n\nThe road above looked clear, the bulk of the fighting appearing to be happening on the meadow before him. Tukul didn't know if the plan had worked or not, he just saw the black and gold of his enemy before him, servants of those who had set themselves against Elyon, who had already attempted to cut the heart from his Bright Star. A dark anger swelled in him, bubbling hot through his veins.\n\n'Control it, lest you be controlled,' he murmured the Jehar mantra, then he raised his sword and charged into the meadow, ignoring the shafts of pain jolting up from his leg, yelling a battlecry that was taken up by a wave of Jehar and giants behind him.\n\n'TRUTH AND COURAGE!'\n\nTukul sat on the roadside. He'd found his axe and was busy cleaning blood from his weapons, then using a whetstone to work out the notches.\n\nHis body ached everywhere, but particularly the leg that had been slammed by the charging horse. He'd cared for Daria, checking her wounds, taken her to a spot upriver where the water wasn't flowing pink and washed her down, did the same for himself, discovering a dozen or so cuts on his body that he hadn't known were there.\n\nThe battle was done, an overwhelming victory made all the more joyous when Tukul had seen Gar striding through the dead. They had hugged fiercely, only their eyes betraying their secret fears for one another. The body count so far was fifteen dead Jehar and three giants, against three hundred or so of Rhin's warband. In the end the enemy had broken and scattered, many leaping into the river rather than face the Jehar swords and Benothi hammers and axes. A score of prisoners had been rounded up and were kneeling in the grass before Corban and Meical. Along with a handful of Jehar guarding them, Storm was prowling a circle about them, her jaws bloodstained, Buddai lying in the flattened grass, watching.\n\n_I don 't think any will be stupid enough to try escaping._\n\nFurther along the meadow Brina and Ethlinn were treating the wounded, Cywen helping, as well as a handful of the Jehar and some of the giantlings. The smell of burning flesh wafted on the breeze to Tukul as wounds were cauterized.\n\n'I'll not murder men that have surrendered,' Tukul heard Corban say, his voice rising. Meical just stared implacably back at him.\n\nTukul shared a look with Gar, and with a sigh he rose, his muscles complaining, already stiffening, and strode to join them.\n\n'This is war, Corban,' Meical said as Tukul reached them. 'It is not murder; it is the execution of an enemy that fights on the side of Asroth. There is no moral dilemma here. Let them live, they will join with Nathair and Calidus behind us, swell their ranks, give them information, and fight against us again.'\n\nCorban pinched his nose.\n\n_Leading is a hard task,_ Tukul thought. _And he is bowing beneath the weight of it._\n\n'They are warriors following orders from their Queen. Not innocent, but not knowingly Asroth's servants,' Corban muttered. 'I understand your points, and they are practical.' He sighed. 'But there is no _honour_ in killing helpless men.'\n\n'This is the definition of honour,' Meical said, frowning. 'They chose a side. They were not helpless when they made their choice, or indeed half-a-candle ago, when they were set on separating our heads from our shoulders. They fought. They lost. And they have failed their lord. There would be more dishonour for them if they lived.'\n\n_I do not think they would agree_ , Tukul thought, looking at the captives.\n\nCorban looked at the prisoners kneeling in the grass, many bloodstained, wounded.\n\n'I cannot kill them.'\n\n'Break some bones,' Tukul said.\n\n'What?'\n\n'Break the thumb and a finger or two of their sword hand. Break an ankle. They'll not be able to hold a weapon or move in combat. They'll not face you in battle any time soon. And they'll be alive.'\n\nCorban thought about that a few moments. A relieved smile spread across his face and he squeezed Tukul's shoulder.\n\n'See that it's done,' he said. 'And quickly. We need to move out before the Kadoshim decide to join us.'\n\nTukul organized the task, asking Balur and a few giantlings to do the deed.\n\n_Involve each group in this warband - the Benothi, my Jehar, and those who joined us in Murias. We need to become one._\n\nBalur chuckled as the first man fainted at the sight of a giant raising his war-hammer, but he only brought the butt-end down on the unconscious warrior's hand. Bones smashed.\n\nIt was over quickly enough, most of the prisoners knowing that it could have been their heads lying on the grass.\n\nSoon the warband was ready to ride.\n\nCorban was already mounted, eager to leave. A string of horses was roped to take with them, spoils of the battle, and that was after the rescued villagers had each been given a mount. The spare horses were loaded with more spoils from the battlefield - cloaks, boots, leather jerkins, a few good coats of mail, bundles of spears, swords and knives as well as barrels of salted meats and mead.\n\n_It won 't last long, but it'll make a welcome break from brot._\n\nThe auroch that had been yoked to the supply wains were cut loose and set free on the open moors.\n\nCorban spoke again to the handful of villagers who had joined them, gave them a choice of staying with the warband or riding out on their own. They discussed it briefly and then Teca, their chosen speaker, told him that they would stay with the warband.\n\nAnd with that Corban called out and they set out, moving down the old giants' road in a wide column, Coralen and her chosen scouts riding ahead.\n\n_Our first real battle with the Bright Star leading us. He has done well._\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin woke with a stiff neck. They'd slept in their boats, tied in amongst a thick bank of reeds. A gentle current had tugged Camlin's boat out into the marsh stream, where dawn's rays painted the world in a golden sheen. Meg was sitting by his feet, staring at him. She offered him a piece of . . . something - _bread, maybe_? He looked closer, saw it had a spongy texture, like a mushroom. He shook his head.\n\nThe others were still asleep, Edana and Baird at the far end of their flat-bottomed boat, Brogan propped in the middle, his snoring rocking the boat, sending waves lapping. Amongst the reeds he could make out the tips of boats. Eight in total, and beyond them the shadowy figures of those on the last shift of night's watch. He spied Vonn's straw-coloured hair leaning against a willow.\n\nThey had rowed or poled their way deeper and deeper into the marshes, long after all sounds of Morcant's pursuit had faded, eventually grouping together in this reed bank. Camlin groaned as he moved. His neck wasn't the only part of him that ached. He scratched at a lump on his neck, and another, then looked at the back of his hand, saw more red bite marks trailing up his arm. _I 've been dinner for a warband of mosquitoes._\n\n'Don't recommend sleeping in a boat,' he muttered.\n\nEdana stirred and Baird opened his one good eye. Instantly he was awake, sitting up, hand straying to his sword hilt. Brogan let out a snore as loud as a horse and Baird kicked him. He sat up too quickly, the boat almost tipping.\n\n'Morning,' he said with a grin as he scratched his arse.\n\nThey gathered on the marsh bank.\n\nThree men had died in the escape from the village. A few were wounded, though nothing seemed imminently fatal.\n\n'So where is this Dun Crin?' Roisin said, looking between Edana and Camlin.\n\n'I don't know,' Edana said.\n\n'A giants' fortress, how can you not know where it is?' Roisin snapped.\n\n_Apparently a night spent sleeping rough in a boat in the marshes doesn 't improve her mood._\n\n'This whole marshland covers an area of fifty leagues or more, and the fortress is rumoured a ruin. Who knows what little is left of it. But Eremon received word that a resistance has taken root here, and what we saw and heard from Morcant would confirm that. They must be here somewhere.'\n\n'So your plan is to row around these stinking marshes until we bump into them?'\n\n_Yes_ , thought Camlin, _though that 's not the most diplomatic answer, right now_.\n\nEdana stared at Roisin for a few moments, their gazes locked. 'Yes,' she said.\n\n_Oh dear. Even princesses have an end to their patience._\n\n'I can't believe what I'm hearing.'\n\n'If you don't like it you can always go back to Domhain. Or back to your ship.'\n\n_Looks as if Edana isn 't so polite after a night as food for mosquitoes, either._ Camlin tried not to laugh, but he could see ripples of anger flickering through their group, Cian and some other of Roisin's shieldmen. _Not a good sign. They 're obviously not used to hearing their Queen spoken to like this. I've seen men start putting knives into each other for little more reason than that they were tired and hungry. This could all turn ugly right quick._\n\nCamlin was still trying to think of something to defuse the situation when Lorcan broke the sullen silence.\n\n'No point squabbling,' he said. 'We should be rejoicing in our glorious escape from Rhin's henchmen. And I must say that to hear my two favourite ladies exchange such harsh words is almost more than I can bear.'\n\nMore silence. And this time Camlin could not stop the grin spilling across his face. Edana scowled at the young warrior, while Roisin looked surprised.\n\n'Isn't it best if we work together?' Lorcan continued, finding everyone looking at him. 'Perhaps there is a better way of finding our allies than wandering aimlessly around.'\n\n'Agreed,' Vonn said, who was sitting against a thick-trunked willow. 'Arguing won't help us find them, and we're here now, so no point regretting it. At least we know that they are definitely here, somewhere - else why is Morcant here? He's hunting them - we all heard what he said to those village elders.'\n\n'They are in these marshes somewhere,' Edana said, her eyes hovering over Camlin.\n\n_She wants me to say something._\n\n'That they are,' Camlin said. 'It's just the finding them we have to master now.' He looked carefully at everyone in their group, finally settling upon Meg, the girl from the village.\n\n'Meg, can you help us?' Camlin said. 'You know who we are searching for?'\n\n'Aye,' Meg said, chewing her lip. 'The people my kin were slaughtered over.'\n\n'That's right,' Camlin said. 'I'm not promising anything will happen quickly, but those warriors back at the village - Morcant and the others, that did . . .' His words failed, the image of a child swinging from a gallows filling his mind. 'They're our enemies. We are here to fight them. We'd see some justice done for your kin, but we can't do it alone.'\n\nShe looked at all the faces staring at her, finally settled back on Camlin.\n\n'They used to come to the village, trade for goods. And news. They had coin - some gold. Never seen gold before.'\n\n'Can you find them, child, in these marshes?' Roisin asked her. Meg wouldn't look at her, instead sidled closer to Camlin.\n\n'Do you know where they're based, girlie?' Camlin asked her.\n\n'Maybe.'\n\n'And what does that mean?' Roisin said, throwing her hands in the air.\n\n'Mother,' Lorcan muttered.\n\n'Can you help us, Meg?' Camlin said, crouching down to look her in the eyes. 'It'd mean a great deal to us.'\n\n'I can't take you to Dun Crin, don't know where it is. But I know roughly where they came from, the direction they took when they left my village - followed them for a while once, for the fun of it.'\n\nCamlin nodded. It wasn't much. But it was better than nothing.\n\nThey spent three days making their way through winding streams, some dead ends, others choked with reeds or dense with willow branches that draped the water like lazy fingers in a stream. Camlin's flat-bottomed boat led the way, Meg sitting upon the steering oar as the others took shifts in poling the boat deeper into the marshes. They ate through Brogan's barrel of herring in two days, but after that Meg taught them how to weave willow traps and set them in the stream for the night. Each morning they were wriggling with life - mostly eels, but other things as well, frogs and toads, the odd trout and roach. Camlin could tell that some of this new crew didn't care too much for the food, but he was accustomed to living off of the land.\n\n_This is easy. Food 's a bit slimy, and a bit smelly, but slimy food's better than no food at all._\n\nAnd as Camlin poled, he thought. Thought about how he'd gone from being part of Braith's crew to here, with Edana. _How did I get here? Poling through a marsh with a renegade queen looking to me for direction._ In his mind it all went back to one moment: in the Darkwood, when he had stood in front of Cywen as Morcant ordered her slain. And since then he had felt as if he was involved in something greater than him, something more than just living to line his pocket. He had made, and lost, real friends. Marrock, Corban, Dath . . .\n\n_I hope they are well, that they found Cywen and are safe._\n\nAnd Halion.\n\n_Was he slain defending the steps on the beach? Or taken prisoner by Conall? Never did like that Conall - now King of Domhain. Everyone has a temper, but him, he was ruled by it, unpredictable. Wouldn't trust him in a fight, whether he was on my side or the other._\n\nCamlin's mind drifted back to the village, to the corpses hanging from the gallows, to the conversation Morcant had had with the captives he had brought to the village. And he thought a lot about the chest of silver in the roundhouse. _A chest of silver right under my nose. What kind of thief am I?_\n\n'I'll take a go at that, now,' a voice said, Baird moving along the boat.\n\n'I'm all right for a while more,' Camlin said.\n\n'Please, I need to do something. Can't just go to sleep at the drop of a cap like our big friend.' He pointed at Brogan, who was stretched out in the boat, snoring peacefully. 'And his snoring is making me want to kill something.'\n\n'All right,' Camlin said and passed him the pole. Behind them boats twisted in single file, the stream they were travelling too narrow for anything else.\n\n'Think she knows where she's going?' Baird asked him, nodding towards Meg.\n\n'Don't think she's lying,' Camlin said. 'But following someone for a while and then turning back doesn't mean we're going to find them. They may be moving around - sensible thing to do when you're in a crew that's hunted.' He shrugged. 'What are your plans, once we find them?'\n\n'If we find them,' Baird corrected.\n\n'Aye, if.'\n\n'Cross that bridge when I reach it,' Baird said. He shrugged. 'I swore I'd see Edana safe. Not sure leaving her in a marsh with a bunch of hunted rebels is safe.' He grinned, looking slightly insane. 'Besides, I've got nothing better to do, and sticking around with Edana is likely to see me crossing blades with Rhin or her arselings eventually. I want revenge. Rath was a good man, and my friend. Most likely he's dead now, on Rhin's account.'\n\nThey turned a bend in the stream, its banks widening a little, passing through a copse of willow and dogwood. Camlin felt the hairs on his arm prickle.\n\n_Something 's wrong._ Something was missing. He frowned. _Noise. It is silent._ Abruptly there was no birdsong, the constant drone and buzz of insects startlingly absent. The only sound was Brogan's basal snoring and the lapping of paddles in water. Baird was staring ahead, a frown creasing his brow.\n\n'Be ready,' the one-eyed giantkiller from Domhain whispered.\n\nCamlin reached for his bow, making the boat rock. Brogan's snoring spluttered and then evened out again. The last of the boats behind him came into view around the bend. Camlin slowed his movements and tried to string his bow calmly, eyes scanning the banks ahead.\n\nBefore he had a string out of its pouch the banks exploded into life. Thirty, forty men, all armed, most with spears aimed their way. Camlin put a restraining hand onto Baird's arm as the warrior reached for his sword.\n\n'No point dying here,' Camlin whispered. 'They've got us cold.'\n\n_Is this them? The rebels we 've been seeking?_\n\nOthers in the boats behind Camlin were of a different mind, drawing weapons, yelling.\n\nA warrior stepped forward on the riverbank, older, red hair streaked with silver spilling from beneath an iron helm. He wore a coat of mail and a leather vest, held a thick spear.\n\n'Put up your arms or you'll be food for the fish. Bring your boats to the bank, nice and smooth, and get up here where I can see you.'\n\nNo one moved.\n\nEdana's voice rang out. 'Do as he says. I'll have none of you die here.' She stood in the boat, the hood of her cloak drawn over her head. 'And who are you, that waylay us?' she asked.\n\nThe red-haired warrior opened his mouth, appearing to be about to answer, then frowned. The first boats reached the bank, Cian and Vonn jumping ashore, then Lorcan, who turned and helped his mother to disembark. More than a few of the warriors stared openly at Roisin.\n\n'I'll be asking the questions here,' the red-haired warrior said. 'And my first question is: who are you?'\n\n_Don 't do it - let's at least find out who these men claim to be. Could be scouts of Morcant's, or lawless men, or mercenaries,_ Camlin thought.\n\nEdana stepped onto firm land and pulled her hood down.\n\n'I am Edana ap Brenin, Queen of Ardan.'\n\n_Oh well._ Camlin winced. He stepped ashore, bow finally strung, hand reaching beneath his cloak for his quiver of arrows.\n\nThere were at least a dozen heartbeats of silence, then the red-haired warrior was stepping forward, staring hard at her, eyes narrowed. Baird and Camlin moved either side of her, Vonn moving along the riverbank. Spear-points were levelled at them.\n\n'Maybe you are,' Red Hair said quietly. 'I saw Edana - in Uthandun. It was years ago, though, and only from a distance. Any of you lads recognize her?' he cried. Voices murmured along the bank.\n\n_To be fair she doesn 't look much like a queen right now._ Edana's hair was tied tight to her head, its natural blonde dull with sweat and dirt. Her cloak and clothes were torn and mud-stained.\n\n'I think it's her,' one voice said.\n\n'No,' another cried - 'too old.'\n\n'It is Queen Edana,' Lorcan shouted, standing in front of her. 'And the next one to call her a liar will feel my sword.'\n\n'Lorcan,' Edana hissed. 'Why would I lie?' she said to Red Hair.\n\n'This world is full of snares and traps, my lady. It's of no matter, I know someone who will be able to tell me for sure.' Red Hair stepped forwards. He waved something in front of Edana, a hemp sack. 'All of you, put one of these over your heads and I'll take you to someone who'll tell me if you're queen or liar.' He gripped Edana's arm.\n\n'Take your hands off her,' Lorcan snarled, grabbing Red Hair's wrist. The warrior punched Lorcan in the face; the lad staggered back a step, then dropped to the floor, unconscious. Roisin screamed and swords began to leave scabbards.\n\n'No,' Edana yelled, at the top of her lungs.\n\nBrogan woke at that - until then he had still been snoring in the boat. He staggered upright on unsteady feet, the boat rocking beneath him, and he fell over the side with a splash. He managed to get his feet under him and stood, spitting water.\n\n'What's going on?' he spluttered.\n\nMen on the riverbank laughed.\n\n'If you are Queen of Ardan, I think you need a new shieldman,' Red Hair said, smiling.\n\nEdana caught Camlin's eye. _What should I do?_\n\nHe shrugged imperceptibly. _Go with them_. _What else can we do? I think they 're our rebels, and if they're not - well, we could put up a fight, but the outcome is clear._\n\nHe looked down and saw Meg was standing close to him.\n\n'Get out of here,' he whispered. She ignored him, only shuffled closer to him. _Stupid bairn._ He tried to kick her but she sidestepped.\n\nEdana took the sack from Red Hair. 'We'll go peacefully. But I'll have your name before I put this on my head.'\n\n'My name is Drust, and I was shieldman to Owain, King of Narvon. Now get on with you.'\n\nIt didn't take long for them all to be blindfolded in some way, and soon they were being led along the riverbank, with much stumbling, tripping and swearing along the way.\n\n_Shieldman of Owain - what's someone who served Owain doing here? An enemy of Rhin, no doubt, but also a man who must have fought Ardan's warriors, played a part in the sack of Dun Carreg. He can't have that many friends in Ardan._\n\nCamlin felt the sun on his back and his throat was dry when hands grabbed him, forcing him to stop. The bag was pulled from his head and he blinked in the fading sunlight.\n\nA slope led down to a lake that spread before him, wide and dark, calm and flat as a mirror, its far banks a shadow on the horizon. Towers and walls protruded from the dark waters of the lake, a labyrinth of criss-crossing stone slick with weed and moss. On the ground before the lake was an encampment, tents and more permanent-looking structures, fire-pits, and people - lots of people. Warriors, but also a mixture of others: women, the elderly, bairns running in groups.\n\n'Welcome to Dun Crin,' a voice boomed; a large figure was striding towards them. A warrior, tall and barrel-chested, old but not ancient, lots of grey in a long beard tied with leather that draped down to his belly. 'What have you brought me, Drust?' His eyes scanned them all, pausing momentarily upon Camlin.\n\n_I know you._\n\nThen the big warrior's eyes fell on Edana and he froze. His mouth opened and closed. 'Edana? It cannot be,' he said, then he dropped to one knee before her.\n\nEdana gasped and she flung her arms around him, smothering his face with kisses.\n\n'Pendathran,' she cried, 'I thought you were dead.'\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\n#### RAFE\n\nRafe trekked along an old fox trail that wound through green meadows. He was a league or so north of Dun Taras, the fortress a dark shadow on the horizon behind him. A ten-night had passed since he'd returned with Conall and Braith. Word of Halion's capture and imprisonment had spread and, within days, the unrest had begun again. It seemed there was a rebellious element that wanted Halion as king, rather than Conall. Grain barns had been burned, the camp of Veradis and his eagle-warriors had been vandalized, and last night an attempt had been made to rescue Halion. It had failed, but the mood in the fortress was grim and Rafe had decided he needed a break from politics, people and stone walls, to be somewhere green, with only sky above him.\n\nSo here he was. The plains to the north of Dun Taras reminded him of Ardan, an undulating landscape of wood and meadow. As he walked he thought of his days back home with his da, when they would head out on hunting trips with just a small bag with rope, flint and tinder, some bread and cheese, never enough to last the duration of their outing - _You 'll have to catch us something to eat, Rafe my lad_, his da would always say to him, _else we 'll starve to death -_ and slowly but surely his da had taught him the way of the wild. How to track anything that moved, to read the signs, to be cunning, patient when necessary, and fast as a striking adder as well.\n\nOut of habit he'd packed a bag just as his da had taught him. He liked the weight of it across his shoulder, familiar as the weight of a knife on his belt.\n\n_I miss my da._\n\n_And now he 's dead. Ripped apart by that devil-wolven, Corban's pet. I hate them both._ He looked at the landscape around him, imagined hunting them through it, wearing them down, eventually forcing them to turn at bay. And then he would kill them. The wolven first, so Corban could watch. And then Corban, in a repeat of their Court of Swords in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg. Except this time Rafe would win. _He cheated. Lunged at me before I was ready. It 'll be different this time._ And in his mind it was, Corban begging for mercy before Rafe slowly pushed his blade home, into Corban's heart.\n\nHe was smiling when one of the hounds started barking.\n\nHe'd brought Scratcher and Sniffer out of habit. He saw Scratcher's hind end disappear into a cluster of shrub, saw the familiar streak of a hare as it burst from the far side of the undergrowth, weaving across an open meadow, leaping a narrow stream. Sniffer went around the shrub that Scratcher was wading through and was bounding after the hare in great, ground-eating strides.\n\n'Oi,' Rafe called, 'here now!' But he knew it was too late for Sniffer; he had the scent and was for the time being deaf in the joy of his euphoric chase. Scratcher broke through the shrub as Rafe reached him and, being closer, was called to heel.\n\n'Come on, boy, we'll catch them together.'\n\nThey hurried across the meadow, Rafe splashing across the stream, Scratcher crossing it in a single bound. The ground became spongy underfoot, more streams dissecting the land, thick clumps of marsh grass appearing.\n\n_Don 't like this much - soon we'll be wading into a bog._ The thick smell of peat and stagnant water was filling the air. Rafe put his fingers to his lips and whistled, high and shrill. He paused and listened.\n\n_Nothing._\n\nHe whistled again; this time heard a bark. Looking about, he saw that the ground rose. He headed towards it and climbed a slight incline, realizing that it was an old road, wide, crumbling stone worn and broken by years of attrition, frost and thaw, root and rain. _Must be giant-made, like the giantsway back home._ He whistled again, walking on, keeping to this high ground. He saw a streak of grey, Sniffer weaving back to him, something lolling between his jaws.\n\n_He caught the hare, then. Good boy._\n\nRafe stood on the old road with Scratcher and waited, Sniffer making his way through a landscape of glistening streams and pools, edged by strips of blackthorn and dogwood. Willows grew here and there, great curtains of branches draping the ground. In a pool a heron stood tall and still, silhouetted by the sun.\n\nSniffer was almost back to them when he seemed to stumble and fall. Beside Rafe Scratcher whined.\n\nSniffer tried to climb to his feet, but couldn't, as if something had reached out from beneath the ground and had gripped him in a fist of iron.\n\n_A bog. He 's fallen into a bog._\n\nRafe ran down the embankment, stumbling, almost falling, saw the shift from solid to marsh just in time. Black mud was erupting about Sniffer as he thrashed, his great bulk heaving and bucking in the viscous soil, but the more he struggled, the quicker he sank.\n\n'It's all right, boy. I'm here, I'm here,' Rafe called out. Not surprisingly the words didn't have any effect on Sniffer as he writhed, only his head and shoulders visible now, eyes rolling white in panic. Scratcher paced the edge of land and marsh, whining frantically.\n\n_What to do? What to do?_ Rafe forced himself to be still, then threw his bag from his shoulder and pulled out the rope. _Thank you, Da._ He ran back to a stand of blackthorn and tied one end around the thick, twisted trunk, cutting his hands on the thorns, checked the knot, then tied the other end around his waist. He looked back to Sniffer and was horrified to see his muzzle sink out of sight; he took a run up and leaped into the bog.\n\nHe fell in with a great splash, the marsh somewhere between water and mud. It was thick, black, and it stank. He thrashed his way closer to where he thought Sniffer had been, with each move sinking deeper. He reached down, arms feeling like they were pushing through porridge, felt something solid brush his finger tips.\n\n_Fur?_\n\nHe hesitated for a moment, thought about pulling himself back up onto solid ground, but the thought of Sniffer, scared and drowning, filled his mind. He took a deep breath and let the bog take him, digging his way down, doing everything that his da had told him not to do in this situation. With each move of his arms and his legs he felt the bog suck him down, deeper and deeper. His lungs started to hurt, and still he went deeper. He could hear his pulse pounding in his head, his heart thumping in his chest. His lungs burned now, and still he went deeper. Then he felt it, something solid; fur and flesh. He wrapped one arm around it, felt his fingers dig into a thicker level of mud, scrape along something hard and cold. Instinctively he gripped onto it with his fingertips, pulled his arm tight about the hound's body, with his other hand pulling on the rope stretched taut above him.\n\nHe didn't move. Panic surged through him, combined with the screaming in his lungs into an overwhelming urge to open his mouth and breathe. By an immense act of will he didn't, instead just kept pulling on the rope.\n\nHe moved. Just a fraction at first, then more, half an arm's length. The hound was a huge weight, anchoring him down, and he was tempted to let go. _No. Not now, not after this._ He reached higher up the rope, pulled again, this time moving easier, pulled again and now he was moving through honey, not tar. He pulled again and his head burst out of the bog, his mouth opening to suck in a huge lungfull of air. He pulled again, dragged the limp weight of the hound clear, onto his shoulder, started heaving himself towards the bank.\n\nScratcher was going berserk on the bank, leaping, barking and howling at them.\n\nRafe crawled onto solid ground, the body of Sniffer flopping beside him. He realized he was gripping something in his other hand, a handle attached to something caked in mud. He dropped it on the ground, ran his hands over Sniffer, Scratcher licking the hound, pushing him with his muzzle.\n\nThe hound wasn't breathing; viscous mud clogged his nostrils, dripping from its mouth.\n\n_No!_ Rafe put his ear to the hound's deep chest. Nothing. Hot tears came to his eyes and he shook the dog. Its head lolled drunkenly.\n\n'No!' he yelled and slammed his fists onto the dog's chest. Again, and again.\n\nSuddenly the hound jerked, started choking, legs kicking, coughing up great clumps of black earth. Scratcher leaped about them both, barking and licking.\n\n'Good boy,' Rafe said as he flopped down beside Sniffer, draping one arm over him. Sniffer lifted his head and looked at Rafe. 'Good boy,' Rafe said. 'Good boy.'\n\nSniffer licked his face.\n\nRafe trudged wearily through the gates of Dun Taras, headed for his room, a barrack that he shared with a score of other warriors. People were staring at him.\n\n_Can 't blame them, I suppose._ He was quite a sight, the mud of the bog drying black, caking him from head to foot. He'd tried to wash, but it didn't seem to want to come off. Sniffer was the same, grey fur spiked with dried mud. He didn't seem to care, though.\n\n_Why did I do that? I 'm a bloody idiot, could have got myself killed. My da would've given me such a hiding._\n\nAs he approached the keep he saw a familiar face sitting on the steps of a fountain. Braith.\n\nHe was much recovered from his wound, just a slight stoop to his shoulder that gave away the weakness where the muscle had been cut.\n\n'What in the Otherworld happened to you?' Braith asked him as he approached. Rafe thought about telling the truth, but then thought better of it. _Risking death to pull a hound out of a bog. He 'll think I'm touched._\n\n'I fell in a bog,' he said. 'Scratcher pulled me out.' _A good lie is best mingled with the truth, my da always told me._ He sat next to Braith, dropping his bag at his feet. It clunked and he remembered the box he'd pulled out of the bog. It had been locked so he'd put it in his bag, thought he'd have a look at it later.\n\n'How're you feeling?' he asked Braith. He liked the woodsman, respected his skill in the wild. And there was something about Braith; when you spoke he made you feel that he listened. Really listened, as if you mattered.\n\n'Well enough,' Braith said. 'My legs aren't what they were, yet. That's why I'm sitting here; had to stop for a breather.' His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. 'But nothing a few good meals won't change. Don't think my aim'll ever be as good, though.' He rolled his shoulder and grimaced. 'Something I'd like to thank Camlin in person for.'\n\nRafe nodded. He had a few scores of his own that he'd like to settle.\n\nA noise rose up beyond the archway to the keep, a crowd gathered. Many were marching through the gates.\n\n'What's that all about?' Rafe asked.\n\n'Rhin's making an announcement at sunset,' Braith said. He glanced up at the sky and stood. 'Lend me your shoulder and let's go and see what she has to say.'\n\nRhin was standing at the top of a dozen steps before the gates to the keep. She looked regal and imposing in her sable cloak edged in rich embroidery, a torc about her neck and golden thread wound through her silver hair. Conall stood one side of her, glowering at the crowd, Geraint the other. Rafe saw Veradis standing lower down, on a level with the crowd, but apart. A dozen or so of his eagle-guard were with him, looking fine in polished cuirasses of black and silver.\n\n'I'm not one for grand speeches so I'll make this quick,' Rhin began, the crowd quietening almost instantly. 'There are unsavoury forces at work in this realm that are determined to stay rooted in the past, and in the process cause me some irritation. The past is not always good, by the way. In the case of Domhain the past involved a senile, lecherous old King and his selfish bitch of a young whore wife.'\n\nMutters rippled around the crowd, some laughter as well.\n\n'I like to say things as I see them - something you will no doubt become accustomed to. Anyway, this unsavoury element that I speak of amongst you: it has come to my attention that they are keen for Halion ben Eremon to sit upon the throne of Domhain. Now, you already have Conall, the brother, and a very fine King he is proving himself to be, too. So why be so greedy?'\n\nSome more laughter.\n\n'You malcontents out there will have to make do with Conall, for two reasons. First, because, in case you have forgotten, I have conquered Domhain. Defeated its warbands, seen your King take his life rather than face me, and so I get to choose who I put on your throne. That's the victor's right.\n\n'Secondly. Halion will be unable to sit upon your throne, because as of this time on the morrow, his head will no longer be connected to his body.'\n\nThere were gasps at that, some widespread muttering, and still some laughter. Conall took a step back, eyes wide, but he quickly composed himself.\n\n'Think that was as much news for Conall as it was the rest of us,' Braith said in Rafe's ear.\n\n'That's all I have to say,' Rhin said and disappeared into the shadows of the keep. Conall stood there a moment, head bowed, then he strode after her.\n\nThe crowd dispersed slowly. Rafe decided it was time to find somewhere to wash the mud from his body, when a warrior of Cambren pushed through the crowd and called to Braith.\n\n'Queen Rhin wants to see you,' the warrior said.\n\n'Come with me,' Braith said, bending to massage a leg.\n\nRafe shrugged, though he didn't much like the thought of being too close to Rhin. She scared him. They followed the warrior and he escorted them into the keep.\n\nRhin was waiting beside a fire-pit, shadows rippling across her face. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Rafe.\n\n'Legs are still a bit weak under me,' Braith said by way of explanation.\n\n'Are you well enough for a long journey?' Rhin said to Braith, no preamble.\n\n'I am,' Braith said. 'Long as I'm sitting on a horse, not walking. How far?'\n\n'To Ardan. Tracking. Hunting.'\n\n'I could do with some help.'\n\nRhin looked at Rafe. 'You're a huntsman, I believe.' She looked him up and down.\n\n'I . . . I am,' Rafe stuttered.\n\n'Good. There's your help, then, Braith.'\n\n'What would you have me do?' Braith asked.\n\n'Come ready to my chambers tonight, seventh candle. And be ready for the road.'\n\nRafe followed Braith hesitantly into Rhin's chamber. It was late, the only light coming from a low-burning fire and a candle or two dotted around the room.\n\n'Sit,' Rhin said, waving them to two chairs pulled close about the fire. She poured them both a cup of wine and then reclined, her eyes shining in the firelight. Shadows clung to the deep grooves of her face.\n\n_She looks exhausted, worse than normal._\n\n'What is the mission, my Queen?' Braith said.\n\n'Ahh, Braith. My faithful Braith. You have served me well. I'm glad you didn't die on a cold beach in Domhain.'\n\n'I'll drink to that,' Braith said as he raised his cup.\n\n'As to your mission. Well, it is based solely on a prediction, at the moment. It may not happen. Though I am usually right. If there is one thing I know well it is the hearts of men. But I will not speak of it yet. We must wait, and see if my suspicion is founded.'\n\n'I'll just drink some more of this fine wine, then,' Braith said.\n\n'As long as you are able to ride, you can drink all you like,' Rhin smiled.\n\nRafe took a sip and settled back into his chair. For a while he listened to the low murmur of Braith and Rhin's conversation, but in time his eyes drooped.\n\nHe came awake with a start. Rhin and Braith were still in their chairs, though they were no longer talking. They were looking at the fire. Rafe stared too, and as he watched, fresh flames curled up, wood crackling, a spark spitting out onto the stone floor.\n\n'What--' Rafe began.\n\n'Quiet,' Rhin snapped.\n\nA figure formed in the fire, like the thread of a tapestry being sewn upon a fabric of flame. Slowly it became clearer: a figure sitting upon a stone floor, a chain of iron about its wrists.\n\nThe figure spoke, a crackle of flame. 'What do you want?' Then Rafe recognized him.\n\n_Halion._\n\n_Witchcraft._ Rafe felt his body prickle with goose-bumps. He wanted to get up and run, as far and fast as he could, but his feet seemed to be frozen, his arms pinned to the leather chair he was sitting in.\n\nAnother figure appeared, moving quickly. It bent over Halion, then the shackles were falling away, clanging on the stone.\n\n'What are you doing?' Halion asked.\n\n'Get up,' the other figure said, a man, his back to the flames.\n\n'I don't understand,' Halion muttered.\n\n'Rhin's had enough of you being alive. She's putting your head on a spike, on the morrow.'\n\n'Thought that would suit you. You've made your choices,' Halion said.\n\n'Don't be a fool, Hal.' The figure held out his arm for Halion. 'You're my brother. I can't see that done to you.'\n\n_Conall._\n\n'So what is this, then?'\n\n'It's an escape, you idiot - what did you think?' Rafe could almost see the grin on Conall's face.\n\nHalion gripped Conall's arm and stood slowly.\n\n'Come with me,' Halion said.\n\n'No. I don't want to see you dead, but that doesn't mean I want to go back to life on the run, in a saddle. And besides, I don't like those whom you serve.'\n\n'The feeling's mutual there,' Halion said.\n\n'So, I'll take you to the tunnel in the stables, give you a horse. You're on your own from there. Where you go is your business - and don't tell me, I don't want to know.'\n\n'But Rhin'll have your head for this.'\n\n'She'll never know.'\n\nRhin snorted at that.\n\nThen they were moving, disappearing from the flames.\n\nSilence settled in the room. Rafe stared at the fire. The flames died down, shrinking back to glowing embers.\n\n'How did you do that?' Rafe whispered.\n\n'You don't really want to know,' Rhin said. 'Suffice to say that it involved the freshly flayed skin of an enemy and some blood. Actually a lot of blood. It wasn't easy. But then, if it was, everybody would be doing it, wouldn't they.'\n\nRafe swallowed, feeling his gut churn. _Wish I 'd never asked._\n\n'Never did trust that Conall.' Braith muttered.\n\n'No. It's a shame,' Rhin sighed.\n\n'Did you know he would do this?'\n\n'I suspected.'\n\n'So will it be Conall's head on a spike alongside Halion's on the morrow?'\n\n'No. Not yet, at least. I need him for the moment. I have to go - pressing needs elsewhere, and I really don't like it here. So I'll let him think he's deceived me, leave him to rule Domhain for a while, see whether he can tame the dissenters. He may just get himself killed, of course, which will save me a job in the long run.' She shrugged. 'I can't worry about everything.'\n\n'Better get moving,' Braith said. 'Else Halion'll get away.'\n\n'I want him to get away. And you're going to follow him.' Rhin said with a slow smile. 'All the way to Edana.'\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin crawled through the long grass, breathing in the scent of meadow flowers. Abruptly the grass parted and a wide plain dissected by a forked river opened up in front of him. _We 're going to get wet. Again._\n\nThe grass rustled behind him and Fidele crawled up.\n\n'It's big,' she said.\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'I have ridden past it many times, and it never looked so daunting before.'\n\n'That's because you and your honour guard could ride across a bridge that wasn't guarded by Vin Thalun then.'\n\nBeyond the river a forest followed the skyline into the east.\n\n'That is the forest Sarva, and beyond it is Ripa.'\n\n_Ripa. Our destination, and safety, according to Fidele._\n\n_And now we are nearly there. Just a river and a forest to cross._\n\nThey had been travelling for over two moons now, shadowing the main river most of the way from Jerolin. After the hounds and the jump into a river they had been carried a few leagues south. They'd hauled themselves out, shivering, battered and bruised but still alive, and gone to ground, hiding in a cave for a ten-night as they let the Vin Thalun pass them by. Since then they had avoided all pursuit, though they had glimpsed Vin Thalun corsairs patrolling the great river that flowed from Jerolin to Ripa.\n\nMaquin scanned the plain below them. There was no bridge crossing the river, but he spied a ford. Movement on the river drew Maquin's attention.\n\nIt was a ship's prow, oars rising and dipping.\n\nHe recognized it as a Vin Thalun war-galley. He had spent enough time breaking his back rowing one all the way from Isiltir to the island of Panos. As he watched his hands itched, the memory of pulling at an oar triggering a host of feelings and memories. All of them unpleasant.\n\nThe Vin Thalun galley reached the ford in the river, a gangplank appearing and men swarming down it. Some carried great lengths of timber, half a dozen stripped trunks and spare masts. With an efficiency that Maquin grudgingly respected they set about portage of the ship across the ford, placing the lengths of timber in front of the ship's prow, at the same time ropes were hurled down for men to haul the ship over the masts, warriors running to the stern of the ship to collect the timber as it rolled over it and carry it back to the prow, repeating the process until the ship was back in the water on the northern side of the ford. Then they boarded the ship and set to rowing again.\n\nThe sun was low in the sky when the Vin Thalun galley disappeared over the horizon, heading north-west.\n\n'They are going to Jerolin,' Fidele said.\n\n'Most likely. And we're going to Ripa. Come, let's go get our feet wet.'\n\nMaquin watched Fidele as she skinned a rabbit, the first rays of dawn dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts were economical and precise, first gutting the dead animal, dumping the offal in the river, keeping the heart and liver, slicing a neat line all along the underbelly, then ripping the skin free in a series of fluid tugs.\n\n_She 's not useless now. Not that I thought she was before. Stubborn, pig-headed, maybe, but not useless._ Over their time together Maquin had learned a quiet respect for her. She was a lady of rank and clearly not capable of surviving in the wild - _well, not when I met her -_ but to her credit she had refused just to rely upon him. She asked more questions than an inquisitive bairn, and slowly built up a set of skills that would look after any woodsman in the wild.\n\nThe rabbit was skinned and quartered now. She pierced each piece on a long knife and set it over their small fire, a luxury Maquin would not normally have agreed to, but they were half a day from Ripa now. Fidele was focusing on turning her makeshift spit, face set in lines of concentration so as not to burn any of the meat. The last two moons had taken their toll on her. She was pale, her face gaunt, dark shadows beneath her eyes, streaks of grey in her otherwise jet hair. Yet something else had changed about her. When Maquin had led her from the arena at Jerolin there had been a rage within her, something cold and hard. Brittle. Over their journey that had changed, gradually melting away. She was relaxed in the wild, appearing more comfortable than Maquin had ever witnessed her in Jerolin.\n\n_And now I have taken her almost to safety, to Ripa. The first promise that I have not broken in a long time._ He felt something at that thought, a warmth deep in his chest. The satisfaction of a task completed. _I 'd forgotten what it is to feel . . . good. To have honour._\n\nAnd he felt something else, an echo of his life before Lykos and slavery, before Jael's betrayal and Kastell's death, when life had been more than just a consuming need for vengeance or survival. _She has reminded me what it is like to be a man, not just a trained killer. That feels good, too._\n\nShe looked up at him, perhaps feeling his eyes upon her.\n\n'What?' she said, a smile warming her face.\n\n'Nothing,' he muttered and looked away.\n\nThey stepped out of the forest; the road and river left a gaping hole amongst the trees that reminded Maquin of the dark entrance to the catacombs beneath Haldis. Ripa appeared before them: a stone tower on a high hill overlooking the sea. It was guarded by a stout wooden fortress, a town of wood and thatch spilling from the hill's slopes and down into a bay. Columns of smoke rose up into the sky. The river curled languidly towards the sea through a plain of tall grass, the smell of salt and sound of gulls in the air.\n\nThey walked on the road, which was built upon an embankment, beside them fields of tall grass swaying in a strong breeze. Maquin felt exposed and self-conscious now that they were out in the open. Vulnerable. _Been in the wild too long._\n\nAs they followed the road from the forest that led to Ripa something nagged Maquin.\n\n_Where are the people? The children?_\n\n'Something's wrong,' Maquin said.\n\nAs they crested a slight rise they saw what. Black-sailed ships dotted the bay - lots of them.\n\n_A blockade._ Maquin stopped walking, pointed to the bay. Fidele stared, her brow creased with worry.\n\n'That smoke doesn't look right,' she said.\n\nShe was right. Even as Maquin watched thick black columns of smoke appeared, close to the harbour.\n\n_Ripa is under attack._\n\n'We should get back to the forest,' Maquin said.\n\nThey turned, hurrying back. Before they'd gone a dozen strides a shape appeared in the darkness that enveloped the river's entrance to the forest. A sharp prow emerged like a spear bursting through a body. A lean hull, low to the water, oars rising and falling in constant rhythm.\n\nMaquin grabbed Fidele and dragged her down the embankment into the long grass that edged the road. Once under cover Fidele pulled Maquin to a halt.\n\n'I must see,' she hissed at him.\n\n'We should leave, get away,' he said, all his instincts screaming to run, to survive.\n\n'Go where? There is nowhere else to go. This is the only safe place.' There was a tremor in her voice.\n\n_She thought her running was over, that she was safe._\n\nHe allowed her to lead him to the edge of the grass. They peered out, saw the Vin Thalun galley sail past them, sleek and fluid, others emerging from the darkness of the forest. They were close enough to see faces on the first galley's deck, Vin Thalun warriors gathered there, staring at Ripa. Maquin's eyes were drawn to one - dark-haired, an oiled beard. Maquin knew him just by the way he stood.\n\n_Lykos._\n\nFidele's hand gripped his forearm, nails digging in as she hissed. She took a step forwards, one hand reaching for the knife at her belt. Maquin grabbed her and dragged her back, the grass around them swaying. A cry of alarm went up from the galley's deck. He risked a glance back, saw Lykos staring hard. Lykos shouted an order and the galley swerved towards the bank. The oars were pulling out of the water, being drawn back through the oar-holes. A gangplank appeared, warriors crowding behind it.\n\nMaquin looked to the forest, then up to Ripa on the hill. _In the forest we 'll be hunted. In the fortress we'll be trapped._\n\nFidele made the decision for him. She bolted away from him, through the long grass towards Ripa.\n\nMaquin caught up with Fidele. He could hear the sound of pursuit, feet drumming on the road, the change in sound as they hit the long grass. It was hard going, the grass weaving about them as they powered through it. All Maquin could hear was his own breathing, the sound of their passage as the grass rustled and swayed. He risked a glance back, to his horror saw Vin Thalun running along the road, tracking them. And they were gaining.\n\n_Got to do something._\n\nHe grabbed Fidele and burst out of the grass and dragged her up the embankment to the road, shoved her forward, yelled for her to keep running as he turned, pulling a knife from his belt. A score of Vin Thalun were pounding up the road towards him - forty paces away, thirty - galleys alongside him flowing down the river, and to his right the long grass was rippling in the wake of those who had followed them. He flipped the knife in his hand and threw it at a warrior on the road. The man swerved and the blade punched into his shoulder instead of his neck. 'Old Wolf,' he heard someone call out from the river as he turned and ran, other voices taking up the cry. He didn't stop to look.\n\nHe caught up with Fidele and together they hurtled along the road, buildings streaming past them. Sounds of battle drifted on the breeze from the bay, clouds of black smoke billowing across the road.\n\n'Hold your breath,' Maquin grunted as Fidele slowed before the thick smoke. He sucked in a deep breath, grabbed her hand and plunged in. A dozen heartbeats and there was no change, his eyes stinging, forty heartbeats and he could feel the veins pounding in his head, felt like his heart was thumping out of his chest. Fifty heartbeats and the smoke thinned, and then suddenly they were through it. Fidele staggered into him, coughing, her eyes streaming.\n\n'Can't stop,' he rasped. Blurred images fought on the road ahead. He turned to his left, pulling Fidele into a huddle of buildings, led her through a twisting maze of alleys and paths. Eventually Maquin stopped, leaning against a wall. Fidele collapsed to her knees, chest rising and falling violently as she struggled for breath. Maquin realized he was still clutching a knife in one hand.\n\n'Got to keep moving,' he muttered. He glanced up, saw the tower of Ripa looming above them.\n\n'One hard climb and we're there,' he said. Dragging Fidele to her feet they stumbled on, turning a corner and almost falling into a running battle, Vin Thalun trading blows with warriors of Ripa in the black and silver of Tenebral. The Vin Thalun were fewer in numbers, but more were emerging from the streets and alleys all the time. Maquin looked up the hill, saw that the gates of a tall wooden wall that ringed the tower were open - people streaming through them.\n\n_These men are the rearguard, buying time for the people of Ripa to reach safety._\n\n'Up the hill,' Maquin yelled at Fidele over the din of battle. Together they ran, swerving around combat, over bodies. Two men crashed in front of them, punching, kicking, stabbing. Fidele hurdled them and stumbled on, but a hand grabbed Maquin as he leaped over them. He crashed to the ground, rolled to his feet, brandishing his knife. A Vin Thalun was climbing from the ground, short sword blooded and buckler still in his hands. Maquin didn't wait for him to find his balance and lunged forward with his knife, at the same time drawing another. His first blade scraped along the Vin Thalun's buckler, his second slicing low, beneath the rim of a battered cuirass. Blood and a tangle of intestines gushed out of the wound. Maquin kicked the screaming man over and turned back to Fidele a dozen paces ahead. He waved her on, sprinting after her.\n\nThe men of Ripa were trying to form a wall against the Vin Thalun, but there were too many, more surging up the hill, others flowing out of side streets, flanking the beleaguered rearguard.\n\n_They have no chance._\n\nThen Vin Thalun were spilling into the road above them, two score at least, more appearing, blocking the road and falling on the men of Ripa.\n\nFidele looked at him despairingly.\n\nThere was no way back. The side streets were swarming with Vin Thalun, and besides, running that way would only delay the inevitable.\n\nThe tower gates were still open, a hundred paces up the road.\n\n_Only chance is to get through those gates._\n\nHe stared at Fidele a moment, the worry etched upon her features, moments from their journey flashing through his mind. Strangely, he found himself smiling, remembering snippets of conversation and silence.\n\n_I think you 're worth dying for._ He knew making the gates was unlikely - just too many Vin Thalun in the way, and more arriving by the heartbeat.\n\n_Death is only ever a moment away._\n\n'What now?' Fidele asked.\n\n_I carve us a way to those gates, or die trying._\n\n'Stay behind me,' he grunted, stepping in front of her.\n\nThe first men saw him too late, his knives bringing sudden death upon them. In a dozen heartbeats three Vin Thalun were dead, another slumped upon the ground, bleeding out from a deep gash in his groin.\n\nMaquin pressed forward, felt Fidele behind him, knew she would have her knife in her hand.\n\nThe Vin Thalun saw him coming now, a handful moving on him together, spreading into a half-circle.\n\n_Don 't give them time._ He knew from the pits that to hesitate against many was to die. With a snarl he swept forwards and to the left, one knife high, the other low, cutting, blocking, slicing, always moving. Time slowed, each heartbeat a lifetime. He felt cuts appear on his arms, his thighs, thin lines of pain burning like flame as his attackers managed to get past his guard. He stabbed, hands slick with blood. A blow high on his back staggered him and he fell to one knee, rolled forwards from it, a sword slicing a handspan from his face. He had no idea where Fidele was now. Could only hope that she was still close. He kept stabbing, every face he saw superimposed with the features of Lykos or Jael. He killed them both, countless times, a feral grin on his face. One of his knives stuck between ribs, was ripped out of his hand as his victim fell away. He pulled another blade from his boot, powered on, blood splattering his face, blurring his vision, the taste of iron in his mouth. Someone grabbed his arm; he spun on a heel, sliced a hamstring, the man falling, still clutching him, pulling him down. A blow crunched into his gut, low, above his right hip, felt like a punch. He snapped an elbow into a face, heard cartilage snap, took a step forwards and suddenly he was falling, his right leg numb, the ground rushing up to him, his head slamming onto the blood-slick ground, his knives skittering away. He pushed at the ground, tried to rise, but his legs weren't working properly; he just managed to roll onto his back. He sucked in air, the sky a bright blue above him. Numbness pulsed out from the blow to his gut. He reached there, fingers coming away dark with blood.\n\n_Is this death?_ He felt no pain, just weariness settling upon him like a heavy cloak, his limbs suddenly filled with lead.\n\nA face loomed over him, blotting out the sky, a Vin Thalun beard thick with iron rings, face twisted in a snarl, iron glinting. He thought about moving, fingers twitching to find one of his knives, but it was all too much effort. Then the face was falling away, Fidele replacing it. She dropped to her knees, shook him, face contorted with fear.\n\n'Run, you idiot,' he said, though he wasn't sure how loud he said it, or even if the words had passed his lips at all.\n\nHands gripped his head, Fidele lifting him onto her lap. Tears stained her cheeks, dropped onto his face. He tasted the salt on his lips. Her fingers brushed at his hair, wiped blood from his eyes. Her mouth was moving, her voice filling his head, but he couldn't distinguish the words.\n\n'It's all right,' he tried to say. His eyes fluttered closed.\n\n'Live, damn you!' she screamed at him, a fist pounding his chest. His eyes snapped open. He heard that.\n\n_I 'm trying, but it's not as easy as you'd think._ In truth just staying focused on her face was proving difficult; a dark nimbus formed around the periphery of his vision, the urge to close his eyes overwhelming. _So tired._\n\nA noise grew, filling his head: pounding, rhythmic, growing louder. _Hooves?_ Shadows were all around him now, a flash of hooves stamping. Arms reached down and grabbed Fidele, pulling her away and his head thumped onto the earth.\n\nShe fought them, shouting, reaching out, pointing at him.\n\nThen hands were gripping him, lifting him high. A new face appeared, a man, thick black beard on a weathered face. He grinned, which Maquin thought was strange at a time like this.\n\n'Welcome to Ripa,' the face said, and then the darkness surged in and Maquin knew no more.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\n#### LYKOS\n\nLykos stood on deck and stared up at the tower of Ripa. Gulls circled and screeched and absently Lykos spied a sea-eagle, sailing the currents high above the flocks of gulls.\n\n_He is like me. Striking without warning. But I did not strike quickly enough. The tower still stands, its walls and gates closed against me._\n\nHe tried to focus on strategy, on finding a way to end this, but his mind kept looping back to Maquin and Fidele. For a moment he had not believed his own eyes, not believed that his fortune could be quite so good. Two moons he had waited for word of their capture, had become increasingly frustrated with every passing day. Eventually word reached him that their trail had been found, only for them to disappear again. And then, nothing.\n\nUntil today, when he saw them staring straight at him from a sea of undulating grass.\n\n_And again they have escaped me._\n\n'Your boat is ready,' a voice behind him said. Kolai, his shieldman. Lykos had hand-picked another dozen men, a mixture of pit-fighters and corsairs, more than he had ever felt the need for before. But a knife in the back had convinced him of his mortality. _Better too many than too few._\n\nLykos made his way across the ship's deck and swung nimbly over the side, climbed down a rope net into a rowing boat bobbing on the swell. The wound in his back was as good as healed, though he could sense a weakness there, an ache when he exerted himself. His twelve shieldmen were already in the boat, half of them sitting at the oars. Each one of them had a grapple hook and rope wound about one shoulder. Kolai dropped into the boat behind him and they set off, cutting across the bay to the harbour.\n\nThey skirted the burning galleys of Ripa, larger, heavier and slower than any Vin Thalun galley. Lykos smiled at the sight, knowing how many ships the Ripa fleet had cost him while defending their coastline against Vin Thalun raiders before the pact with Nathair and Aquilus. It was very satisfying.\n\nThey moored the boat and climbed stone steps to the harbour. A group of Vin Thalun was standing on a pier, a hundred men, maybe more. Lykos walked up to one who stood before them, blackhaired, beard oiled and clinking with iron like any self-respecting Vin Thalun. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his left ear.\n\n'Demos, it is good to see you, you old pirate.' Demos was the closest thing to a friend that Lykos had. He had no interest in politicking, or in power, just lived for the thrill of riding the waves, of hunting on the deep blue. He was a shark, a predator, and a friend.\n\n'Less of the old,' Demos grinned, 'I'm younger than you.' He held Lykos by the shoulders and stared at him. 'Being a lord is taking its toll, I think.'\n\n'Aye. That and being stabbed in the back,' Lykos said grimly.\n\n'Think you can do this?' Lykos asked him, looking at the cliffs that Ripa's tower was built upon.\n\n'Only one way to find out,' Demos grinned.\n\n'I'll go and draw their eyes,' Lykos said. They gripped forearms and then Demos was jumping into a long rowing boat, one of five that were moored beside the pier.\n\nLykos strode into the town. He did not rush. Dead littered the streets, warriors of Ripa stripped of anything useful - weapons, armour, boots, cloaks. Vin Thalun gathered about him as he passed through the town, until a few hundred were massed at his back. As he climbed the hill to the tower he looked back out over the bay.\n\nVin Thalun galleys filled it, at least a score used in this strike on Ripa. Most had sailed around the coast and blocked the bay, burning the ships that were moored in Ripa's harbour. An attacking force had landed as Lykos had sailed his own men down the river, another ten shallow-draughted galleys. Fifteen hundred swords, and another thousand crew on the ships, reserves if need be. His sources told him that old Lamar had no more than eleven hundred men at his disposal, and judging by the corpses on the street a good few of them wouldn't be lifting a sword against him.\n\n_So I have the manpower to finish this._ Lykos felt a worm of worry burrowing through his belly. He was overstretched and he knew it. He'd sent a fleet north-west at Calidus' request: fifty ships, including a score of transporters for horses and wains, all under the command of Alazon. Calidus had not expressly ordered Lykos to sail with the fleet, although he knew it had been presumed. But for Lykos only one thing dominated his mind, filling it, which was why he was here now.\n\n_Fidele._ He had never felt like this about a woman before, always took what he wanted, with rarely a second thought. No doubt he had enough bastards scattered about the Three Islands to one day crew a galley. But Fidele was different. _She 's the only one who's stabbed me, for a start._ He chuckled to himself, Kolai glancing at him. _I will have her back._\n\nBesides, this rebellion needed to be crushed before it spread. _Peritus is in Ripa and so he has Lamar 's backing, and Lamar commands the largest warband in Tenebral after my own._\n\nAnd he did not want Calidus finding out what level this rebellion had escalated to, at least not until after Lykos had dealt with it.\n\nThe road steepened and he saw the tower looming above him, black gates closed before it. The walls bristled with men and iron. _No matter. A fortress is only as strong as its weakest man._ Bodies were thicker upon the ground now, and to his annoyance Lykos saw a number of Vin Thalun faces amongst the dead. He paused again, turning; his position gave a fine view of the surrounding countryside. To the north and west the forest of Sarva stretched, a green, undulating ocean of bough and leaf. In its fringes a hill reared, broken walls and towers jagged on the horizon. _Balara, the giant ruin._ He had been there only yester-eve, making sure that his secret was guarded and safe.\n\n_Not so secret now, since Fidele and Maquin saw them._ He had considered sending his giants back to Pelset, but decided in the end that keeping them close was the safest answer. He faced the tower and gates, stepped over the last of the dead that clogged the road and walked on a dozen paces, stopping within hailing distance of the barred gates.\n\n'Close enough for a good spear throw from their wall,' Kolai observed.\n\nLykos shrugged. He was more careful since his injury, but some things smacked of cowardice, and he had not become Lord of the Vin Thalun by being a coward. Or by being cautious.\n\nHe gave his orders and shortly a few warriors returned carrying a wooden table and a chair. They positioned it in the road before Lykos. He sat, theatrically nonchalant as bread and cheese were placed before him, a cup of wine. He began to eat. Men were led before him now, warriors of Ripa roped together. With kicks and punches they were forced to their knees on the road before Lykos.\n\n'Kill them,' Lykos said, crumbs of cheese spilling from his mouth. He washed it down with wine as the prisoners' throats were cut.\n\nThe row of warriors upon the wall watched it all in stony-eyed silence.\n\n'Should have their attention now,' Lykos said as he stood and the table was carried away. He belched.\n\n'You up there,' he shouted. 'Anyone worth talking to?'\n\nHis voice rebounded from the black walls.\n\n'I don't expect someone my equal - no deities amongst you, I would guess. But Lamar, maybe even Krelis, or Peritus the cowering worm, of course. Any of you will do.'\n\n'I'm going to enjoy killing you,' a voice called back, a large man appearing above the gate. Very large, towering at least a head over any others around him. Lykos recognized him. Hated him.\n\n'Well met, Krelis,' Lykos called back. 'A beautiful day, no?' Krelis was Ripa's beating warrior-heart. He had led the shipbuilding and then defence of the bay and coastline surrounding Ripa. His ships had not been as sleek and deadly at sea as Lykos' own galleys, but they were big enough and fast enough to consistently spoil Vin Thalun raids on villages along the coast.\n\n'It'll be a better day when your head no longer graces your shoulders.'\n\nLykos pulled a face. 'A little too aggressive a start for a peace talk, I think.'\n\n'This is no peace talk. Look what you've done to my town.'\n\nAs if to prove Krelis' point, black smoke billowed across the road, obscuring the view for a few moments.\n\n'Wine,' Lykos called, and Kolai passed him a skin. He drank deep and smacked his lips.\n\nWhen the smoke cleared, Lykos spread his arms.\n\n'There is nothing damaged that cannot be repaired. I needed to make a point.'\n\n'And how will I repair my slain warriors? My murdered people?' Lykos could hear the hatred in Krelis' voice, barely contained.\n\n_Good. Anger is always the best enemy. It blinds, cloaks, distorts._\n\n'You are harbouring an enemy of the realm. Peritus. He is guilty of treason. Murder. Inciting rebellion.' Lykos shook his head, tutting. 'To protect such as he, well, there are consequences.'\n\n'You are not the law-giver in Tenebral. You are a pirate, usurping power. And Peritus is battlechief of Tenebral, a better man than you could ever hope to be.'\n\n'He is an outlaw, stripped of his titles and sentenced to death by Fidele, Regent of Tenebral in Nathair's absence. And incidentally my wife, by the way.'\n\n'She is _not_ your wife.'\n\n'I think she is. I was there. Any who says different is a liar.'\n\n' _She_ says different,' Krelis called out.\n\nLykos froze at that. _She is in there, then._ He felt something cold clench in his belly. 'Will you give Peritus up to me?'\n\n'I will not,' Krelis said.\n\n'Is he brave enough to talk to me? Or will he continue to hide behind you, his puppet?'\n\n'Krelis is no puppet,' a voice called out, older.\n\n_Ah, Peritus; good. I did not think you would keep yourself from this._\n\n'So, you have found someone stupid enough to take you in,' Lykos called. 'And I cannot help but notice that you are all scared to meet me in combat, else you would not be hiding behind your walls.' He was starting to enjoy this now. 'What say you, Peritus? Care to test your blade against mine?'\n\n'I'd like nothing more,' Peritus called down. 'But I do not trust you - I've tasted your justice and hospitality before, remember. I think if I came out to fight you that your shieldmen would fall upon me. You are a liar, a man of no honour.'\n\n'I am hurt,' Lykos said, putting a hand to his heart. 'Well then, it would appear we have a problem to resolve. How would you suggest we go about that?'\n\n'Nothing springs to mind,' Peritus called back. 'This is the end for you now, Lykos. To openly attack Lamar - you have made a mistake, after your years of schemes and lies, to be so impulsive at the end. I thought you a more worthy adversary. The other lords of Tenebral will act now. Your farce of a marriage will aid you not one bit.'\n\n'It was no farce,' Lykos screamed, spittle flying, venting a sudden rush of rage. He was taken aback by it and had to take a few moments to control his breathing and wait for the red mist to fade a little. _He plays me at my own game._\n\n'We have only to wait here, let word spread,' Peritus continued. 'That tower behind me is dug deep into the rock, has huge supplies of grain, fresh water. If your plan is to starve us out you'll be waiting a very long time. You could always try to take us by storm. Please do. That way we may still get to test each other's blades. I think I'd win.'\n\n_So confident. I 'll cut the smile from his face. He has a point, though. I can't afford a long siege, even beyond the fact that I hate waiting._\n\nShouting drifted from beyond the tower walls, the clash of arms somewhere behind it. Movement rippled through the warriors above the gates, sudden and startled.\n\n_Good job then that I have a plan of my own._ He drew his sword and charged forwards, a thousand Vin Thalun roaring as they followed behind him.\n\n#### CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele splashed water on her face, then dipped her hands into the bowl before her. The water turned pink. Events since her rescue by Krelis were a blur.\n\nIn a seeming hurricane of movement she had been swept through the gates and into a hard-packed courtyard, hands lifting her from a horse's back to others that checked her for wounds, half-dragging her up wooden steps into a feast-hall, through it into the giant's tower. She remembered cold stone beneath her feet. Eventually she had pulled herself from the gripping hands and demanded to see Maquin.\n\nIt turned out they were being taken to the same place. A series of rooms on a lower level of the tower that were being used as an infirmary for the injured from the town.\n\nWell, she _was_ wounded - a score of cuts and bruises all over her body - but nothing serious. Maquin, however, was a different matter. He had been stabbed, slashed, kicked. A memory filled her mind - him striding forward into the massed Vin Thalun, carving his way through them like some untouchable demon, always moving, always striking. She had seen the blow that felled him, seen him kill the attacker - his body failing as even then he tried to force a path for her to the tower - saw him collapse. She'd killed the Vin Thalun standing over him, recalled the sensation with a shudder: she had plunged her knife into him, punching through leather into the body beneath. _Twice, now, I have killed in Maquin 's defence._ Her hands shook as she put them back into the bowl, scrubbing at them with a hard-bristled brush.\n\n'Will he live?' she asked as she turned away from the bowl. Maquin lay upon a cot in a stone room with white walls. A row of large windows were open, shutters flung wide, letting in streaming sunshine and a strong breeze that diluted the cloying scent of blood and sweat. Other beds filled the room, the injured or dying groaning as they were tended by a score or so of healers. Tables were being carried in, more injured stretched out upon them.\n\nA man was bent over Maquin, white-haired and thin. Alben was the swordsmaster of Ripa and, ironically, one of its most skilled healers.\n\n'A man can die of many wounds,' he murmured. Maquin was still unconscious, his breathing shallow. Alben cut away the prone warrior's leather vest and linen shirt, revealing a dark wound above his hip. It pulsed blood rhythmically, with every beat of Maquin's heart. Alben probed it, fingers pushing around the wound. Maquin stirred and groaned.\n\n'Knife or sword?' Alben asked.\n\n'What?' Fidele asked, eyes still fixed on Maquin's face.\n\n'What made this wound - knife or sword? It will tell me how deep the wound is.'\n\n'Knife, I think. I'm not sure, it was so quick.'\n\n'Hmm.' He reached out to a rack of tools, pulled out a metal rod with a flat iron head and placed it alongside other similar tools heating in a fire that burned in a wide pot. He left it there a while, gathering what he needed. A salve that smelt of honey, some leaves, gut twine, a curved needle, a roll of linen bandages. He placed them all on a table beside Maquin, then went back to the iron rod, checked its end.\n\n'Hold his legs,' Alben ordered one of the healers.\n\n'I'll do it,' Fidele said, stepping forward.\n\n'He may kick out, my lady.'\n\n'Alben, this man has saved my life many, many times; he has kept me alive for two moons, brought me through the wild, slain Vin Thalun hunting parties against all odds. All for someone that he could have walked away from.' She was going to say more but the words died on her tongue. 'This is the least I can do.'\n\nAlben studied her a moment, then nodded. 'Hold them like so,' he said, demonstrating for her.\n\nShe gripped his ankles and leaned all her weight upon them. Alben asked an attendant to hold Maquin's shoulders while he rinsed the wound. There was so much blood Fidele wondered how Maquin could survive - but he had to. Alben took another long look at the gaping cut, then pressed the heated iron head into the wound. Maquin's feet kicked, his body jerking, and he groaned. There was a hiss, the stench of cooking meat and Fidele felt her stomach lurch - she refused to look away. Alben pushed the rod a little deeper, then with a twist took it out, dropped it into a bowl of water. He cleaned up the wound, stitched it closed, then applied the honey-like salve and covered it over with a leaf. Finally he bandaged the wound.\n\n'Thank you,' Fidele said, feeling suddenly weary beyond measure.\n\n'It's a gut wound,' Alben said. 'If it's pierced his intestines, he will most likely die, in agony.'\n\nShe felt something twist inside her, a cold fist clenching around her heart. _No. Not after coming so far._\n\n'If they are not cut then he may still die - fever and the like. I have seen people live, but only a handful out of hundreds. He may wake at any time - there is seed of the poppy for his pain. No food, only water for the next day. Now, let me take a better look at you.'\n\n'I am fine, just scratches.'\n\n'They need to be cleaned. A scratch can still kill.'\n\nA hand touched Fidele's shoulder and she spun around. At first she thought it was a patient, a sickly-looking man staring at her, pale with lank hair, his frame gaunt, almost withered.\n\n'My lady,' he said, his eyes touching her face.\n\n_Ektor, Lamar 's son._\n\nWithout thinking she reached out and hugged him. He was a strange man, reserved and introverted, but Fidele had spent some time with him the previous year, poring over manuscripts in his library buried deep in the tower's bowels, and she had come to see another side of him.\n\n'It is good to see you, Ektor,' she said as they separated. He was standing stiff and blinking.\n\n'And you too, my lady,' he managed. He looked around the room. 'My father, he is waiting for you in his chambers. You should go, now.'\n\n'Lady Fidele has been injured, Ektor. She will be along as soon as she has been cared for,' Alben said, his hands guiding Fidele to an empty cot. 'If you could pass that on to your father, I'd be grateful.'\n\n'Send a messenger, I'm busy,' Ektor said, retreating.\n\n'We'll talk, soon,' Fidele said to Ektor, who nodded as he turned and left the room, disappearing into a corridor.\n\n'That boy is always busy, in his mind,' Alben remarked.\n\n'A boy?' Fidele smiled. Ektor was the youngest of Lamar's sons, around twenty summers.\n\n'When you reach my age, my lady, all whose sleep is not interrupted by the need to empty their bladder are boys.'\n\nFidele sat there as Alben checked over her wounds, a myriad of cuts and scratches, washed away some blood.\n\n'Have you had word from your son, my lady?' Alben asked as he cleansed her wounds.\n\n'No.' _My son. Where are you, Nathair?_ She felt a knot of worry bloom every time that she thought of Nathair, which was every day. Every night before sleep took her she whispered a prayer to Elyon for his safety. Lykos had hinted at terrible things . . .\n\n'So no news of Veradis either, then,' Alben said.\n\n'Veradis. No,' Fidele said. For a moment she had had to concentrate to pull his face into memory. _So much has happened since Nathair sailed away._ 'In my last correspondence from Nathair . . .' _The letter that stripped me of my regency, my son replacing me with Lykos . . ._ 'Veradis was at Nathair's side, in Dun Carreg, Ardan. Elyon willing, they are still together. Veradis is the one man I trust with Nathair's life. He has been most faithful, a true friend to my son.'\n\n'He is a good boy,' Alben said, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. 'I taught him his weapons.'\n\n'And taught them well.'\n\nA groan drew Fidele's attention. Maquin was stirring on his cot. His fingers moved and his eyes flickered. They opened, searching. He made to sit up.\n\nAlben was there, holding his shoulders. 'No,' he said.\n\nFidele squeezed Maquin's hand, leaning over him. Recognition swept his face and he relaxed.\n\n'You're safe,' Fidele said. 'Rest.'\n\nHis lips moved but only a whisper came out.\n\nShe leaned forward, putting her ear to his mouth.\n\n'You are a great deal of trouble, my lady,' he whispered, then his eyes closed and his breathing steadied.\n\nShe jumped suddenly - a loud bang, a grating sound. She turned, saw a grapnel hooked about the edge of the window's stone sill. A rope dangled from it, disappearing over the sill's edge. A hand appeared, then a head, shoulders, and in a heartbeat a Vin Thalun corsair was crouched on the wide sill, breathing hard. He drew a sword. All along the room grapple-hooks appeared in other windows.\n\nAlben was the first to move, powering forwards, sword appearing in his hand. A flick of his wrist and it was buried in the Vin Thalun's throat. The warrior fell backwards with a gurgle, spinning into nowhere.\n\nScreams echoed through the hospice as more Vin Thalun appeared, leaping into the room, stabbing at healers and wounded alike.\n\n'Out of here,' Alben snapped at Fidele. Even as he said it another figure was appearing in the window behind him. Before Alben could turn the Vin Thalun was leaping forwards, crashing into the old swordsmaster, both of them tumbling to the ground. They came to a stop, the Vin Thalun on top of Alben, a knife in his hand.\n\nFidele grabbed one of the iron bars heating in the fire-bowl and rammed it into the corsair's face. He screamed, flesh sizzling as he rolled away from Fidele, from the pain, clutching at his face. Alben rose, sword flashing, and the Vin Thalun stopped screaming.\n\n'Come on,' Alben said as he gripped Fidele's shoulder, steering her to the door.\n\n'Maquin,' she breathed, pulling free and staggering back into the room.\n\nVin Thalun were everywhere, slaughtering those about them like wolves in a sheep pen. Maquin was still lying on his cot, though he had pushed himself up onto one elbow, sweat and pain staining his features. She reached him and wrapped an arm about his torso, helping him to stand.\n\nHe grunted with pain but got his feet under him.\n\n'Thought you'd--' His face twisted in a grimace. 'Gone.'\n\nThen Alben was there and they both had him, half-dragging him into the corridor. The sunlight failed to reach here, torches illuminating the hall in a sequence of light and shadow. Screams drifted down the corridor, echoing from other rooms. A figure crashed into them, sending them smashing into a wall. Alben's sword was at the man's chest before his panicked cries told them it was Ektor. A handful of Vin Thalun were just behind him.\n\n'Run,' Alben said as he stepped into the corridor. Ektor ran on, calling for them to follow. Fidele grunted under Maquin's weight as Alben stepped away on light feet, his arm straightening to skewer the first Vin Thalun. He kicked him back into his comrades, slashed across the eyes of one that avoided the dead man, and then the corridor was momentarily jammed with the dead.\n\n'Alben,' Fidele cried as she struggled down the corridor with Maquin's arm about her shoulders. Alben glanced back at her, hovered, clearly on the brink of decision, then sprinted after them.\n\nThey reached a staircase that spiralled both up and down. Alben began to lead them up but Ektor grabbed him.\n\n'No, they are loose on the floors above us; listen.'\n\nThe sound of combat, screams drifted down the stairwell.\n\n'The Vin Thalun behind us will head up, to the gates,' Ektor said. 'We should go down, to my chambers. They won't go that way.'\n\nAlben nodded sharply and they were running downwards, feet slapping on stone, sconced torches sending their shadows flickering on damp stone walls. Fidele and Alben stopped Maquin from tumbling down the stairwell. Even so he was drenched with sweat and breathing hard when they reached Ektor's chamber.\n\n'Torch,' Ektor said to Alben, who reached up and took one from a wall sconce. Ektor rattled a key in a lock, threw the door open and ushered them in, closing it hastily and locking it again. The only light was from Alben's torch, but Ektor quickly used it to light a few lanterns, then he doused the torch in a bucket.\n\n'Can't be too careful,' he said, gesturing into his chamber. Fidele remembered his fear of naked flame and the thousands of scrolls that were kept in this room.\n\nIt didn't seem to have changed from when Fidele had seen it last. The first half looked as if battle had raged through it: chairs overturned, bed sheets strewn on the floor, half-eaten trenchers of food left to rot. Beyond this wreckage was the library, a great curved stone wall with a thousand alcoves carved into it.\n\nShe helped Maquin into the chamber and he collapsed onto a long table, rolling onto his back with a moan.\n\nEktor shrieked at Maquin and none too gently started pulling him upright.\n\n'Ektor, he is injured,' Fidele said, something in her tone giving Ektor pause. He looked at Maquin, saw the wound low in his belly. 'My maps,' he said. 'He's crushing my maps. And he'll be more comfortable on my bed.'\n\nFidele and Alben helped Maquin to a huge bed on one side of the chamber. Alben went back to the door and put his ear to it, listening for any sound of the Vin Thalun.\n\n'You need to stop saving my skin,' Maquin said to her through gritted teeth. 'This way I'm never going to be out of your debt.'\n\n_You saved me from something far worse than death. From a living hell. No matter how many times I save you from a knife through the heart you will never be in my debt._\n\n'You need to learn how to keep out of the way of sharp iron, then.'\n\nHe started to grin at that, but it shifted into a pained grimace.\n\n'Quiet,' Alben hissed and they all froze.\n\nA hundred heartbeats went by; eventually Alben turned back to them.\n\n'There were footsteps on the stairwell, but they have not come this way.'\n\n'How did they scale your walls?' Fidele asked.\n\nAlben shrugged. 'It has never been done before. We are a long way up from the bay.'\n\n'And what now?' Fidele asked.\n\n'We wait,' Ektor said.\n\n'For what, the Vin Thalun to overwhelm the tower?' Fidele said.\n\n'What would you suggest we do?' Ektor snapped. 'You, no offence intended, are not exactly warrior-born. Your friend, on the other hand, looks as if he could carve his way to the Otherworld if he had a mind to.' It did not sound like a compliment the way Ektor sneered as he said it. 'But he is clearly injured and unable to stand unaided, let alone fight. And the oldest swordsmaster in the Banished Lands.' Alben scowled at that. 'And me.' He smiled ruefully. 'Not the greatest band of heroes ever mustered.'\n\n'He's got a point,' Maquin grunted.\n\nFidele thought about it. _To go charging into the unknown would be foolish._ The thought of Vin Thalun out there, though, possibly taking the tower, opening its gates to Lykos. It was terrifying, all the more so for the not knowing.\n\n_I will cut my own throat before I let him touch me again._ She found herself pacing about the chamber, searching for a distraction. Ektor was tidying his table, a worried frown on his face. _He seems more worried about his maps than the fact we 're possibly being overrun by invaders_.\n\n_I remember studying them with Ektor - how long ago was that? A year? Two?_\n\nShe had spent a long day in this chamber with Ektor, listening to his wealth of knowledge on the history of the Banished Lands, trying to unravel clues in the ancient writings of the giants. She had been unsettled by what they had discovered, rumours about the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim walking the earth clothed in bodies of flesh and blood. There was reference to the high king's counsellor being Kadoshim, a servant of Asroth. The question had been which high king? Aquilus or Nathair? Meical or Calidus? _I think I know now, if Lykos ' association with Calidus is anything to go by._\n\n'Did you ever find the answer?' Fidele asked Ektor.\n\n'Not exactly,' he said quietly, as if guarding some great secret. 'But I narrowed it down to two conclusions.'\n\n'So did I,' Fidele whispered.\n\nEktor nodded at her, smiling. 'You really show a great deal of potential, you know.'\n\n'Thank you,' she murmured.\n\n'Footsteps,' Alben hissed, drawing his sword. Fidele pulled her knife from its sheath. The latch lifted, rattled as someone tried to open the door. A fist pounded on the thick oak, dust puffing from the hinges. Fidele felt a knot of fear squirm inside her. She gripped her knife tightly.\n\n'Ektor,' a voice shouted, 'are you in there, you pasty-faced bookworm?'\n\nFidele's fear melted away. _Only close kin can be so personal and insulting._\n\nAlben unbolted and opened the door, revealing the bulk of Krelis standing in the doorway, a dozen warriors filling the corridor behind him.\n\nEktor came forward and glowered at his brother. 'You took your time.'\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin stood in the shadows, leaning against a wall. They had rowed into the lake to a tower that protruded from the dark waters like a spear, disembarked and entered a huge round chamber, ivy growing up its walls and birds nesting in its eaves. Edana sat in one of many chairs around a long table, Baird stood a step behind. Pendathran was there, and Drust, the warrior who had brought them here, as well as Roisin and Lorcan.\n\nNews of Edana's arrival had spread through the camp like sunlight in a dark room, people thronging to see her. She had happily wandered amongst them for a time, Baird and Vonn keeping a watchful eye over her.\n\nShe was not the only one to cause a stir. Roisin seemed to have made a big impression, if the way Pendathran's eye kept settling upon her was anything to go by.\n\n'An unusual place for a meeting,' Edana said, looking around the room.\n\n'Aye. Dun Crin is an unusual place altogether,' Pendathran replied. 'A giant's fortress that stood in a valley, is my guess. The histories tell of the world changing shape after Elyon's Scourging.' He shrugged, a rippling that made his chair creak. 'We'll never know how it came to be like this. But it is hidden well, and if discovered is defendable. Towers like this one are linked by old battlements that are easily defended by only a handful. And there is little chance of surprise out here when the only way across is swimming or a boat.'\n\n'You have chosen admirably,' Roisin said, 'A better-defensible place I could not imagine.'\n\n'Thank you, my lady,' Pendathran said gruffly.\n\n_Is he blushing?_\n\nCamlin glanced out of the window he was standing beside. _A good spot to defend, Roisin 's right. But not much of a line of retreat. Or escape._ Something sinuous rippled in the waters close by and Camlin pulled a face.\n\n_Don 't much care for the wildlife, either._\n\nA movement in the shadows near his feet drew his eye and he saw Meg sitting there, knees hunched up to her chest.\n\n_She 's as quiet as a wraith_.\n\n'So, I think there's a need for us to swap tales,' Pendathran said, smiling at Edana.\n\nEdana nodded and told them of the flight from Dun Carreg to Domhain. Pendathran and the others about him listened with surprise creeping across their features as Edana told of the battles fought as they clawed their way through Cambren and into the mountains of Domhain.\n\n'Wolven and giants,' Pendathran muttered, 'and you fought them all off.' Camlin saw something kindle in Pendathran's eyes - _respect_?\n\n'Not without loss,' Edana acknowledged sadly.\n\nThe old battlechief lowered his head when Edana spoke of Heb's death. He had been well known and well liked amongst those who dwelt in Dun Carreg. Many of them nodded and grunted as she spoke of Eremon's support and first the elation and then the despair of the following battles. Finally Edana told of the flight to the coast and their journey by ship to Ardan. Pendathran growled when he heard of Conall slaying Marrock.\n\n'Ach, how many of my kin will fall in this war? Is there no end to the hurt our family must bear?' He wrung his hands as if he was squeezing on someone's neck.\n\n_I forgot, Marrock was Pendathran 's nephew._\n\n'And then we sailed here,' Edana said. 'With the help of Roisin and a score of Eremon's finest shieldmen.'\n\n'Aye, and I'm grateful for that. Both for your presence and that of the extra swords.'\n\n'We are glad and grateful to be here,' Roisin said, managing to look both sad and happy at the same time.\n\n_She has more talents than I realized._\n\n'And you, Uncle?' Edana said. 'I thought you slain in the feasthall of Dun Carreg.'\n\n'It was a close thing,' Pendathran said. He shifted a dirty scarf tied around his neck to reveal a white scar. 'I must have come close to bleeding out in the hall. Don't know how I didn't. All I can tell you is that I woke up in a stinking hole - turned out to be Evnis' cellars.' He could not stop his eyes flickering to Vonn, who stared fiercely back.\n\n_Just the mention of his da seems to set a cold flame burning in the young warrior._\n\nPendathran explained how Evnis had tortured him, and then how he had been rescued by Cywen. After escaping through the tunnels below the fortress he had travelled south from Dun Carreg, ended up wandering around the marshes for over a moon before he had been found by the fledgling resistance.\n\n'Turned out I wasn't the only one who fled here - there were men from my son's warband . . .' He paused, a shadow crossing his face at the mention of his son.\n\n_I remember watching from the walls of Dun Carreg as Dalgar led his warband against Owain 's host. They were sorely outnumbered._ Pendathran had led a force out of Dun Carreg's gates, but the bridge to the mainland had been blocked by Owain's men. The battle was hard fought, but eventually Pendathran's relief force had been turned back and Dalgar's warband routed. Dalgar's corpse had been delivered to Dun Carreg's walls. Camlin could still see Pendathran carrying his son's broken body across the bridge.\n\nPendathran rubbed a hand across his eyes and carried on. 'Warriors who survived the defeat of my son's warband fled here, many bringing their families with them. Even some of Owain's have come here.' He nodded at Drust. It turned out that he had been telling the truth when he claimed that he was a shieldman of Owain.\n\n'We share the same enemy,' Drust said with a shrug. 'Rhin betrayed Owain as much as she did Brenin. And I would say to you, for all the harm that Owain did to you and your realm, he was acting out of a desire for vengeance, for the murder of his son. He was mad with grief when he thought that Brenin had Uthan slain.'\n\n'That is a lie,' Edana hissed.\n\n'I know that now. Rhin played him, played all the kings of the west.'\n\n'The game is not done, yet,' Edana said. 'So, tell me how you came to be here.'\n\nDrust told of the battle between Owain and Rhin, Nathair's and Evnis' betrayal on the battlefield. Once again glances flickered towards Vonn. And Drust also spoke of Cywen helping him to escape.\n\n'She saved my life,' he said.\n\n'Ha,' Camlin laughed at that. All eyes swept to him, halfforgotten in the shadows.\n\n'That girl and her brother,' he said to their enquiring glances. 'Always in the right place for some action.'\n\n'Sometimes the wrong one,' Vonn said, not much louder than a whisper.\n\nA silence settled over the room; the sound of lapping waves drifted through the stone windows.\n\n'Well, hard tales, of that there's no doubt,' Pendathran said. 'But we are gathered together now. Reunited. And your arrival will lift spirits here - Ardan's princess back amongst her people.'\n\n'I am Ardan's Queen now,' Edana corrected.\n\n'Aye, that you are, lass,' Pendathran said. 'We shall celebrate tonight, and welcome our royal guests from Domhain.' He dipped his head to Roisin and Lorcan. Then he stood.\n\n'Where are you going?' Edana asked him.\n\n'There is always work to do here, lass.'\n\n'But there is more we must speak of.'\n\n'Such as?' Pendathran frowned.\n\n'Such as, what is the situation here?' Edana's smile had gone. 'Numbers, strategies, what is your plan? Has it been successful thus far?'\n\n'Survival is the plan,' the big man said, pausing half out of his chair. He looked a little surprised at Edana's questioning. 'The rest is boring details for you.'\n\n'Not boring for me, I assure you,' Edana said. 'Please, sit and tell me.'\n\nPendathran stayed hovering above his chair a moment, then sat.\n\n_He thinks of her still as the frightened girl he last saw in Dun Carreg._\n\n'As I said, survival is top of that list. There are over four hundred of us here now, and we're still growing, and less than half of them are warriors. They're families, mostly, seeking a safe haven from Evnis and his _justice_.' He paused and sighed. 'It's not easy trying to feed this many people; do you know how many fish need to be caught every day?' He smiled ruefully. 'Could be worse, though. Fish is the one thing we're not short of in these marshes, and we've managed to trade for grain and the like from villages beyond the marshes.'\n\n'That may be coming to an end soon,' Roisin said. 'We passed through one of those villages on the way in. They'd been slaughtered - every last man, woman and bairn. Made an example of.'\n\n'It was Morcant,' Edana said.\n\n'That's not the best news,' Pendathran rumbled. 'There's not one of them that could give away our location, but if we can't trade . . .'\n\n'And other than survival?' Edana asked again. 'What is your strategy against Evnis and Rhin?'\n\n'We take the battle to them, when we can.' His bushy eyebrows knotted together.\n\n_He doesn 't like being questioned like this. Doubt that he's used to it, and definitely not by the spoilt princess he still thinks Edana is._\n\n'I'm sure the tales of valour are too many to recount,' Roisin said.\n\n'Go on,' Edana prompted.\n\nPendathran picked at a nail. 'We've killed a few men in Cambren's black and gold, those who have ventured into the marshes. A few raids further afield. We're not strong enough to take the fight to Rhin yet. And everyone here, we've all lost kin, loved ones . . .'\n\n'Dun Carreg fell over a year ago,' Edana said.\n\n_They 're scared_, Camlin realized. _They 've been beaten and bullied and just want to hide away from it all for a while. Scared of another defeat, and nowhere left to run._\n\n'It is the same throughout the west,' Roisin said. 'Domhain's king has been slain, its warbands broken, its warriors scattered. But not all of us. Wherever we stand together, there is hope. I escorted Edana here because she told me of the warriors of Ardan. Told me they had courage and would fight.' She looked around the room.\n\n_She makes it sound as if it was her idea, and she 's not mentioned that she considered using Edana as a bargaining piece with Rhin for her precious son. Still, if she can light a fire under their arses then I'll not complain._\n\n'But this is not fighting,' Edana said. 'This is _existing_.'\n\nPendathran's face coloured, dark blotches appearing on his cheeks. A silence hung in the air, charged with tension, like clouds bloated with thunder.\n\n'You do not understand, my lady,' Pendathran said through gritted teeth. 'This is war-making, and there's more to it than notions of bravery and glory.'\n\n'I understand well enough,' Edana snapped. 'I have seen enough bloodshed to rectify any misconceptions I may have once entertained.' She looked at her hands and Camlin remembered them shaking, spattered with blood, back in the village roundhouse.\n\n'As have I,' Roisin added. 'And I understand caution, was its strongest advocate in Domhain. I was wrong, I should have listened to Edana. Victory usually has to be claimed, not observed. Look, here in this room three realms are represented - Ardan, Domhain, Narvon. And who is our enemy? Rhin. And she is weak, her warbands stretched thin over four nations. Now is the time to strike, not sit back and watch her grow strong again.'\n\nPendathran sat straighter at that.\n\n'Roisin is right,' Edana said, not quite keeping the scowl from her face.\n\n'We have done some of that,' Drust growled. 'The band I led, which found you, we were heading to the borderland with that intention. But you must understand, there are practicalities. Four hundred is a lot of mouths to feed. And we are not just warriors here, who would be more inclined to risk all. There are women and bairns - families.'\n\nEdana shrugged. 'We can't make a life here hidden away from Evnis and Rhin. They are searching for you even now; eventually they will find you. Better to act now, while they're still off balance. And besides, I didn't come here to catch fish and eke out a life in the marshes. I came here to fight back. I've had enough of running and hiding. It's time that Rhin's tide was turned.'\n\n'I agree,' Roisin added.\n\nCamlin looked from Pendathran to Drust. It was clear that those two had been running things here - Pendathran the chief and Drust his captain. _And they don 't look to appreciate two women wandering in, throwing their weight about, despite them both being queens._\n\n'That's all well and good,' Pendathran said. 'But fight back how? Morcant patrols the marshes' border with more men than we can take, and there's plenty more where they came from. Evnis has a warband of Rhin's at his disposal, and whatever else I'll say about him, he's no fool.'\n\n'No, Evnis isn't, but Morcant?' Edana said. 'I spent some time in the Darkwood with him. He's arrogant, conceited. Perhaps we can use that.'\n\n'I think you're onto something there,' Camlin said. 'Prod him and he'll get angry.'\n\n'And angry people make mistakes,' Edana finished, with a smile twisting her lips.\n\n'Just so, my lady,' Camlin said with a dip of his head.\n\n'How do you know so much about Morcant?' Pendathran asked Camlin.\n\nCamlin looked at him, didn't want to say, _because he was my chief, for a while. I took orders from him, helped him kill your Queen 's shieldmen, your King's first-sword, capture your Queen and your Princess._\n\nEdana filled the growing silence. 'Camlin helped to rescue me from Morcant in the Darkwood. He drew his sword and stood between us.'\n\n'Of course, I remember now,' Pendathran said, eyeing Camlin suspiciously. 'You were one of the brigands that we hunted down in the Baglun.'\n\n'I was,' Camlin said. _Can 't deny that._\n\n'And I recall taking you back to Dun Carreg as a prisoner.'\n\n_Aye, that 's true enough. Eighty men after twelve of us. And things were different then. I'd rather run and live than fight and die._\n\n'So if we were to try and prod him, how would you suggest we go about it, Edana?' Roisin asked. Pendathran and Drust shared a look.\n\n_Edana and Roisin have swept in here like a summer gale. The two men don 't know what's hit them._\n\n'Camlin is a master huntsman and tracker; during my escape to Domhain he masterminded a number of ambushes against overwhelming odds.'\n\nCamlin almost blushed at that, feeling heat flush his neck. _Don 't think anyone's ever spoken about me like that before._\n\nThen he realized that all eyes in the room were upon him.\n\nHe blinked.\n\n'Well?' Pendathran said.\n\n_Good question. What should we do?_ He remembered Morcant upon his warhorse in the village square, tall and proud, his words to the village elders. A mixture of threat and bribe.\n\n'Someone needs to take that chest of silver from Morcant,' he said.\n\nCamlin blinked as the blindfold was removed from his eyes. Drust stuffed the rag into a hemp bag and moved on to the next person beside Camlin, lifting their blindfold too. It was Vonn.\n\n'I don't see the need for that,' Vonn muttered as Drust carried on down the line, pulling blindfolds from another dozen men.\n\n'Makes sense to me,' Camlin said quietly to him. 'Less that know the way to Dun Crin, the safer it is. A tortured man will talk in the end, no matter how brave he thinks he is, but you can't tell what you don't know.'\n\n'Just feels like we're not trusted,' Vonn muttered.\n\nCamlin raised an eyebrow at that. _Something I 'm used to. Can't blame Vonn for feeling like that, though, the way everyone looks at him as soon as his da's name is mentioned._\n\n'It's not just us,' Camlin said nodding down the bench, where warriors who had been at Dun Crin before them were having blindfolds removed.\n\nVonn looked but didn't comment.\n\nThey were sitting in a long barge with about thirty warriors, now standing and clambering onto the riverbank, a force picked to go and get Morcant's chest full of silver.\n\n_If it 's still there. And if it's not, we need to find it. Otherwise it'll be the end of Dun Crin and Edana's resistance. Only takes one tongue to wag, and there's altogether too much silver in that chest for everyone to resist. Loyalty only goes so far . . ._ He'd explained as much at the council meeting. Edana had backed him completely, and Pendathran had grudgingly agreed that the silver posed a danger that should be investigated.\n\nHe stood and stepped onto dry land, gave himself a moment for his legs to adjust.\n\nCamlin had planned most of this incursion, but Drust was clearly in charge here, Camlin recognizing most of the warriors as Drust's crew. A few of Roisin's shieldmen had volunteered as well, though - Brogan one of them. He looked over at Camlin and smiled cheerfully.\n\n_You 'd think he was still at the feast night._\n\nThey had had quite the celebration at Dun Crin on the evening that they'd arrived, three nights gone now, a lot of sore heads the next morning. Edana and Roisin had been all business, though, pulling him to one side the next day.\n\n'What is it?' Camlin had asked them.\n\n'Much rides on this,' Edana had said to him.\n\nHe nodded. 'Some objections to your right to lead?'\n\n'I had not expected more politicking,' Edana sighed. 'Here, amongst my own people, my own kin.'\n\n'Huh,' snorted Roisin. 'Family _is_ politics, the hottest forge you'll find.'\n\n_Aye, and some come out sharp as iron, others bent and twisted. Some a little of both._\n\n'So my little trip needs to be successful,' Camlin said.\n\n'Exactly. Eyes are watching, and judging.'\n\n'I'll do my best.' Camlin mustered a smile he didn't feel.\n\n'You always have,' Edana said, and then walked away.\n\nSo here he was, three days later, standing on a riverbank, nominally leading thirty men into enemy-infested land in search of a chest of silver that was probably no longer there.\n\n_Beats sitting by a lake eating frogs. Besides, it 's my fault I'm here, nobody else's. No one made me open my big mouth._\n\nHe reached inside a pouch and strung his bow.\n\n'You ready?' he said to Drust as the warrior approached him.\n\n'Are you?'\n\n'Course.'\n\nDrust gestured for him to lead the way, then leaned in close as Camlin was passing him.\n\n'Don't go getting my lads killed, or me, for that matter.'\n\n'Do my best,' Camlin said with a sour twist of his mouth.\n\nThey crept single-file along the riverbank, Camlin's eyes and ears working ceaselessly. When the village came into view he hadn't heard or seen anything that set his hairs tingling. Birds were singing, insects buzzing.\n\n_Buzzing a little too much,_ he thought as he paused behind the last cover between them and the first buildings.\n\nCamlin raised his hand and the group split, more than half of them looping away east with Drust, setting a perimeter. Camlin waited a while, giving them time to reach their marks, then with a nod to those behind him he moved quick and silent across the open ground to the first buildings.\n\nBy the time he reached the central square he knew they were alone. The village was as they had left it, inhabited by a horde of flies and maggots, the bodies of the dead a little more decayed, a little more chewed upon. He threaded his way through the putrefaction, trying not to breathe any more than he needed, then reached the roundhouse doors. They were still wide open, fresher dead littering the floor amongst the more seriously decomposed. Camlin saw one of his arrow shafts poking from a throat.\n\nThe chest was gone, a depression in the ground where it had sat.\n\n_A lot of silver in there to leave that kind of dent._\n\nHe sent a warrior to tell Drust; the red-haired warrior returned with the messenger soon after.\n\n'A waste of time, then,' Drust said as he strode into the courtyard, pausing and doing a double-take at the scattered dead.\n\n'Elyon's bones,' he muttered.\n\n'Not Elyon's,' Camlin said.\n\n'Back to Dun Crin, then,' Drust whispered, not able to tear his eyes away from the heaps of tattered flesh and bone.\n\n'There's another option I'd advise,' Camlin said.\n\n'What?'\n\nCamlin pointed to wheel tracks in the dirt. He bent down, picked at a pile of horse dung close by.\n\n'They took the chest out on a wain, no longer than a day ago. This dung's fresher'n your breath.'\n\n'So?'\n\n'We should follow it. See if there's a chance of snatching it.'\n\nDrust shook his head.\n\n'Risks are too high. And we can't move across this open ground - no horses. Morcant catches us, we'd be ridden down.'\n\n'True enough, but I'm not suggesting we stroll through the meadows. Most could stick to the waterways, just a couple of us out keeping an eye on the trail.'\n\n'If the trail follows the marshes.'\n\n'Aye, again, true enough. But I've more'n a hunch that Morcant is taking his silver through the villages around the marsh.'\n\n'I'll not risk my men's lives on a hunch.'\n\nCamlin sucked in a breath, biting back an angry response. 'You're not understanding,' he said slowly. 'Morcant will use that silver to bribe the villages surrounding these marshes. I heard him say as much. No matter how loyal a soul, there's not many that'll choose torture closely followed by death over a bag of silver. Even if no one knows your whereabouts now, once the population around here gets a sniff of that silver there'll be eyes on you, searching for you. It'll only be a matter of time before Dun Crin is betrayed. Eventually someone somewhere will offer to guide him and a lot of sharp iron to Dun Crin - it's just too much silver. If we don't find and take it from him, you and all your men are dead. Just not yet, that's all.'\n\nDrust frowned at him, the silence growing.\n\n'We don't know these marshes well enough. We're as likely to get lost as find this chest of silver.'\n\n'I might have a solution to that.' Camlin looked around the edge of the courtyard. 'Meg,' he shouted. There was a silence, then a shadow emerged from a building, Meg stepping into the sunlight.\n\n_Least she 's got the manners to look guilty._\n\n'Thought you might follow us,' Camlin said.\n\nDrust scowled.\n\n'She's only a bairn, but she's also part water rat. No chance of Morcant or his lads ever catching her. And she knows the marshland. Ready-made guide.'\n\nDrust thought some more, scratched his beard, blue eyes narrowed.\n\n'You need to take that silver,' Camlin said. 'It's self-preservation.'\n\n'Think you might be right,' the ageing warrior said, frowning down at Meg. 'All right then. We'll follow your marsh rat.' He gripped Camlin's arm before he could stride away. 'Pendathran told me what you were - a brigand from the Darkwood. Edana may be convinced of your worth, but I'm not. I've bitten too many rotten apples in my time. I'll be watching you.'\n\n'Didn't expect anything different,' Camlin said. He pulled his arm free and walked away.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n\n#### HAELAN\n\nHaelan gripped the boulder and heaved, wobbling as he stood upright, almost toppling back into the stream that the boulder had been hauled from. He looked into the meadow, at the piles of rock spaced around it at regular intervals. He took a deep breath and started into the meadow, Pots running circles around him, enjoying the game.\n\n_It 's all right for you. You're not carrying a rock._\n\nPots seemed to have adopted Haelan since he had saved the dog from the rat. Haelan was puffing and panting when he reached the pile of rocks and dumped his on the top. His hands throbbed and upon inspection he found three blisters.\n\n'Thanks, lad,' Tahir said to him, sweating as he picked up a boulder from Haelan's mound. He'd stripped his clothes off to the waist: shirt, leather vest and sword-belt laid in a pile. Men all along the meadow were taking boulders from the mounds made by children and repairing an old wall.\n\n'Why are we doing this?' Haelan asked Tahir.\n\n'Because a wall's no use if it's got holes in it,' Tahir said.\n\nHaelan sniffed, looking at his blisters.\n\n_When I am king I shall get you to carry my rocks for me._\n\n'But why is the entire hold going to so much trouble? Haven't they got better things to do?'\n\n'Wulf thinks it's best to tighten his hold's defences. I'd agree with him there, and I think you would too.'\n\n'Where is Wulf, then?' Haelan asked sullenly. 'He comes up with the idea, gives the order and then is nowhere to be seen.'\n\n'I don't know where Wulf is,' Tahir said. 'On business for Gramm, no doubt. But you'd do things here differently, would you?'\n\n'Aye. Lead by example. That's what my mam said to me.' He felt a lump in his throat and picked at a fingernail.\n\n'Well, that's good advice. But whether Wulf's here or no, this wall still needs fixing. Don't want Jael just wandering in, if he comes back, do we?'\n\n_No._ Haelan remembered the sight of Jael's warband as it rode bold as brass into Gramm's courtyard.\n\n'A wall won't stop Jael, though.'\n\n'No, right enough. But it would slow him, if the road was blocked too, and a wall's good for other things, as well. Surprises, traps, stopping people getting out, once they're in. Now stop flapping your tongue and bring me some more rocks.'\n\nHaelan sighed, looking across the meadow. Every man, woman and bairn had been split into work groups of about a score and fanned out to this outer wall. His group was now leagues away from Gramm's hold, closer to Forn Forest than Haelan had ever been. Its trees were huge, towering high into the sky, trunks thick and knotted. _I don 't think a dozen men could link their arms around those trees._ For some reason, though, Haelan liked to look at Forn. _It 's like another world, away from Jael and all of his hurt. Somewhere safe._ He drifted off in a daydream that involved carving a house inside the trunk of one of those great trees and living out his days in safety, hunting by day with Pots at his side, reclining at night in his hall in the trunk's heart.\n\n'Sore hands?' a voice said behind him. It was Trigg, the half-breed. She glanced at Pots as she put a rock on the pile, bigger than anything Haelan could hope to lift, let alone carry a hundred paces.\n\n_And she doesn 't even look to be sweating._\n\n'That dog should be dead,' Trigg commented matter-of-factly. 'And you killed the biggest rat I've ever caught. Could've made me rich, that rat.'\n\nHaelan glanced at Trigg's belt, at the axe that hung there.\n\n_Swain 's axe, which I used to kill the rat._\n\nA fresh wave of guilt rose up in him at the thought of Swain. His friend, taken by Jael. _Because of me._\n\nGramm had raged like a madman when Jael had led his warband from the hold, taking Swain and his sister Sif with him. Gramm had grabbed a long-handled axe and hacked away at the feast-hall wall. No one had tried to stop him, just watching Gramm until his arms had drooped with exhaustion. It had taken a long time. Just before sunset Wulf had ridden in at the head of thirty men, the patrol that travelled daily the boundary of their land. One look at his wife Hild and Gramm and the colour had drained from his face.\n\nThat night Gramm had summoned the entire hold into the feast-hall, more than two hundred souls. Around eighty of those were warriors, men who walked the hold's wall, patrolled Gramm's land, kept out predators from Forn and bandits from the lawless lands round about. The rest were those who worked the lifeblood of the hold - timber and horses, as well as all that went along with it, smiths and tanners, leatherworkers and weavers and trappers. And most had families, wives and bairns. Even so the hall had been silent when Gramm spoke.\n\n'Two of my grandchildren were taken from me this day,' he had said. Hild started sobbing again, Wulf sitting straight-backed and red-eyed beside her.\n\n'Taken by a tyrant. An evil man who would rule us because he can.' Grumbling had rippled around the room at that.\n\n'And I could have my grandchildren back, if I would do but one thing.' He had beckoned to Haelan, called him to his side. Haelan had stood with eyes downcast.\n\n'If I hand this boy over to Jael, I get my grandchildren back, and gold besides.' Silence had settled again. Gramm let it stretch, looking around the hall slowly, at every face there.\n\n'I'll not do it. It's wrong, simple as that. You all know who this lad is. Haelan, rightful heir to Isiltir's throne.' There had been no point trying to hide that information, as Haelan had announced himself, full title and all, upon his arrival at Gramm's hold in front of a full feast-hall. _In hindsight, not the most sensible thing to do._ But Gramm had been adamant that none would betray him. _These people are closer than kin to me. None would betray you, for betraying you they would be betraying me._\n\n'His da's been murdered by Jael, and his mam. Our rightful Queen.' Gramm had continued. 'When he came here I promised him sanctuary, gave him my oath. I'll not break it. I'll stand my ground. We'll stand our ground.' He'd put a big hand on Wulf and Hild's shoulders. 'We'll get them back, somehow. On my oath, we'll get them back.'\n\nSomething prodded Haelan's shoulder and he blinked. It was Trigg, poking him with a finger.\n\n'You listening to me? I said you owe me for my rat, some kind of recompense.'\n\n'I don't owe you anything,' Haelan said. 'You've got Swain's axe. That was the bet.'\n\nPots growled.\n\n'Well, it wasn't fair, was it? I think you should give me something for my loss.'\n\n'No,' Haelan said.\n\nTrigg stared at him, then nodded, humour in her eyes. 'Fair enough - worth a try, but I don't want you getting angry with me. I remember what you did to my rat.'\n\nHaelan snorted, looking Trigg up and down, cords of muscle twisting about her arms. This was the most he'd spoken to her, the most he'd heard her ever speak to anyone.\n\nPots was still growling. Haelan thought the dog had been growling at Trigg, but he was looking the other way, towards Forn Forest. Haelan looked too, past the stream and the first line of undergrowth, deep in amongst the thick trunks. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, to discern shadow from bush. He was about to look away when he saw something move, deep amongst the trees, a hulking shadow that moved differently to the branches around it.\n\nHaelan shivered, squinted as he stared harder.\n\n_It 's too far away._\n\nA breeze blew across him, out of the forest. Pot's nose twitched and he growled louder. Behind them horses whinnied.\n\n'Something's in there,' Trigg said, staring too. 'Something big.'\n\nThen there was other movement, blurred shapes, shrubs undulating, and suddenly the forest was seething, branches shaking, undergrowth crashing. A great roaring shattered the silence, followed by growls and snarls, thuds and screams. Everyone in the meadow froze, staring. Then Haelan felt a hand on his shoulder and Tahir was stepping in front of him, moving to where he'd stripped his shirt and vest, his belt and sheathed sword lying on top. He buckled on his belt and drew his sword.\n\nThe noise from the forest continued, a cacophony of roars and growls, punctuated by the sharp crack of timber snapping, then it faded. The sound of an animal whining drifted on the breeze, then nothing. Finally a great bellow roared from the trees, making branches quiver and leaves fall. Haelan covered his ears with his hands and closed his eyes, the sound reverberating in his chest. Behind Haelan horses neighed, some breaking their tethers and bolting. Abruptly the roaring stopped, replaced by the sound of undergrowth crashing, fading quickly.\n\nTahir threw on his clothes and ran to where his horse was still standing, one of only a few that had not bolted. He swung into his saddle, others about the meadow doing the same, and trotted towards the forest.\n\n'Take me with you,' Haelan shouted, running alongside him.\n\n'It could be dangerous,' Tahir frowned.\n\n'Better than leaving me here. What if whatever it was comes into the meadow while you're in the forest?'\n\nTahir reined in for a moment, then nodded. He pulled Haelan up into the saddle. 'Hold on,' he said and kicked his horse on, Pots running along beside them.\n\nOther riders joined them as they approached the forest until they numbered a dozen, all men with iron in their hands, sword, spear and axe. Haelan peered around Tahir's waist as the forest closed in about them. It was like walking from full day into the cool of the evening, twilight falling about them like a shroud. Branches scratched Haelan's arms as the undergrowth became denser. He looked back over his shoulder, saw the meadow bathed in sunshine, the wall shrinking, and a figure running after them, gaining. It was Trigg, her long legs eating up the ground. She caught up with them and fell in quietly.\n\nThey spilt into a glade, the undergrowth trampled and flatted. Pots froze, growling. Tahir hissed an indrawn breath. The smell hit Haelan first, warm and cloying. It brought back memories. _I know that smell. Death._\n\n'Elyon save us,' someone said. That scared Haelan, for he knew that these were all hard men, used to the wild, living within sight of Forn and the Desolation.\n\nHaelan squirmed behind Tahir, peered around him. At first he couldn't make sense of what he saw. Blood was everywhere, staining the ground in great pools, spattering bark and leaves. Here and there were mounds of fur. Four, five of them. He looked closer, still didn't understand what he was seeing.\n\n'What are they?' he whispered to Tahir as the warrior slipped from his saddle.\n\n'Wolven.'\n\nTahir crouched by one of the dead creatures. It lay in a pile of its own intestines, great claw marks carved across one side of its head.\n\nTrigg joined him.\n\n'They're young,' Trigg muttered, lifting a paw and checking the dead animal's claws.\n\n'What did this?' Haelan said.\n\n'This did,' Trigg said. Even though Haelan wasn't sure what he thought of Trigg, whether he trusted her or not, he didn't doubt her on this matter. All knew that she spent much of her absences from the hold in Forn Forest, and to do that and survive meant you knew a fair bit about the ways of the forest, including its inhabitants. Trigg was standing beside a huge paw print, as big as a pewter plate, claw marks gouging the earth.\n\n'What does that belong to?'\n\n'A bear,' Trigg said with a frown. 'They don't often wander south of the river.'\n\n'This one did,' Tahir said, crouching beside another dead wolven. 'What happened here?'\n\n'Think a wolven pack set its sights on the wrong meal,' Trigg muttered. 'They're smaller than usual. Maybe a young pack that made the wrong choice?'\n\nHaelan slipped from his saddle, something compelling him to take a closer look. His hand fumbled at his belt, reaching for his eating-knife. Trigg chuckled and held out her hatchet - Swain's hatchet.\n\n'That's yours,' Haelan said.\n\n'I know. Which means I can loan it to who I like.' She offered it again. 'It would be more use than that pin.'\n\nHaelan took it with a nod, liking the weight of it in his hand.\n\n'Looks like the bear ran off this way,' one of the other men said. He was standing before a gaping hole in the underbrush, taller and wider than a large man. It led into darkness.\n\n'Should we hunt it?' someone suggested.\n\n'Don't be a fool. Five wolven tried that. Best off getting back to the women and bairns,' someone else said.\n\nHaelan was looking at each wolven, just piles of flesh, bone and fur now. They all bore great rents upon their bodies, marks of claw and tooth.\n\n'Come on, lad,' Tahir said, lifting Haelan back onto his saddle.\n\n'Think you should look at this,' Trigg said. She was squatting beside one of the dead wolven, claw marks exposing its ribs.\n\nTahir strode over to her and crouched to inspect the wound.\n\n'Not that,' Trigg said. 'This.' She lifted the wolven's head, exposing a huge cut in its neck, the head almost severed.\n\n'That's a clean cut. Tooth and claw didn't do that,' Trigg said. 'Looks more like an axe-blade to me.'\n\nThe feast-hall was full that night. A summer storm had swept in from the north and Haelan's cloak was soaked through. Outside, wind howled and thunder rumbled. Haelan heard the phrase 'dark omen' muttered more than once as he sat with Tahir and a few other warriors. Pots was begging for scraps by his feet. He dropped a chunk of bread to the dog, his hand wandering to the hatchet at his belt - Trigg had told him to look after it for him. _I don 't understand Trigg. She's confusing._\n\nAs if his thoughts had summoned her, Trigg came and sat next to Haelan with a trencher full of meat and gravy, the bench creaking as she sat upon it.\n\n'Got something for you,' Trigg said with her mouth full and pushed something across the table. It was a tooth, a long, curved fang, a hole drilled in the wide end, a leather thong threaded through it.\n\nHaelan just looked at it.\n\n'Go on, take it. It's yours. A reminder of your first steps into Forn.'\n\nHaelan lifted it up, fascinated.\n\n'My thanks,' he stuttered. 'How'd you get it?'\n\n'Ripped it out as everyone else was getting back on their horses and leaving. Before the others came back and skinned them wolven. I've got one too,' she said, pulling her shirt open to reveal another fang hanging about her neck.\n\nGramm stood at the head of the table. Haelan's gaze flickered to the giant hammer and bear skin nailed to the wall above him. The skin was huge, twice the size of a horse. _Is that what was in Forn today?_ He shivered at the thought of it. _Maybe the wolven pelts will be hanging there soon._\n\n'You'll all have heard by now: strange things have been sighted in Forn today. A wolven pack attacked by something, most likely a great bear. And there were other signs . . .' Gramm paused, looking around the room. 'It looks like the Jotun have crossed the river. One at least, but where there is one giant, there are usually more. On the morrow I'll be tracking them.' His eyebrows knotted in a frown. 'These are dark times, and I'm hearing many of you say what happened in Forn today is a dark omen. Well, you're right. Dark times are here, the night is upon us, and we must all be vigilant if we want to see dawn rise again. You all know what I believe is coming, have heard me talk of the God-War. I'm not going to repeat myself. But I'll tell you this. It's here. It's happening. What was found in Forn today, that was no coincidence.' He looked around, letting the silence stretch. Goose-bumps prickled Haelan's skin.\n\n_Am I part of this God-War? As if I didn 't have enough to worry about already. Are we really the puppets of Elyon and Asroth, playing out their war with our lives? My mam's life?_ He felt a frustrated rage bubbling inside him at that thought. _I want them to just leave us alone._\n\nGramm raised his cup. 'So keep your eyes open and your blades sharp,' he said, then drained his drink to the last drop.\n\nThe hall echoed him, even Haelan and Trigg lifting their cups and muttering the oath.\n\nJust then the doors banged open, rain sleeting in. Three men stood outlined by the firelight. Lightning crackled behind them as they strode into the hall.\n\nTwo were warriors whom Haelan recognized from the hold, both older men with grey in their beards, men high in Gramm's confidences. The man walking between them was Wulf. He looked none too happy.\n\nThey walked the length of the feast-hall, stopping before Gramm.\n\nGramm stood, resting his big fists on the table.\n\n'We have brought him back to you, lord,' one of the men beside Wulf said.\n\n'Where did you find him?' Gramm asked.\n\n'Where you said. Dun Kellen. Looked as if he was just about to have a go at storming the gates on his own.'\n\n'Ach, Wulf, my boy, that was a foolish thing to attempt,' Gramm said.\n\n'They're in there, my Swain and Sif. I heard shieldmen of Jael's talking about them,' Wulf said, staring up at Gramm. His expression drifted between anger and abject misery.\n\n'Whether they are or not, you wouldn't be able to bring them out. You'd just end up in a cell alongside them, or your head separated from your shoulders. Why'd you do it, lad?'\n\n'I had to do something,' Wulf said. 'The thought of them in that fortress, scared, cold, alone . . .'\n\n'We'll get them back, somehow,' Gramm said.\n\n'How? When?' Wulf asked.\n\nGramm sighed, his shoulders slumping. 'I don't know,' he said.\n\nHaelan was sitting in his chamber with Tahir. He had shared a room with the Gadrai warrior since the night they had arrived at Gramm's hold.\n\nThere was a quiet tap at their door and then it creaked open. Wulf came in. He nodded to Tahir and pulled a chair up, poured himself a cup of mead.\n\n'I need your help,' he said when his cup was empty. His eyes were red-rimmed.\n\nTahir just looked at him.\n\n'I'm going to Dun Kellen to get my children back.'\n\n'You've just come back from there. And besides, that's suicide,' Tahir said. 'A fool's errand. Listen to your da.'\n\n'You know a way into Dun Kellen. The secret giant tunnel you escaped by.'\n\nTahir looked hard at him. 'It's not a secret any longer. Your brother Orgull stood in front of it and made a mountain of the dead there.'\n\n'Doesn't matter. Jael will not be expecting anyone to try and sneak into Dun Kellen. The tunnel is my best hope.'\n\n'It is no hope.'\n\n'I'm going. Will you help me?'\n\nTahir gave him a long look, eventually sighing.\n\n'I cannot go. I'm sworn to Haelan.'\n\nWulf poured himself another cup of mead and drank it down. 'You owe us. You owe my family. You would both be dead now, if not for this hold.'\n\n'Aye, that's most likely true,' Tahir said. Haelan could tell he was uncomfortable, did not want to be having this conversation. 'And I am grateful. More grateful than I can ever express--'\n\n'Deeds, not words, show the truth and depth of a man's gratitude,' Wulf interrupted.\n\n'My old mam used to say that,' Tahir muttered, looking into his empty cup.\n\n'Please go with him,' Haelan said. 'I want you to go. Swain is my friend. I've never had a friend before. Not a real one.'\n\nTahir turned his gaze upon Haelan.\n\n'Neither of you understand,' he said. 'I swore an oath. To Maquin and Orgull, my sword-brothers. We were the last of the Gadrai, we three. Now . am the last. To leave you here, go off on a task that risks me never coming back . . .' His shoulders slumped. 'I'm not afraid,' he growled, 'in fact, I like the idea. It's suicidal enough to earn its own song. But to break my oath when there is no one left to take it up for me.' He shook his head.\n\n'You'd not be breaking it,' Haelan assured him. 'I'm safe as I can ever be here, whether you're here or not. I don't mean any insult, Tahir. I saw your bravery, on the walls of Dun Kellen. I saw you, Orgull and Maquin keep Jael's men from taking the walls, time after time. But you are one man. If trouble comes here, Gramm has warriors aplenty. You would make little difference.'\n\n'Nicely said.' Tahir's lips twisted in a brief smile. 'But you are wrong. Every man here serves Gramm as his lord, has given their oaths to him. Gramm would be their first priority. Whereas me, I swore an oath to protect you; not Gramm, or Wulf, or any other soul living in these Banished Lands. You. And I would give my life to do it. Can any other say such a thing?'\n\nHaelan was moved by Tahir's words.\n\n'Will you be my shieldman when I am king?' Haelan asked.\n\nTahir smiled. 'Aye, lad, if we get that far, I'll be your shieldman.'\n\n'Do you mean that, or are you just humouring a bairn?'\n\nTahir looked at him seriously. 'I mean that, Haelan.'\n\n'Then swear it now. I'm likely to die, I know. Probably before I see my twelfth nameday. But just in case.' He shrugged.\n\nTahir regarded him a good long while. 'Do you know what is involved? It's not just words. Blood seals it,' he eventually said.\n\n'I've seen many an oath sworn to my mam and uncle. I know my part,' Haelan said. He felt a lot older than his eleven years, suddenly.\n\n'We would need a witness.'\n\n'Wulf could bear witness.'\n\n'Aye,' Wulf agreed. 'An oath is no small thing,' he added.\n\nThe silence stretched again.\n\n'I'll give you my oath,' Tahir said and drew a knife from his belt, laid it on the table between them. 'Wulf, will you say the words?'\n\n'Aye, if you're sure.'\n\n'I am.'\n\n'Tahir, will you bind yourself to Haelan ben Romar, become his sword and shield, the defender of his flesh, his blood, his honour, unto death?'\n\n'I will,' Tahir said. There was a tremor in his voice. He gripped his knife's blade, cut his palm and let blood drip from his fist onto the iron hilt.\n\n'Haelan, will you bind yourself to Tahir ben Davin, accept his fealty, swear to provide for and protect him to your utmost ability, unto your dying breath?'\n\n'I will,' Tahir said. He picked up the knife, regarded it a moment, then squeezed its blade. He winced as blood welled from his hand, but he still felt brave, grown up. Blood dripped from his cut and he let it flow over the knife hilt, mixing with Tahir's blood.\n\n'It is done,' Wulf said.\n\nHaelan handed the knife back to Tahir.\n\n'So you are my shieldman now?'\n\n\"I am,' Tahir said.\n\n'Good. Then my first request to you is that you help Wulf get Swain and Sif back.'\n\nTahir sat back in his chair, blinking. Then he threw his head back and laughed.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin recognized Krelis, like a memory from a dream.\n\n_He was the man who lifted me from the street and carried me through the gates of Ripa._\n\n'The Vin Thalun?' Alben asked.\n\n'Some are still scurrying about the tower,' Krelis said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. 'Think we've dealt with the worst of it. Either way, we need to get you out of here.'\n\n'We're safer down here,' Ektor said.\n\n'Not if any Vin Thalun decided to come poking around. I haven't come to debate it with you, brother. You're coming with me.'\n\nEktor looked sullen but he said no more.\n\nKrelis' men closed about them as they filed out of the room, Maquin walking behind Fidele. He made it as far as the spiral steps before his legs began to shake. A dozen more paces and he began to sink. Fidele turned and saw him, grabbed him before he hit the floor.\n\n'Help,' she called.\n\n'Didn't realize it was you,' Krelis said as he put an arm around Maquin and lifted him upright. 'You should be dead, not walking around,' he added good-naturedly.\n\nMaquin grunted, 'There's still time.' With Krelis one side of him and Fidele the other, he managed to climb the stairs. Distant sounds of combat drifted along a corridor as they passed its entrance, but nothing that sounded close.\n\n'Krelis, what is the situation, with the Vin Thalun?' Fidele asked as they made their way upwards.\n\n'It was a coordinated attack,' Krelis said. 'A force approached the gates, drew our eyes and waited for their men to scale the cliffs. Then they assaulted our walls. We beat them back, though it was too close for my liking. The ones in the tower are mostly dead - they tried to get to the gates.' He shrugged. 'They failed. There's a few still running around the tower's corridors, but they won't be breathing for much longer.'\n\nEventually they left the spiral staircase and stepped into a hall, the cold stone disappearing, replaced by timber. Maquin was helped to a bench beside a long table and he realized they were in a feasthall. He reached for a jug of water, his throat drier than he could ever remember, and began to drink.\n\n'Only sips,' Alben said beside him, placing a hand on his wrist.\n\nA tall man stood nearby, ringed by warriors. He was old, greyhaired, his face lined and weary.\n\n'Father,' Krelis said as he approached the old man, 'Fidele has been found.'\n\n_So that is Lamar, then._ As Maquin studied him he saw an echo of his friend, Veradis. Not so much in the features, more the set of his shoulders, a certain conviction that he radiated, a resolution in the line of his jaw.\n\n'Good,' Lamar said, turning to take Fidele's hand and bowing his head.\n\n'Welcome to Ripa, my lady.'\n\nAnother figure appeared, shorter, whip-cord slim, each muscle a defined striation of fibre. Maquin had seen this man before - the last time chained in the arena at Jerolin, ready for execution.\n\n_Peritus, Aquilus ' battlechief, Fidele's friend._ It had been Peritus who had begun the uprising against the Vin Thalun. He dropped to his knees before Fidele and kissed her hand.\n\n'My Queen, I thought we had lost you, that I had failed you.'\n\n'You lit the spark that set me free,' Fidele said, gently tugging him to his feet. To Maquin's surprise he saw tears staining Peritus' cheeks.\n\nAs Maquin sat there the throbbing in his belly began to grow, becoming impossible to ignore. It pulsed rhythmically with his heart, an organic drumbeat.\n\n_I have a gut wound. It will most likely kill me._ He felt a wash of anger at that, because death meant he would not get to put a knife through Jael's heart. As he sat there watching Fidele, though, the desire to destroy Jael burned less brightly than it usually did. His vision dimmed at the edges, painting a dark border around Fidele.\n\n_I am glad that I didn 't leave you in the forest_, he thought abstractly, watching the bones in her face move as she spoke, the curve of her lips as she smiled, a pattern of fine laughter lines that stretched from her eyes. _You were worth saving. Worth dying for._ He saw her face turn towards him, her smile evaporate, replaced by concern. He tried to say something, to tell her not to worry, but somehow his mouth refused to work. His hand moved to his sword hilt - for some reason it was important that he feel the hilt in his hand. But his fingers were numb, and suddenly he realized he was cold, shivering, a chill spreading through his bones. He slipped from the chair, as if the strings holding his body upright had been cut.\n\nMaquin was standing before a stone bridge. It arched over a wide chasm, deep and dark, the bottom, if there was one, lost in shadows. The far side was blurred, a mist infused with a nimbus glow, like the last light of day, pale and golden.\n\n_I need to cross over._ He didn't know why, he just knew he should, as if someone pulled upon a cord tied about his waist, so he took a step onto the bridge, realized he was holding his sword. Nothing had ever felt more natural to him. He took another few steps, the bridge feeling strange underfoot, uneven. He looked down and saw the stone was merged with sword after sword beneath his feet. He paused halfway across as a figure took form and approached him through the mist.\n\nIt was man-like, but taller. Not like a giant, all slabs of muscle, but finer, more elegant. And it had wings, great wings of white feather that spanned the width of the bridge.\n\n_One of the Ben-Elim._\n\nIt held a sword in its hand, wisps of flame curling up from the blade.\n\nThe wings flexed, a rush of air buffeting him and the creature was airborne, landing gracefully a dozen steps before him. Maquin strode towards it.\n\n'Are you ready to cross the bridge of swords, child of flesh?' the Ben-Elim asked him.\n\nMaquin felt a shock go through him at that.\n\n_I am dead, then._ He did not feel anything, just a cold detachment. Possibly an echo of disappointment.\n\nThe Ben-Elim stooped a little, regarding Maquin with dark eyes. It held out its sword, the tip glowing, hovering a handspan before his heart. 'Hold, something is . . . different.' He sniffed the air, reached out with one hand and touched Maquin's face.\n\nMaquin tried to open his eyes but the light was blinding, painful. He gave up.\n\n_Where am I?_\n\nHe moved his hands, or tried. A finger moved, slightly. Maybe.\n\n_I 'm lying down._\n\nThe sound of gulls filtered through to him, a gentle breeze upon his face.\n\n_Ripa. I 'm in Ripa._\n\nSlowly he became aware of a presence close by, the sound of breathing. A stirring in the air. A hand touched his face.\n\nA door creaked, footsteps getting louder.\n\nThe hand on his face disappeared.\n\n'My lady, how is he?'\n\n'The same. His fever burns.'\n\n_I know that voice. Fidele._ It felt nice to hear her, a comfort.\n\nFootsteps approached, a cool, dry hand on his brow. Fingers probed the pulse in his neck.\n\n'Alben, how long can he survive like this?'\n\n'He should be dead, my lady. I have not seen anyone cling to life through a fever this severe or that lasted this long.'\n\n'I've done all you said - water, goat's milk, the herbs you mixed - all dripped through linen into his mouth.'\n\n'Others can do this, my lady. Lamar has been asking for y--'\n\n'No. This is where I choose to be.'\n\n'As you say. But . . .' He fell silent.\n\n_Wise man. No point arguing with her._\n\n'The good news is his gut wound seems to be healing. It is rare, but it can happen. Now, if he could just beat this fever.'\n\n'He can.'\n\nAn indrawn breath.\n\n'My lady, you should prepare yourself.'\n\n'No. You told me that a ten-night gone, and yet he is still here.'\n\n'But look at him. There is little more than skin and bone left of him. He has fought hard, but unless this fever breaks . . .'\n\n'He is the strongest man I have ever known. In flesh and in spirit. He _will_ beat this.'\n\n'Perhaps. If he is as strong as you say then he has a chance. But I must warn you, my lady, it is very slim. If he is a fighter . . .'\n\nFidele snorted. 'He is the definition of the word.'\n\n'I shall call in before sunset.'\n\n'Thank you, Alben. I do not mean to sound ungrateful.'\n\n'You do not, my lady. You stand vigil over a friend who straddles the line between life and death.'\n\nThe door closed, footsteps receding.\n\nA hand closed about his. Squeezed.\n\n' _Live_ , damn you.' A soft breath brushed his ear.\n\nThe Ben-Elim was staring at Maquin; it felt as if he was staring _into_ him, viewing his soul.\n\n'You have a choice to make,' the Ben-Elim said. 'Most who reach this place have no choices left to them. A rare few do. You are one of them.'\n\n'What choice?' Maquin breathed.\n\n'Go forward, or go back.'\n\nSomething moved behind the Ben-Elim, beyond the bridge, a figure forming in the mist. Maquin frowned, something familiar about it. He froze, not believing his eyes.\n\nIt was Kastell. He was as Maquin remembered him, a shock of red hair, face pale, freckled. They stared at each other.\n\nThe sight of him set a flood of memory loose within Maquin, coursing through his body like heady mead in his blood. The day he had sworn his oath to Kastell, so many years ago, standing upon a palisaded wall within sight of Forn Forest. Carrying him from his father's hold as it went up in flames, giants chasing them, bellowing their war-cry, silhouetted by flame. Joining the Gadrai. Walking into the catacombs of Haldis, fighting side by side. Maquin felt tears wetting his cheeks.\n\nHe called out, dropped to his knees. 'I am sorry, my friend. I have failed you, Jael still lives.'\n\nKastell stared at him, head cocked to one side.\n\n'It was not your fault,' Kastell said, the words sounding like wind rustling through dead leaves.\n\n'I swore an oath to you,' Maquin said, tears blurring his vision.\n\nOther figures appeared around Kastell - the first bent and twisted, like a wind-blasted tree. He had not seen him for a score of years, but Maquin knew him instantly. His da. Beside him there was a woman, a warm smile upon her face; his mam. Another man, broad and red-haired. Aenor, his first lord, Kastell's da. They all stood at the bridge's edge, watching him. Maquin felt his heart lurch, a longing flow through him to be with these people.\n\n'Join us,' they said. 'There is peace here.'\n\n'Peace?' Maquin breathed.\n\n'Have you tired of the world of flesh?' the Ben-Elim asked him.\n\n'Tired? Aye, I am tired. Of the pain, of fighting, always, of the blood, the misery. I am tired of failing.'\n\n'Is there aught you would return to the world of flesh for?'\n\nMaquin opened his mouth, lips forming the word 'No,' but then he hesitated. He closed his eyes, images forming in his mind. He saw Jael plunging his sword into Kastell's belly, the moment frozen forever, seared into his brain. He remembered being taken by Lykos. Being branded, forced into the pits, his humanity stripped incrementally away. Jael and Lykos, their faces floating in his mind's eye, merging, separating. Rage coursed through him, cold yet burning.\n\nAnd then another face, a woman, hair of jet flecked with silver framing pale, milky skin, a warm smile from red lips. _Fidele._ Somehow she had made him feel human again, something more than a trained animal. A voice echoed through his mind. _Live, damn you_ , it said, and something else rose up within him, battling with the rage that consumed him, warring for his soul.\n\nHe opened his eyes.\n\nThe Ben-Elim towered over him, flaming sword held loosely, wings flexing.\n\n'You must choose,' it said. 'Go forwards or go back.'\n\nHe climbed to his feet, wiped the tears from his eyes. Kastell and the others were standing as still as the stone carvings in Haldis, watching him.\n\n'Peace,' Maquin breathed. Then louder, 'I shall see you again. One day. But not yet.'\n\nHe turned and strode back across the bridge.\n\nMaquin opened his eyes, blinking in the light. He moved his head. He was alone. Slowly he grew accustomed to a flood of sensations. His fingers tingled, his back ached. _Everywhere aches._ His throat was dry, constricted. He opened his mouth, felt his lips tighten, skin pulling close to cracking. After a while he tried to sit up and managed it on his second attempt. A jug of water sat on a table beside him and he poured half a cup and sipped, the effort draining him. He looked about, saw that he was sitting on the only bed in a spacious room. A single chair rested beside the bed. It was dark; a window opened onto the bay of Ripa, stars flickering into life on a velvet canopy.\n\nThe door creaked open and Alben entered. He paused when he saw Maquin sitting up, then looked over his shoulder and said something. Footsteps echoed, fading quickly.\n\n'Welcome back to the land of the living,' Alben said with a smile.\n\n'How long?' Maquin said, his voice a dry croak. He sipped some more water.\n\n'Twenty nights. You should be dead.' Alben put a hand upon Maquin's forehead, then held two fingers to the pulse in Maquin's wrist.\n\n'Lykos?' Maquin asked. The Vin Thalun was suddenly all that Maquin could think about. He had an overwhelming urge to find a knife and sheathe it in Lykos' heart.\n\n'We are under siege. You remember the attack on the tower?'\n\n'I do.'\n\n'We fought them back. They have ventured a few sorties against our walls since then, but nothing has come as close to success as that first attempt.'\n\nFidele appeared in the doorway. She froze when she saw him sitting there. She smiled at him, and he smiled in return, feeling a flutter in his belly as he did so.\n\n'I knew you wouldn't die,' Fidele said, crossing the room to him as Alben left. Tentatively she reached out, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand.\n\nMemories flowed, sharp and vivid. Standing on a bridge, one of the Ben-Elim before him. _You have a choice to make._\n\n'I was standing upon the bridge of swords,' he breathed. 'One of the Ben-Elim stood guard upon it.'\n\n'You have been racked by fever for almost a moon. You have had many dreams,' Fidele said. 'Fever dreams.'\n\n'It was no dream. The Ben-Elim, he gave me a choice. Go forward or go back. I wanted to cross over, to be with my kin, my friends. To find peace.'\n\n'Why did you come back, then?' Fidele asked him.\n\n'Three reasons. Three people. Jael. Lykos. You.' He paused and looked up into her eyes. 'Two for vengeance. One for love.'\n\nShe stared at him a long, timeless moment, then she leaned forwards and kissed him.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n\n#### RAFE\n\nRafe stared across the river at the wall of trees on the opposite bank.\n\n'The Darkwood,' Braith said beside him, with something close to real affection in his voice.\n\n_And beyond it Ardan. Home._\n\nIt had been a long journey, two moons of hard riding on Halion's trail.\n\nAnd now they were just a few leagues away. It was a strange feeling after being away so long.\n\nThe dogs were down by the bank, worrying at the mud and silt that edged the estuary.\n\n_They 'd follow Halion's trail right into the water if they could. Best scent hounds I've ever known._\n\n'He crossed here, then,' Rafe said. It wasn't a question. Hoof prints had churned the mud, then led off north. Halion hadn't ridden the horse, though. His footprints led right up to the water's edge. And even if they hadn't been there, Scratcher and Sniffer's behaviour was enough for Rafe.\n\n'Aye,' Braith said.\n\n'Why did he turn his horse free?' _Still got a long way to go once he gets to the other side, if Rhin was right. Better to swim his horse across._\n\n'He must know the Darkwood. Too dense and overgrown to take a horse through. Nearer to the giantsway it's easier going, more open. But not here. He could've crossed further upriver, but every step takes you closer to Uthandun, and that's one place he'd want to stay clear of. They'll have patrols out. He made a decision, chose caution over speed. Besides, he can always steal another horse once he's in Ardan.' Braith shrugged. 'It's what I'd have done.'\n\n_I thought my da was a good huntsman, but Braith, he lives it._\n\nRafe looked dolefully at the river. It was wide and slow, only a league or so before it spilt into the sea. 'We're going to get wet, then.'\n\n'Ah, that's where you're wrong,' Braith said with a grin. 'Follow me.'\n\nThey rode only a short way east along the riverbank before Braith dismounted and made his way down to the river. He disappeared where the bank was eroded into an overhang.\n\n'Come lend a hand,' Braith called.\n\nRafe found him tugging at what looked at first glance to be the broken branch of a willow. It turned out to be a cleverly made screen that was draped over a dozen coracles.\n\n'Used these to cross the river, back when I was a brigand in the Darkwood,' Braith said with a grin to Rafe's questioning look. 'Best get the horses stripped down and turn them loose.'\n\nSoon Rafe was paddling across the river, and it wasn't long before he was wading onto the far bank, the muscles in his shoulders and back feeling as if they'd been filled with lead. Sniffer splashed ahead of him and gave Braith's hand a lick; he'd already dragged his coracle into a worn-out overhang. He helped Rafe do the same and then they were up the bank and stepping amongst the first trees of the Darkwood. It took less time for the dogs to find Halion's scent again than it had taken to cross the river.\n\n'Good boys,' Rafe whispered as they slipped into the twilight of the forest.\n\nRafe pulled a strip of salted pork from his pouch and chewed, the meat tough and stringy.\n\n_Looking forward to a fire and some hot food._\n\nThey had followed Halion's trail deep into the Darkwood, eventually making camp beside a stream when the light forced them to stop. The dogs were curled at Rafe's feet now, though their ears were twitching at every sound from the forest, of which there were many. It was very different from camping out in the open. In the distance something howled.\n\n'How far ahead of us do you think he is?' Rafe asked once they were settled.\n\n'No more than a day. Maybe a little less.'\n\n'You don't think he knows we're following him?'\n\n'No, lad,' Braith said. 'I've tracked others and been tracked myself more times than I remember. He doesn't know we're here. At first he knew he'd be followed - remember how he flew hard and fast from Dun Taras and headed straight for the border with Cambren. He knew his only hope was speed. After that - in the mountains and then in the woodlands of Cambren - he tried a few tricks that would've thrown most huntsmen. Not that I'm bragging,' he smiled. 'And he's taking his time now. Caution, not speed, so as not to be spotted by locals. He's not worried that there's anyone on his tail that might catch up with him.'\n\n'So you think Rhin was right - that he's heading for Edana?'\n\n'Aye. He told Rhin that Edana was running for Dun Crin. By the looks of it, that's where he's headed.'\n\n'Why would Halion _tell_ Rhin where Edana's going. Halion's not the type to talk, even if he's losing body parts.'\n\n'Rhin can be very persuasive. And she has _other_ methods.' Braith didn't need to expand on that. Rafe remembered how he had sat in Rhin's chamber and watched Conall freeing Halion through the flames of a fire. _By flayed skin and blood, Rhin said._ He shivered at the memory of it.\n\n'So if Halion told Rhin where Edana is, why do we need to be following Halion?'\n\n'Because Dun Crin is in a marshland that covers fifty leagues, more or less. You should know that. Could take a while to search a marsh that big, whereas Halion will lead us straight to her.'\n\n'Does he know where Dun Crin is, then?'\n\n'No one knows exactly where Dun Crin is,' Braith replied. 'Only that it's somewhere in those marshes. But Halion has as good an idea as anyone. He'll have discussed it with Edana and Camlin; he'll have some idea where they're headed. If anyone can take us straight to Edana, it's Halion.'\n\n_Straight to Edana. Can 't believe she's survived this long. She never seemed strong enough for times like this. Mind you, she'd changed a bit when I met her back at the battle for Domhain. Lording it over me in her tent, along with Corban and the rest of them. Bet she's not so high and mighty now._\n\n'So what do we do then? Kill them all?' Rafe asked. He didn't actually like that thought, but he'd come to admire Braith and wanted to show him he wasn't scared of anything.\n\n'That'd be a tall order for even you and me.' Braith grinned. 'No, we'll pick up some help along the way. Evnis is sitting on his arse in Dun Carreg - he'll be glad of something to do.' He stared straight at Rafe, his smile gone now. 'Got to do this right - can't have Edana escaping again. Or Lorcan, Eremon's whelp. We take their heads to Rhin. If we can't do that then we'd better build our own cairns. Rhin's big on rewarding success and punishing failure.'\n\n_I bet she is._\n\n'You've known Rhin a long time?'\n\n'Aye. All my life, it feels like. When I was a bairn my kin were killed in one of Owain's raids,' he waved his hand. 'Rhin found me when she rode out in response. I was curled up on my mam's dead body, all cried out. Just about ready to die. Anyway, Rhin took me in, gave me a home. All I've ever wanted was to repay something of her kindness.'\n\n_Kindness? Can 't say that's the first word that comes to mind when I look at Rhin._\n\n'And have some revenge against Owain, of course.'\n\n'Well you've had that,' Rafe said. He had been there, at the battle where Owain was defeated. He'd fought in it, part of Evnis' retinue.\n\n'Aye, that I have,' Braith said. 'Just one more score left for me to settle.'\n\n'Who's that?'\n\n'Camlin. Bastard nearly killed me on that beach in Domhain.' He reached up and rubbed his neck. 'But I can forgive him that, I suppose. This is war, after all, and we've chosen our sides. We all know our end may be a sharp blade, don't we, lad?'\n\n'Not really thought about it like that.'\n\n'Well, it's the truth, no point hiding from it. Camlin, though . . . he betrayed me. We had Queen Alona and Edana all trussed up and were leading them off to Rhin. He stood against me. Next thing I know, those brothers - Halion and Conall - are hurtling out of the shadows with iron in their fists and men of Ardan behind them. And that lad with his wolven.'\n\n'Corban,' Rafe said. His lips twisted over the name.\n\n'Not your favourite person, then?' Braith asked him.\n\n'No. His wolven killed my da. Tore his throat out. Did this to me.' He lifted his shirt sleeve and showed Braith a ragged white scar that stretched almost from wrist to elbow. 'And Corban put a sword in my leg.' He shrugged. 'He's my score to settle.'\n\nBraith stared at him in the darkness. 'Think you might want to walk away from that one,' he said after a while.\n\n'Why?'\n\nBraith shook his head. 'Just take my word for it - a bit of advice from one friend to another.'\n\n'He's nothing special,' Rafe spat. 'I will see him dead.'\n\nBraith gave him a measuring look. 'I've crossed paths with him a few times now,' he said. 'Most recently I took him prisoner in the mountains near Dun Vaner.' He fell silent, eyes distant. 'Me and my crew almost didn't make it to Dun Vaner, on account of that white wolven of his and his friends. They chased us to the gates of the fortress. Then they found a way in and killed just about every sword Rhin had. They had some help, granted, but still, storming Rhin's fortress; took some stones, that did.'\n\n'You sound as if you admire him. Them,' Rafe said accusingly.\n\n'Suppose I do,' Braith said. 'Takes a rare person to inspire his friends to try and drag him out of an enemy fortress. Nothing wrong with a bit of respect for your enemies. Won't stop me from killing them if I get the chance.'\n\n'That wasn't the first time you've seen Corban, then?'\n\n'No. First time was in Dun Carreg when, me being the fool I am, I decided to rescue Camlin. Somehow Corban became mixed up in it, with his sister and the wolven - not much bigger than a pup, then.' He laughed. 'He had some stones on him, even then. I saw him again - here in the Darkwood; like I said, he was part of the rescue party that came after Queen Alona and Edana. I think him and his wolven are the reason they found us.' He grimaced at that. 'You're best off just walking away from him. He'll meet a bad end, eventually, but I don't think it'll be by your hand.'\n\nRafe stared sullenly into the fire.\n\n_Walk away from my vengeance? Never._\n\nDun Carreg was a dot on the horizon in the east, the Baglun spread before him. They had followed Halion for another ten-night, three days through the Darkwood, another seven through the moors and valleys of Ardan. They'd stopped at Badun for as long as it took to buy two horses and then set off south, Halion's trail skirting away from the giantsway and heading south through empty moorland towards the eastern fringes of the Baglun Forest.\n\n'We'll have to part ways for a while now, lad,' Braith said to him.\n\nRafe reined in his horse, so surprised he nearly lost his balance.\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Halion is  heading south-east, looping around the  outskirts of the Baglun. My guess is that he's avoiding Dun Carreg and the giantsway so that he can approach the marsh from the east - a much safer route for him.'\n\n'Aye, that makes sense.'\n\n'Whatever his reason, when he finds Edana, you, me and two hounds aren't going to be enough to finish this. Chances are she'll have more than a few swords around her. Ride to Dun Carreg, tell Evnis to come, personally, with enough warriors to end this. Take Sniffer with you, he'll find us quickly enough.'\n\nRafe nodded.\n\n'Ride hard,' Braith said, 'otherwise they'll go to ground and we'll have a much harder job, worming them out of the marshes.'\n\n'I won't let you down,' Rafe said to him, leaning in his saddle to grip Braith's forearm.\n\n'I have no doubts in you, lad; no, it's Evnis that I'm  worried about.' He reached inside his cloak and pulled out two things. A silver chain with a stone pendant and a vellum scroll, sealed with red wax. 'The pendant will get you through the gates and in front of Evnis quickly enough, and the scroll - give that to the old snake - it's a letter from Rhin. If your words don't move him this should put a fire up his arse and get him in a saddle.'\n\nRafe grinned at Braith, put the scroll into a pack strapped to his saddle and then he was off, Sniffer bounding along beside him.\n\nIt took over half a day of hard riding to reach the giantsway, memories flooding back to Rafe - hunting countless times with his da in and around the Baglun, his warrior trial and Long Night, the night Dun Carreg fell, marching to battle against Rhin.\n\n_And now I 'm back. Almost a year to the day that I left on a ship for Cambren._\n\nHe reined in and dismounted, quickly unstrapped his kit bag from his saddle. There wasn't much of worth in there - a coat of mail he'd taken from a dead warrior in Domhain the most valuable thing, and the box from the marsh, of course, not that that was worth anything. He still hadn't had a chance to open it - he'd tried briefly, wiggling his knife in the lock, but to no avail. Since then he'd been on the road with Braith and something had stopped him from getting the box out in front of the huntsman. He thought about having another go at opening it now, but his excitement at seeing Dun Carreg was mounting, so he took the coat of mail out and quickly put it on. He adjusted his warrior torc, checked his warrior braid and straightened his sword-belt. He didn't want to look like a bedraggled huntsman when he rode across the bridge and through the arch of Stonegate.\n\nHavan, the fishing village at the base of the hill that Dun Carreg sat upon, appeared as it always had: wood and thatch buildings, smoke rising from the roundhouse at its centre, figures moving about their daily work. As he passed through and began the winding climb up the hill to Dun Carreg he recognized faces, some pausing to stare at him. He ignored them. Halfway up the hill he stopped and looked out over the village and bay, the sea glittering blue and green, fisher-boats dotting the waves. As he gazed out beyond the bay, black sails caught his eye. Lots of them, coming up the coast from the south like a great flock of black-winged birds. They sailed past the bay, disappearing north around the cliffs of the headland. Rafe just sat there and watched, counted at least fifty ships, and remained there staring for a while after they'd disappeared.\n\n_They look like the ships we sailed on to reach Cambren._\n\nWhen he was sure that they weren't coming back he rode on.\n\nHis hooves clattered on the bridge that spanned the chasm between the mainland and Dun Carreg and then he was reining in before Stonegate. He showed the pendant Braith had given him to a handful of guards in the black and gold of Cambren, and soon after was dismounting in the courtyard before Dun Carreg's feast-hall. A stable-boy came to take his mount and Rafe threw some strips of meat to Sniffer and ordered him to stay, a few moments later finding himself standing in the feast-hall waiting for Evnis. The hall was empty, the fire-pit dark and cold. Rafe's eyes wandered, saw black scorch-marks scarring timber pillars and supports, testament to the night Dun Carreg had fallen. Rafe's eyes searched out the spot where his da had died.\n\nA door behind the King's dais opened and Evnis walked in, followed by a handful of warriors, all in sable cloaks edged with gold.\n\nEvnis looked older than the last time Rafe had seen his lord. He still walked with purpose and energy, but there was a stoop to his shoulders that hadn't been there before, the lines of his face deeper, and silver streaked his dark hair.\n\n'By Asroth's stones, if it isn't Rafe returned to us,' Evnis said, a grin splitting his face. As he came closer Rafe saw rings of gold and jet on Evnis' fingers, his warrior torc wound with gold wire.\n\nRafe blinked. _He seems genuinely pleased to see me._ Without thinking, Rafe dropped to one knee and bowed his head.\n\n'Stand,' Evnis said. 'We have much to talk about, not least your adventures with Queen Rhin and the conquest of Domhain, but I think there is more to your arrival here than a yearning for home. Am I right?'\n\n'You are, my lord,' Rafe said. He fumbled inside a pocket and produced the scroll that Braith had given him.\n\nEvnis broke the seal and read.\n\nEvnis was close enough for Rafe to smell his breath - it was sour, a hint of mead upon it; spidery veins spread across his cheeks, there was something bloated about his face. He had the look of a man who spent too much time in his cups. Rafe's gaze drifted to the warriors behind Evnis - most he didn't recognize, but then his eyes fell upon a familiar face - Glyn with his twisted nose, broken by Tull in the sword-ring. He winked at Rafe, and he grinned in return.\n\nEvnis looked up and stared at Rafe; his eyes still held all their wit and cunning.\n\n'So,' Evnis said. 'News indeed. Glyn, muster a hundred swords, we are riding south.'\n\n'Aye, my lord,' Glyn said and strode from the room.\n\nEvnis put an arm around Rafe's shoulder and steered him towards the doors. 'We shall make ready and you can tell me your news. First, though, if you don't mind, I have one question to ask of you.'\n\n'Of course, my lord.'\n\n'Have you seen my son?'\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen sat with Brina against the trunk of a broad oak. It was late in the evening but still light, both sun and moon sharing the sky above; dusk was settling about them.\n\n'Again,' Brina said.\n\n' _Lasair. Uisce. Talamh. Aer_.'\n\n'Good,' Brina said.\n\n_Good! That 's the first time she's used that word and aimed it at me._ Cywen couldn't keep the smile off her face. She'd been officially titled as Brina's apprentice for over two moons now, spring turning to summer as they travelled through the realm of Narvon.\n\nAfter the battle with Rhin's warband in the north they had encountered little resistance. An occasional skirmish, but even then only between Coralen's scouts and small bands of Rhin's warriors. No one chose to stand against the whole warband, mostly in Cywen's opinion because their warband consisted of Jehar, Benothi giants and a wolven. _No one in their right mind would willingly choose to fight us, unless we were actively threatening their hearth and home, or they numbered in the thousands._ Also, most of the villages were stripped of warriors of fighting age - most had gone to Owain's summons and ridden to war against Ardan.\n\nSome had even joined them. After seeing what the Kadoshim had done to the survivors of the village in the north, Corban had insisted on riding into each village that they passed to warn them. If it was a fortified town he would ride to its gates under the truce of a rowan branch and tell those gathered on the walls of what followed behind them. Corban had told Cywen that it was to give them a chance. _Knowledge is power, Cy. At least, that 's what Brina always told me, and she's usually right._\n\nMany distrusted and disbelieved. Some didn't. Corban offered them the opportunity of riding with his warband, much to Meical's disgust. Over the course of their journey through Narvon the warband had swelled, numbering now around four hundred.\n\n'You've a gift for language, I have to say,' Brina interrupted her thoughts. 'You're learning this much quicker than your brother ever did.' The healer was sitting with her book open across her lap.\n\n'Can I see that?' Cywen asked Brina.\n\n'Why?' Brina asked.\n\n'I like letters,' Cywen said with a shrug. It was true. When her mam had taught her and Corban, back in their kitchen in Dun Carreg, letters had always been Cywen's favourite subject, while the histories had been Corban's. She'd always thought Corban just liked hearing about ancient battles.\n\n'Here, then,' Brina said, a little reluctantly. 'Be careful - it's very old, many of the pages are brittle. And only look at the first half - that deals with what concerns you.'\n\nThe cover was thick leather, dark and cracked. She opened it carefully, each page inside a waxy parchment filled with giant runes. Sometimes it was clear that more than one hand had written in the book, the writing changing from spidery scrawl to firm, broad strokes and back again. There were many words that Cywen recognized, some from her lessons with her mam, others from her recent teaching with Brina. _Teaching me to be an Elemental. Who 'd have thought?_ The idea excited Cywen and she had taken to it well enough. Already she had made a spark appear, on her first attempt only yesterday.  Admittedly  it  had  fizzled  out  almost  as  soon  as it appeared, but Cywen put that down to her own shock at seeing it appear as much as anything else, and Brina had been exceptionally pleased.\n\n'You see, there is so much to learn before you can really start to put the theory into practice,' Brina said. 'Basic commands are simpler - like the one for fire that you tried yesterday. But if you want to shape your commands, exercise some kind of real control - like when we summoned the mist from the river - a mastery of the language is essential. We didn't just make mist from the river, we directed it across a meadow and _up  _an embankment onto the old giants' road. That wasn't easy.'\n\n' _Mist scary,_ ' Craf croaked mournfully.\n\nHe was sitting beside Brina, every now and then his beak darting into the ground and coming back up with a wriggling worm. His wing was healed now, fully recovered from the attack by the hawk, but he was a different bird. He was forlorn all the time, his mischievous comments replaced with melancholy. And he never flew; Cywen saw him often looking nervously to the skies. A ten-night or so after the attack Corban had asked Craf to help in the scouting, but Craf had become a trembling wreck at the mention of it. Corban had obviously felt so sorry for the bird that he had let it go, and not asked again. Now Craf always stayed close to Brina, usually perched on her saddle. _He misses Fech. So do I, strangely enough. And I think if I was him I 'd be scared too._ She had often seen a winged shape riding the currents high above them. It looked suspiciously hawk-like. _It would make sense for Nathair and Calidus to track us, so it could well be the hawk that killed Fech._\n\nBrina leaned forward and scratched Craf's neck.\n\nFarrell appeared and sat down with them, throwing something to Craf as he did so. Something slimy, judging by the noises Craf made as he consumed it.\n\n' _Tasty_ ,' Craf croaked by way of thanks.\n\n'You're welcome,' Farrell said. He unslung his war-hammer and placed it on the ground beside him, patting its iron head lovingly, a habit that Cywen had noticed he did almost every evening. Farrell had taken to spending his nights with them - Dath was always out scouting, and Corban was permanently busy.\n\n_It 's funny how we all group together - the Benothi giants are always together, the Jehar, though they seem to be in two camps - Tukul's lot, and those who rode with Nathair, led now by Akar. And us, a small remnant of Ardan. Perhaps Farrell takes some comfort in being around us - we are as close to home as he can find in this patchwork warband._\n\nPages passed and Cywen turned them quicker, until about halfway through the book something changed.  A  new  hand  took over the writing, for one thing, the runes taking on an elegant flow. Also diagrams started appearing, strange designs, and the giant runes changed from flowing sentences into something more fitful, appearing almost like lists. Cywen saw the giantish word for blood - _fuil_ - and further down the page _namhaid._\n\nShe felt her eyes drawn to the pages, almost as if she was sinking into them.\n\n'What does _namhaid_ mean? Is it enemy?'\n\n'Hey,' Brina snapped, making her jump. 'I told you not to go so far.' Brina snatched the book back. Cywen held on a moment, then thought better of it and let go.\n\n'What's wrong with looking at that part?' she muttered.\n\n'First of all, because I told you not to,' Brina said acerbically, 'and secondly, I don't say things without good reason. I'm too old to start wasting my breath.' She scowled at Cywen.\n\n' _Too old_ ,' Craf muttered.\n\nBrina's scowl gravitated to Craf.\n\n'Sorry,' Cywen and Craf said together.\n\n'Apology accepted. Just don't do it again.'\n\n'I won't,' Cywen said. _Not when you 're sitting right next to me, anyway._ She was already desperate to have another look.\n\n'Is that Vonn's book?' Farrell asked. 'The one he took from his da?'\n\n'It is,' Brina said curtly.\n\n'Can I have a look at it?' Farrell asked.\n\n'What, with your big sausage-fingers. Absolutely not,' Brina snapped.\n\n'All right,' Farrell muttered. He sounded hurt. Cywen caught him snatching a glance at his hand. He wiggled his fingers.\n\nCywen stood and  stretched. The  camp sprawled about  them, nestled between the fork of two streams. There were no fires, there had been none since they had fought the warband in the north, and with the supplies of brot and the summer nights they didn't really need one. _It would still be nice, though._ Brina had occasionally set a fire and boiled a pot of water. When Corban or Tukul had reminded her that they were in enemy territory and not lighting fires she had told them it was for making poultices and informed them that if they didn't want anyone to know where they were, to kill that damned hawk hovering above them all the time. They went away shame-faced - it wasn't as if they hadn't tried, but even the most skilled archer couldn't shoot that high. Brina had always managed to make her and Cywen a mug of tea whenever she boiled a pot, though. Cywen wasn't complaining. Or telling.\n\nCywen could see Corban skirting the horses' picket line with Meical and Tukul. As she watched  a  handful  of  riders  cantered into the camp, heading for the makeshift paddocks by the stream. Coralen rode at their head, Storm pacing silently beside her. Further out Cywen could just make out the shadowy figures of Jehar and giants circling the camp, over a score on guard duty at all times.\n\nSince Brina had asked Cywen to become her assistant Cywen had stopped feeling so useless - mostly she helped Brina in the tending of ailments, ranging from the severely battle-wounded to mundane injuries incurred during the day-to-day of a small host on the march. Sprained ankles, headaches, stomach upsets, stung by something unpleasant, usually with roots or wings.\n\nCywen liked it. She was kept busy, which was important; spare time usually ended up with her brooding on the death of her mam. And Brina was a good teacher.\n\n_As long as I learn something the first time she tells me. Apparently she doesn 't like repeating herself._\n\nSometimes Brina's abrasiveness just became too much. At times like that Cywen liked to throw her knives at something.\n\n_Today is one of those days._\n\nShe walked a few steps into the undergrowth that surrounded them and was abruptly enveloped by a stand of ash and elm. Brina was still close by, within earshot. She drew one of her knives from the belt across her chest and sighted at a tree. She pulled the blade back to her ear, held her breath and threw. It connected with a satisfying _thunk._ Without thinking she pulled another knife and buried it in the trunk a finger-span from the first.\n\nShe sensed a presence and looked around, saw a tall figure half-hidden behind a bush. She blinked, realizing  it was  a giant. _Not quite big enough for a fully grown giant._ A giantling. She stared, and hesitantly the giantling stepped out from behind the bush and took a step towards her. 'You do that well,' the giantling said, her speech faltering, almost clumsy.\n\n'It's just practice,' Cywen shrugged, then put another knife in the trunk beside the other two. 'I'm Cywen,' she said.\n\n'I know. The Bright Star's sister.'\n\nSomething about that made Cywen scowl internally.\n\n'I am Laith,' the giantling said. She took a few steps closer, reaching inside a leather vest and pulling out a  knife.  Cywen's knife.\n\n'I thought it was you,' Cywen said.\n\n'Aye. Balur told me to return it and to ask your forgiveness.' She stopped beside Cywen, holding the knife out to her. It looked very small in her flat palm.\n\n'Why did you take it?'\n\n'You threw it at me,' Laith said defensively. Then she smiled. 'I like things that have been made - it is a good knife. A bit small -' she shrugged - 'but unusual. The balance is different.'\n\n'My da made it for throwing,' Cywen said. 'The weight is concentrated in the tip.'\n\n'Ahh, made for throwing. That explains it.' She held the knife close to her eyes, examining it with fresh interest. 'I thought that. Your da is a smith?' she asked Cywen.\n\n'Aye.' _Was._ She threw another knife, imagining the trunk was Nathair.\n\n'I am a smith,' Laith said with pride, standing straighter and puffing her chest out. She took up a lot of room. She turned Cywen's knife between thick fingers. 'Your da is good. Is he here?'\n\n'He's dead,' Cywen said and drew and threw another knife.\n\n'Oh.' Laith hung her head. 'My da is dead, too.'\n\nCywen paused and looked at Laith. In the twilight of dusk she looked more like something carved from stone, her limbs long, muscles striated like rope, though not slab-thick like Balur and the other adult Benothi.\n\n'Keep the knife,' Cywen said with a smile. 'Though it looks a little small for you.'\n\n'I cannot. Balur would . . .' She looked wistfully at the blade in her palm.\n\n_She looks like a bairn with a present on her nameday._\n\n'You are a smith - keep it to use as a pattern - make another; bigger. More suited to you.'\n\n'You would have to teach me to throw,' Laith said. 'I cannot do that.' She nodded at the tree trunk, now studded with half a dozen throwing knives.\n\n'I'll teach you. It's not as hard as it looks, especially when the knife is made right.'\n\n'Yes, it is,' Farrell said from behind them.\n\n'That's because you're impatient. And  you've  got  sausage fingers,' Cywen said.\n\n'Oh, and the giant hasn't,' Farrell muttered.\n\n'Look, like this,' Cywen said. She gave Laith a demonstration, breaking down the action. Grip with two fingers and thumb. Arm loose, back to the ear, sight, breathe, throw, snapping the wrist. Laith tried it and threw the knife in her hand. It _tinged_ off of the trunk, spinning into the undergrowth. With a gasp of horror she ran to find it, trampling undergrowth as she searched in circles. The look of relief on her face when she found it was immense.\n\n'You did it wrong,' Cywen said. 'Look. The blade strokes your ear - not too close, don't draw blood.'\n\nLaith stood next to her, set her feet as Cywen had, gripped the knife and pulled it back to her ear.\n\n'No. Like this,' Cywen said. She walked  around the giantling and moved her arm to the correct position, having to  stand  on tiptoes to reach it. Cywen stepped away and saw that Farrell was standing close by.\n\n'I always wondered how you did that,' he said.\n\n'You could have just asked.' To Laith she said, 'Try it now.'\n\nLaith's arm sprang forwards, and before the knife had connected with the trunk Cywen knew she'd thrown well.\n\nLaith grinned and ran to the tree, Cywen and Farrell following.\n\n'Oh,' Laith said.\n\nThe knife had almost disappeared, only a finger's width of the hilt protruding from the trunk.\n\nLaith tried to pull it out, but couldn't get a grip on the hilt. Farrell tried. He did manage to get a hold of it, but it was stuck fast.\n\n'Short of chopping the tree down, you'll not be seeing that blade again,' he declared.\n\nLaith hung her head unhappily.\n\n'Here,' Cywen said, working one of her other blades free. 'Take this one as your pattern. When we find a forge, make some of your own. Until then try not to bury it in something inanimate.'\n\nLaith smiled, her mood turning like a summer storm.\n\n'Though I don't know when we'll ever get to use a forge again.'\n\n'There'll  be  a  forge  at  Dun  Crin.  Or  Drassil,'  Farrell  said. 'Wherever we're going.'\n\n'Balur One-Eye says that we will see the Darkwood on the morrow,' Laith said quietly.\n\n'The Darkwood,' Cywen breathed. She remembered it none too fondly. It was where Ronan had been slain. They had been courting. And he had been slain by Morcant.\n\n'Aye. Time for the Bright Star to choose our way,' Laith said.\n\n'What's going on here?' a voice said. The three of them spun around to see Coralen approaching, wrapped in her wolven pelt and claws as usual. A few of her scouts followed behind her - Dath and two Jehar, both women, one young, one old.\n\nCoralen's band of scouts had grown to thirty or forty the deeper they had moved into Narvon; even some of the villagers that had joined them in the north had become part of Coralen's wolven pack, as they had taken to being called.\n\n'Cywen's giving a lesson in knife-throwing,' Farrell said. 'You're looking fine this evening, by the way,' he added.\n\n'I look like an unwashed wolven,' Coralen snorted, then ignored Farrell, looking between Cywen and the tree trunk as Cywen pulled her knives free.\n\n'That's something I'd like to learn,' Coralen said.\n\n'I'd be happy to show you,' Cywen told her. The two girls had not spoken much since travelling together. Cywen had thought Coralen aloof and disdainful. And in truth she was also a little jealous of her - she was so capable with a blade, could best many in sparring and hold her own with most of the others.\n\n'What would you like in return?' Coralen asked her. 'A trade.'\n\n'Teach me how to use that,' Cywen said, pointing to Coralen's sword.\n\n'All right then,' Coralen said and held her arm out. They gripped and shook forearms.\n\n_I like her a bit more, already._\n\n'Brina, I've a message for you from Corban. He says he would like to speak with you.' Coralen paused.\n\n'Oh did he now,' Brina snapped. 'Wasn't so long ago I was teaching him what end of a broom to use, and now he's _sending for me._ '\n\n'He asked me to say please,' Coralen said, smiling. 'He was very insistent that I didn't forget that bit.'\n\n'Ahh, well then. Maybe I will go and see him. Cywen, come on.'\n\n'Me?'\n\n'Of course. You are my assistant, so come and assist.'\n\nCorban was sitting beside one of the streams with his boots off and his feet in the water. Coralen turned to go but Corban called out to her.\n\n'Stay a while, Coralen, if you would.'\n\nShe hesitated a moment, then muttered, 'I can spare a few moments, I suppose.'\n\n'You'll kill the poor fish doing that,' Brina said to Corban as she sat beside him, pointing at his bare feet in the stream. Craf appeared beside Brina and hopped up onto her leg.\n\n'Ahh, Brina, I've missed you.'\n\n'Missed me? I've been no more than a hundred paces away from you for the last two years.'\n\n'You know what I mean,' he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her tightly. He kissed her on the cheek. Cywen thought she saw the edges of Brina's mouth twitch.\n\n_I 'd be too scared to do that to her._ Dark shapes appeared on the far side of the stream, Storm taking form first, her bone-coloured fur seeming to glow in the last rays of dusk. Buddai ran beside her, a brindle shadow. Cywen was shocked at how much bigger than him Storm had grown. Buddai was tall, his back as high as Cywen's waist, but Storm was a head taller than that, and broader and longer besides. They tumbled in meadow grass together, nipping at each other's fur.\n\n'You wouldn't think we were knee-deep in a God-War, looking at them,' Corban said.\n\n'Ignorance is bliss,' Brina agreed.\n\nCoralen snorted.\n\nStorm leaped the stream in a single bound, circling then pushing in tight against Corban. She folded her legs beneath her and laid her big head across his lap. He grunted with her weight but didn't push her off, instead tugging absently at one of her fangs. It was about as long as one of Cywen's knives. Buddai followed, not quite clearing the  stream  and  splashing  them  in  ice-cold  water.  He  curled  up against Cywen.\n\n'Dun Cadlas, the capital of Narvon, is only a half-day's  ride ahead. Balur One-Eye tells me the border of Narvon and Ardan is close, Uthandun and the giantsway only two days' ride from Dun Cadlas,' Corban said. 'Coralen saw the fringes of a great  forest during her scouting. It can only be the Darkwood.' He turned and reached a hand out to Cywen, squeezing her hand.\n\n_He remembers Ronan, too. They were friends._\n\n'In many ways it feels like the place this all started. When Rhin sprung her trap, ambushing Queen Alona, kidnapping you and Edana. Uthan being murdered, Brenin blamed for it.'\n\n' _And Craf found you, lost in the trees_ ,' Craf muttered.\n\n'That you did, Craf. You saved us,' Corban agreed.\n\n' _Yes, Craf did. Clever Craf_.'\n\nCorban stared at Craf a while. 'I miss Fech,' he said.\n\n' _Craf miss Fech too_.'\n\n'That bird,' Corban said. 'It was Kartala, Ventos' hawk.'\n\n_Of course,_ Cywen thought.\n\n'You're right,' she said. 'It brought a message to Calidus about you.'\n\n'It's been following us, ever since Fech,' Corban said. 'We need to do something about that. Calidus and Nathair cannot know our every move.'\n\n'Unless you can fly I don't know what you're going to do about it,' Brina said.\n\n'How's your needlework?' he asked her.\n\n'I stitch my clothes,' Brina shrugged. 'How's yours?'\n\n'The same. Mam and Da taught us both to sew - Mam our clothes, Da leather - boots and the like.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'I'll talk to you about it after. First, though . . . It's time for me to choose which way we're going to go. Dun Crin or Drassil.'\n\n'Well, what's it to be?' Brina asked him.\n\n'That's what I was hoping to ask you,' Corban said.\n\n'Oh no you don't,' Brina said. 'Usually I'd be more than happy to tell you what to do - it's often safer that way. And of course I don't mind advising you until all our skin wrinkles and turns to dust. But it's your decision that counts here.'\n\n'I know,' Corban said flatly. 'I'm still struggling with why.'\n\n'Me too,' Brina and Cywen said together.\n\n'I've thought a long time over why I have been chosen for this,' he waved his hand vaguely towards the warband. 'Why me - a blacksmith's son, no particular ability or influence in our world.' He shook his head.\n\n'I'm still confused about that,' Brina said. 'But Meical is convinced, and he is one of the Ben-Elim. You should probably listen to him.'\n\n'I know. And I do. I've asked him _why me_ , but that is the only thing he doesn't want to tell me. He usually likes telling me what to do - he reminds me of you like that.'\n\n'I've always liked him,' Brina said.\n\n'I wish it wasn't me. Not that I don't want to  fight.  Back  in Murias I saw evil enter our world, and there's no running from it. We tried that, eh?'\n\n'We did,' Brina sighed.\n\n'No, I understand that, and I will fight Calidus and Nathair until my last breath. But what I don't want to do is lead. So many consequences from every decision. So many lives at stake. I wish it wasn't me.'\n\nCywen felt a wave of guilt. _Poor Ban. And most of the time I 've been sulking that he isn't spending every moment with me._\n\nBrina nodded. 'But it is you. There are times when we cannot understand something, don't know the reason for a thing and have to leave it at that - I know that that goes against every fibre in your very being . . .'\n\nCywen and Coralen both snorted laughter at that.\n\n'But on these occasions we just have to accept that they just _are._ '\n\n'That's the conclusion I've reached,' Corban said glumly. 'When Gar started saying similar things to me, when we were fleeing Ardan, I just thought him mad. But I can't really argue against it now. Things have happened.'\n\n'You mean apart from seeing Kadoshim boil out of a cauldron?' Brina said.\n\n'Aye. Other things.'\n\n'What things?' Cywen asked.\n\nHe took a deep sigh. 'When I was held captive by Rhin - in Dun Vaner - something happened. She did something. Witchcraft. I woke up with her . . . somewhere else. It was the Otherworld. She brought me before the throne of Asroth.' He paused here, staring at the stream a long time. Eventually he shivered and carried on. 'He told me he'd been hunting for me. And that he was going to cut my heart out.'\n\n_And I thought my time with Nathair was hard. What kind of a world are we living in?_\n\n'If it was true, not a dream, or a hallucination, I mean, how did you escape from him?' Cywen asked.\n\n'Meical and a host of the Ben-Elim smashed their way in and saved me. I saw Meical as he truly is. He's got wings.'\n\n'Strange and terrifying times we live in,' Brina said. She reached out and squeezed Corban's hand. He smiled at her.\n\n'Yes, they are,' Corban agreed.\n\n'But you still have a decision to make,' Brina said.\n\n'I know, but I was hoping for some advice. There are times when I feel I am going mad with it all.' He rubbed his temples. 'So. Advise me. Please.'\n\n'That I'll happily do,' Brina said. 'The way I see it, there are good reasons to go to both places. Ardan because, we hope, Edana is there, with warriors about her. Combine them with this warband that is gathered behind you, we could make a considerable force. And Rhin must be stretched thin, ruling four realms so suddenly. It could be a good opportunity to take Ardan back.'\n\nShe paused, running a bony finger through Craf's feathers. 'And Ardan is our home - it would be nice to be back there. Familiar and comforting.'\n\n'Aye, it would,' Corban murmured.\n\n'And it's closer. Much closer than Drassil.'\n\n'Aye, it is.'\n\n'As for going to Drassil. Meical says you should go there. He is Ben-Elim, he should be listened to. Also, this prophecy says  you should go. I am usually suspicious of fate and divine control, but in this case, you should listen. And one of the Seven Treasures is there. We will need them all if victory against Asroth is to become vaguely possible, so we should go and get it.'\n\n_That 's a better assessment than I could have made. When Brina says it like that, it seems that we should go to Drassil._\n\n'So there you have it, Corban, the fors and againsts of both choices. The question is, which one will you choose?'\n\n'My head tells me to choose Drassil,' Corban said. 'For all of the reasons that you state. Mostly because Meical tells me to, and, as you say, he is Ben-Elim, so he should know. But my heart whispers to me of my oath to Edana. I can't get her out of my mind.'\n\nThere was a loud crack. Coralen was sitting with two halves of a stick in her hands. She was glaring at it. They all stared at her. After a few heartbeats she must have felt their eyes, for she looked at them. With a snort of disgust she threw the two halves of the stick into the stream, then rose and stalked away.\n\n'What's wrong with her?' Corban asked.\n\nBrina laughed.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele stood in Lamar's chambers situated at the very top of the high tower of Ripa, gazing out of the window onto the landscape beyond - limestone cliffs, the horseshoe of the bay and the wide sea beyond. Black sails studded the waters, settled about the bay like a murder of crows.\n\n_The Vin Thalun. Will we ever be rid of them?_\n\nOver a moon now she had been here, surrounded by the enemy. Lykos was out there somewhere, she knew that. Once, not so long ago, that thought would have filled her with rage, and with fear. Now, though, something else consumed her thoughts.\n\n_Someone._ Maquin.\n\n_I feel . . . happy._ A ten-night had passed since Maquin had awoken, since she'd found him awake and kissed him.\n\n_He did tell me that he 'd returned from death for me._ Truth be told, though, he hadn't needed to say anything. When she'd seen him collapse in the feast-hall she thought she'd lost him - and something in her had died. The feelings of relief when he had awoken had overwhelmed her like some dark, powerful wave. _It 's ridiculous._ And yet, she felt happy, for the first time since . . .\n\n_Since before Aquilus died. I should feel guilty about that. My dead husband. And yet a lifetime has passed since then._\n\n'My lady?' a voice said behind her.\n\nShe turned. Peritus was standing beside their council table, maps strewn across it, platters of food and jugs of wine.\n\n'Yes?' she said.\n\n'We have much to speak on; are you ready to begin?' Peritus said.\n\n'Of course.' She turned and sat at the table. Lamar was there, flanked by his sons Krelis and Ektor, as well as Peritus, once battlechief of Tenebral, until Nathair had replaced him with Veradis.\n\n'The messenger told me you had news?' Fidele said.\n\n'That is true,' Lamar said. He looked older than the last time she had seen him, his skin sagging like melted wax upon the frame of his skull. His eyes were sharp, though. And hard.\n\n'Marcellin marches,' Peritus said. 'He has gathered his warband, and the eagle-guard that had been sent on fool's errands when . . .' He paused, looking into his cup. 'Sent to the kingdom's borders by Lykos.'\n\nFidele took a deep breath at that. When Lykos had controlled her through his witchcraft he had governed Tenebral through her. She had signed letters, orders written by him that sent the most loyal of her eagle-guard to the fringes of the realm, on the pretext of giant raids or supposed sightings of lawless men. All untrue, part of Lykos' scheming to ensure that the balance of power in Jerolin remained in favour of the Vin Thalun. She knew that she had had no control of the  matter,  but  that  didn't  stop  her  feeling  shame for it.\n\n'That is good news,' she said.\n\n'Your letter to him must have convinced him, my lady,' Peritus said.\n\nMarcellin, Baron of Ultas, had barred his gates to Lykos and the Vin Thalun, but equally he had seemed unmoved to take any action in defence of Tenebral. He lived to the north-east of the realm, on the edge of the Agullas Mountains, a long way from Jerolin and the events and politics of Tenebral.\n\n'I am glad to have contributed something of use,' Fidele said. 'How many men march with him? And how long before Marcellin reaches us?'\n\n'We don't know the numbers for sure. Marcellin can raise a warband at least two thousand strong, and if he has gathered all those who were sent on postings from Jerolin -' Peritus shrugged - 'three and a half thousand swords at least, most likely more. As for time, it will take them a moon at least to reach us.'\n\n'Another moon for us to hold out here.'\n\n'We can do that,' Lamar said. 'We have the supplies.' He looked to Ektor for confirmation, his son nodding.\n\n'Part of me says we should march out and show these Vin Thalun what the men of Ripa can do,' Krelis growled. 'We don't need Marcellin to come and save us.'\n\n'We must wait,' Peritus said to Krelis. 'You have eight hundred swords under your command here. The Vin Thalun ranks have swelled, more ships arriving. They must have at least two thousand men out there. With Marcellin's reinforcements we will crush them, give them the lesson they deserve. Unless, of course, our King Nathair returns to us unbidden.' He turned his eyes to Fidele.\n\n_Nathair. Once, not so long ago I yearned for his return, thought that he would set me free of Lykos ' spell, give me justice. Now I am not so sure . . ._ Her gaze flitted to Ektor, who was watching her. Ever since he had told her of the prophecy, read to her from the giant scrolls in his chambers, a gnawing seed of doubt had taken root in her belly. _What if Calidus is not Ben-Elim? What if he is Kadoshim?_ If that were true, then Nathair was in great danger. _And the things Lykos had said, insinuated about Nathair. That he had troubles of his own._ She did not hold out for Nathair's return any time soon, and part of her did not want him to come back, for fear that her foreboding might turn out to be more than just the paranoid fears of a mother long parted from her child.\n\n'I fear that Nathair's quest will keep him from our shores for a good few moons yet,' Fidele said. 'You must be patient, Krelis.'\n\nKrelis lifted a cup and drained it. 'Patience,' he growled as he slammed the cup down. He sighed. 'I know, you're right. I've had enough of sitting on my arse, though. It wasn't so bad when Lykos kept sending sorties against the walls. Kept me busy . . .'\n\n'Perhaps there is something we can do,' Peritus said. 'I spoke to your scouts earlier.'\n\n'The ones returned from Sarva?'\n\n'Aye. They said they saw Vin Thalun in the old ruins of Balara.'\n\n'Perhaps they are setting up a base of command there,' Krelis offered.\n\n'That would make sense,' Fidele said. 'That is where we discovered the fighting-pits, is it not?'\n\n'Aye, my lady,' Krelis and Peritus said together.\n\nFidele could remember it still - the stench of death, the haunted looks in the eyes of the pit-fighters they had saved. _What they must have been through._ Her thoughts returned to Maquin. _How has he survived such a thing?_ She knew, though. _You just do. You dig deep into your soul. Endure. But not without cost._\n\n'You said we could do something?' Krelis said to Peritus.\n\n'I think it is time that we took the initiative, instead of sitting in here, drinking wine all day long.' He looked pointedly at Krelis.\n\n'Sounds good to me,' Krelis said, sitting up straighter. 'What exactly are you suggesting?'\n\n'Night raids. Nothing big - plans easily go awry in the dark. Kill some Vin Thalun on the night watch, break some axles in their baggage trains, maybe burn a ship. And perhaps we should take a closer look at Balara, see what mischief we can perform there.'\n\n'Is this wise?' Ektor asked. 'As you said, plans in the dark easily come undone. We cannot afford to lose more warriors. And  who would lead these raids?' He raised an eyebrow, looking at Krelis.\n\nKrelis raised his cup and grinned.\n\n'That is a bad idea,' Ektor said. 'As much as I know that you are just the brawn in Ripa, your death would devastate our warriors. You cannot  go.'\n\n'Ahh, brother, I didn't know you cared.'\n\n'I don't, really. But I care about Ripa falling, and you are the cornerstone that our warband's morale rests upon. Cut you out and it would come toppling down.'\n\n'I'm going,' Krelis said.\n\n'That would be foolish - the rewards do not outweigh the risks.'\n\n'Ektor's correct, Krelis. You cannot go,' Lamar said.\n\nKrelis' mouth twisted but he held any retort in.\n\n'Help us  plan the  raids,' Fidele  said. 'Whatever Ektor  says, I know that you have a gift for strategy.'\n\n'Aye, and you have a gift for diplomacy, my lady.' Krelis smiled at her.\n\nFidele passed through torchlit corridors, her footsteps taking her to Maquin's door. She paused outside, a flutter of excitement in her belly, then opened the door.\n\nMaquin was standing gazing out of the open window, his back to her. A ten-night of recovery had put a little meat back on his bones, his frame not quite as gaunt and skeletal as it had been. He wore a plain linen tunic, belted with rope at the waist.\n\nShe walked up behind him and he turned, a smile softening the sharp lines of his face. They embraced silently, melting into each other. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and they parted. The footsteps passed by.\n\n_I feel like a guilty maiden._ Maquin smiled ruefully at her, a twist of his lips.\n\n'There is not much to see out there,' Fidele said, looking out into the night. Far below lights flickered on the bay, pinpricks marking the Vin Thalun ships. She knew what he'd been watching.\n\n_He pulled an oar on a galley like those down there. Perhaps even one of them._\n\nThey had talked much during the ten-night since he'd woken. He'd told her of his youth in Isiltir, of his kin and friends, of Kastell, the Gadrai, of Jael and Lykos and everything in between. He had wept when he spoke of Kastell and she had held him, felt his sobs rack his body. And she had spoken of her life, growing up in Jerolin, of Aquilus, how he had lived and died, a man of principle. Of the council, the proposed alliance. She had spoken of Nathair, of her hopes and fears for her son, and of Lykos. How he had controlled her, eventually marrying her, on the day that Maquin had fought Orgull, the crowning celebration.\n\n'How did the council go?' he asked her.\n\n'Well enough.' She told him of the news that Marcellin was marching to their aid, and of the plan to begin raids against the Vin Thalun. He seemed more interested in that.\n\n'When?' he asked her.\n\n'Soon,' she shrugged. 'A few days, maybe a ten-night. Peritus suggested that a number of raids be carried out on the same night - three, four groups with different targets. He said if they did one at a time that the Vin Thalun would be alerted after the first raid, and their security would tighten.'\n\n'Makes sense,' Maquin muttered. He stretched as he spoke, rolled his neck and shoulders. 'It is time for me to start doing - some sparring, maybe. My body is aching more from lying in this room doing nothing than it did from running through the forests of Tenebral with you.' He smiled at her, both of them remembering.\n\nIt had been often terrifying, always hard, physically and mentally, but now Fidele could not help but look back at their journey from Jerolin to Ripa with a sense of . . . nostalgia.  It  had  been simple, then, just the two of them. She was happy now, more so than she could remember, but something was growing in her, a sense of foreboding.\n\nThere was a tap at the door, a pause, then the door opened.\n\nAlben stepped in, the old warrior looking tired, but graceful as always. He dipped his head at them both.\n\n'And how is my miracle patient?' he asked, moving to check Maquin as he always did - his temperature and pulse, then the wound in his belly, just a slight bump and the silver knotting of a scar upon the skin now.\n\n'Restless,' Maquin said.\n\n'I am not surprised,' Alben said. 'Men such as us, a lifetime of routine and training, it does not just go away. And it is a good sign, your mind and body telling you that they are ready. We best get you into the weapons court.'\n\n'Will you spar with me?' Maquin asked him.\n\n'You will have to go easy on me.'\n\n'Ha, I think it will be the other way round,' laughed Maquin.\n\nAlben smiled at him. 'In the morning, then.'\n\nHe walked back to the door, hesitated before he opened it.\n\n'You should know, people are talking of you both,' he said.\n\nFidele felt her breath catch in her chest.\n\nAlben turned and looked at them. His expression was sadness mingled with concern.\n\n'Go on,' Maquin said.\n\n'War does things to people. Our mortality becomes clear. Will we die today, or on the morrow? These questions become foremost in the mind.'\n\n'I have lived in that state for more years than I can remember,' Maquin growled. 'This is no passing fancy.'\n\nAlben shrugged. 'I am not your judge. But you should know, talk is spreading, of the Queen and the pit-fighter. You have scarcely left this room, Fidele.'\n\n'I am not a queen,' Fidele breathed.\n\n'You are to them,' Alben said, gesturing vaguely about him. 'The people of Ripa, the survivors, they see you as their queen, at least in Nathair's  absence.'\n\nFidele drew in a deep breath, standing taller. 'I have lived in misery, thought that my life was ended - a living hell. And yet, here I am.' She felt her hand searching for Maquin, just wanted to touch him. 'I will not deny myself this. It came to me unsought, but I cannot deny it.'\n\n'You do not have to explain or defend yourself to me, my lady. I am both warrior and healer; I exist in a place where life and death cohabit; where they are bedfellows, only a breath apart. Life should be lived, and what is life without heart and passion?' He shrugged. 'I thought you should be aware, that is all.'\n\n'Thank you,' Maquin said.\n\nThe swordsmaster left the room. Maquin just stared at Fidele.\n\n'I'll not give you up,' she said fiercely.\n\n'I returned from death to life for you. Rumours aren't going to scare me,' Maquin grinned.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban hoisted his saddle onto Shield's back and buckled the girth. Shield looked round at him and nudged him as he went through his routine.\n\nWhen he had finished he put his arm under the stallion's neck and laid his head against Shield's shoulder. He stayed like that a while, listening to the rhythm of Shield's heart, the steady flow of air expelled from nostrils. Eventually he stepped back, began picking a knot from Shield's mane.\n\n'Big day today,' he said, 'and I'd rather be here seeing to you than over there.'\n\nHe glanced towards a group that had gathered at the head of the warband, waiting for him. Meical was at their head.\n\nShield regarded him with his dark liquid eyes and whickered. He stamped a hoof.\n\n'I know - truth and courage,' Corban whispered as he swung into his saddle and trotted towards Meical.\n\nThe sun was rising, a finger's width over the rim of the world, the sky clear of cloud. There had been no sword dance or sparring this morning. Meical had suggested that at this point speed was more valuable than training, and Corban was inclined to agree.\n\n_I want to be out of Narvon._\n\nHe saw a dark speck circling high above them and  frowned. _Kartala - we need to do something about that bird._ He glanced at his fingers, the tips sore and throbbing from all the stitching he had done last night.\n\nHe pulled up before Meical, Tukul and Balur One-Eye, the rest of the warband gathered behind them. All were ready to travel, watching him.\n\n'Balur, will you lead us to Ardan?' Corban said. He waited as the meaning of his words settled upon them. Meical sat tall and straight in his saddle. He gave nothing away except for a tightening around his lips, perhaps a rigidity in his shoulders. They locked gazes for what felt like a hundred heartbeats.\n\nMeical nodded, a sharp, controlled movement, and Corban let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.\n\n'To Ardan,' Balur said, striding off on his trunk-like legs. Like a creature rousing from sleep the warband followed him.\n\n'Dun Cadlas lies to the east,' Balur said to Corban as they travelled through a green-sloped valley. 'It was Owain's fortress, his seat of power. Rhin will likely have a strong garrison there.'\n\n'I thought the same,' Corban said. _So we need to avoid them._ Coralen had already gone ahead with a score of scouts, Dath amongst them. Corban had asked her to search for a specific location for their evening campsite. She had scowled at him as she'd ridden away.\n\n_Did she want to go to Drassil?_\n\n'We will loop wide around the fortress, then rejoin the old road - it is the fastest route to the border,' Balur continued. He didn't usually offer information, speaking only when Corban asked questions of him.\n\nHooves drummed and Meical rode up beside them. He nodded at Corban but didn't say a word.\n\n_Thank Elyon for that._\n\nThe leagues passed quickly  and soon after highsun Balur led them back to the giants' road that they had followed virtually all the way from Murias.\n\n'Dun Cadlas is ten leagues behind us, the bridge into the Darkwood forty leagues ahead,' Balur said. The road was in better repair now, and there were more travelling upon it. Ahead of them Corban saw shapes fleeing down the embankments and heading for cover as they thundered down the road. No one stayed on the road to challenge them. Frequently Corban looked up at the sky. Every time he found the winged shadow trailing them. He swore under his breath.\n\nAmazingly they encountered no opposition throughout the entire day. As the sun began to merge with the horizon they crested a ridge and Corban saw to the south an ocean of green boughs spreading across the landscape.\n\n_The Darkwood._ It was still some distance away, most of a day's ride, the land between dotted with woodland and undulating meadow. To the west Corban saw hills rolling into mountain peaks. _We will not make it today._\n\nA black dot appeared on the road ahead, quickly growing larger. Soon individual riders were visible - three of them, and a wolven loping beside them.\n\n_Coralen._\n\nShe'd found a place for camp that suited Corban's request and led them to it, a patch of woodland upon the slopes of a gentle hill, a stream curling along its base. The sun painted the sky pink as they saw to their mounts and secured the area.\n\nWhile all were at their tasks Corban went to see Craf.\n\n'Now, Craf,' Corban said, and with a flapping of wings Craf took to the air. It wasn't elegant, the first time that Craf had become airborne since the death of Fech, but it was flying.\n\n' _Craf won 't fly_,' the crow had said when Corban  had  sat  and begun talking to him.\n\nHigher Craf spiralled now, at the edge of the trees, level with the first boughs, then higher, cresting them and bursting into  open skies. He circled there a moment. Corban was sure that the bird was looking back down at them, at him.\n\n_Don 't ask him to do this_, Brina had said. _It 's not fair. He's old, he's been through enough._\n\n_'_ He's going to come back down,' Corban said to no one in particular.\n\nCraf didn't. He winged higher, angled his course to the north.\n\n_I don 't want to ask him_, Corban had said. _But I see no other choice._\n\nCorban put a hand above his eyes and peered into the sky, tracking Craf as he shrank to a black dot.\n\n_We are in a foreign land, enemies all about us. Coralen and our scouts have saved our hides a hundred times, but we need eyes in the sky._\n\nCraf passed out of sight and Corban slipped into the treeline, looked back to check that no one was left out in the open. Only Brina  was  still  standing  on  the  grassy  slope,  her  face  pale  and anxious.\n\n'Brina, come on,' Corban called, holding his hand out to her. She gave him a foul look but hurried under the cover of the trees, refusing to take his hand.\n\nCorban looked, saw Balur standing by a tree trunk to one side, another giant to Corban's left. The trees either side of him formed a kind of gateway into the woods. He looked behind, up at the tallest tree, saw Dath's boots dangling down from the highest branches. Dath had the best eyes in the whole warband.\n\n'Anything?' Corban called up to him.\n\n'Nothing,' Dath called back down.\n\nCorban swallowed.\n\n' _Craf won 't do it_,' the crow had said. ' _Craf scared. Too dangerous. Might die._ '\n\n'I know it is dangerous,' Corban had said to Craf, 'but it is necessary. Please help us, Craf. Be brave and do it for us. And you will get first pickings of everything that Storm catches.'\n\n' _Everything?_ ' Craf had asked.\n\n'Aye, everything.'\n\n' _First pickings, not last?_ '\n\n'Aye. You have my word.'\n\nCraf had bobbed his head, thinking.\n\n' _First pickings no good if Craf dead_ ,' the bird had eventually croaked.\n\n'You won't die, Craf.'\n\n' _Corban can 't say that. False promise._'\n\n'I don't think you'll die,' Corban had corrected.\n\n'Anything?' Corban called up to Dath again now.\n\n'N-- . . . wait, I think I see something. Yes. He's coming.'\n\n'Just Craf?'\n\n'No. The other one's after him.'\n\nCorban's heart rose into his throat. Brina edged closer to him. Corban wasn't sure if it was for comfort or so that she would be nearer to kill him if Craf got hurt. Heartbeats passed.\n\n'Nearly here,' Dath called down. 'The other one's almost on top of him.' The creaking of branches signalled that Dath had started to climb down.\n\nIt was just as before, Craf setting off on a scouting mission, the hawk spotting him and swooping down from above, Craf dashing for the safety of the warband.\n\n_Please. Elyon, don 't let it end like last time._\n\nCraf burst over the edge of the canopy, cutting tight to the trees and looping steeply down the slope. The hawk appeared, just moments behind, talons outstretched, wings tucked tight in a steep dive. Somehow Craf turned, a sharp bank in the air that brought his path around to face towards Corban beneath the trees. Wings flapping furiously, he powered towards Corban. The hawk turned too, with greater control and agility, hardly breaking pace.\n\n_Come on, Craf._ Corban willed himself not to move, prayed that no one else would. Craf was close to the first branches now, with a rush of beating wings passed under the first boughs, the hawk half a dozen heartbeats behind. Craf hurtled over Corban's head.\n\n'Now!' Corban yelled.\n\nBalur and the other giant tugged on the ropes they were holding, each one looped over a branch of the tree they were standing beneath. The same rope had lain slack upon the ground beneath the two trees. Now it shot into the air, pulling up beneath it half a hundred cloaks that Corban, Brina and Cywen had stitched together the previous night. This wall of cloaks appeared in the air so fast and sudden that it appeared to be magic, a sorcerous barrier between Craf and the hawk.\n\nWith a thud the hawk crashed into the cloaks, almost tore through them, its speed so great. The giants let go of their ropes and the huge tapestry of fabric tumbled to the ground, dragging the hawk with it. There was a powerful flapping of wings as the hawk tried to right itself. It spun in the air, wings beating furiously, scraped the ground and rolled. For a moment it stood upon the ground, then its wings unfolded, beat once and it lifted off.\n\nAn arrow slammed into a wing, spinning it, sending it crashing back to the ground. Corban glanced back, saw Dath reaching for another arrow. Coralen stood beside him, her own bow bent. Her arrow pierced the hawk's body, and another from Dath impaled the bird to the ground. It screeched, shuddering.\n\nThere was the sound of beating wings again. Craf glided down onto  the  dying  hawk,  pinning  it  with  his  talons.  Even  now  the hawk's beak lashed out, trying to strike Craf, but there was no power and Craf brushed off the blow. He raised his head and struck down with his own beak, straight into the hawk's head. Again and again. When he stopped the hawk lay still.\n\n' _For Fech_ ,' Craf squawked, looking up, his beak dripping red.\n\n'For Fech,' Corban echoed.\n\nCheers rang out behind him.\n\nCorban walked into the trees, Storm at his side. Dimly he was aware of Jehar standing guard, a shadow too straight here, a movement there. He sat with his back to a tree, Storm curling at his feet. It had been good, taking Kartala out of the skies, and the relief that Craf had not been hurt was a physical thing. The whole warband had celebrated a little, as much as was possible whilst in the heartland of their enemy, anyway, and broken out the last few barrels of mead left from the battle in the north. Now, though, Corban had a headache and he just wanted to be alone for a while, away from the questions.\n\nFootsteps sounded, soft on the woodland litter. It was Meical. He sat beside Corban.\n\n'To Ardan and Edana, then,' Meical said to him.\n\n_I thought I 'd got away too lightly with it._\n\n'Aye.' Corban sucked in a deep breath. 'I mean you no insult, Meical. You have saved my life, snatched me from the throne room of Asroth, followed me through the wilds of the north, advised me, fought beside me. I could not have saved Cywen if not for you. I am more grateful to you than words can express. And you are Ben-Elim. But . . .'\n\n'Yes. I know, your heart tells you to keep your oath.' He sighed, but some of the tension that Corban had seen in him that morning was no longer there.\n\n'Yes,' Corban said simply.\n\nMeical had two cups in his hand and offered one to Corban.\n\nHe took it and sipped some mead.\n\n'At first, I was angry with you,' Meical said. 'But I have thought about it all this long day, and now I am merely annoyed, and anxious.'\n\nCorban said nothing, just waited, a trick he'd learned  from Brina.\n\n'We have had a few disagreements since Murias, you and  I,' Meical continued. 'Elyon cut us from different fabric, I think - mankind and the Ben-Elim, I mean. Duty drives me, my duty to Elyon in his absence, unclouded by passion or emotion, whereas in you and your kind I see emotion lurking beneath each and every decision. Fuelling every decision.' He rubbed his eyes. 'Whether that is good or bad, I know not, but that is the way Elyon made you, and so I must accept it. Sometimes that is not easy for me to do.' He glanced at Corban, the flicker of a smile touching his lips.\n\n_This is the most human he has sounded since I met him._\n\n'Thank you, for not disagreeing with me in front of them all,' Corban said.\n\n'What point me declaring that I will follow you if I won't? Or only when you do as I want you to do? Perhaps I have lessons to learn.' He shrugged. 'I will follow you to Ardan, Corban. I wish we were going to Drassil, feel that our hope is best served by going there. But, I am not Elyon. I do not know all things.' He shrugged and drank from his cup.\n\n'Do you think we will win?' Corban asked, voicing the thought that dominated most of his waking life.\n\n'Win? I don't know. I have laboured for more of your years than I can remember in preparation for these days, and many of my plans have come to nothing, or been thwarted by Asroth and Calidus, his servant. I thought I had sought out the best of men to fight Asroth and his Black Sun, from kings to ordinary men. But so many of them are now dead - Aquilus of Tenebral, Braster of Helveth, your own King Brenin. Many others.'\n\n'Brenin knew you?'\n\n'Oh aye, he was one of the first to swear his oath to me. A good man, and he was one of the few that knew about you. Another one murdered by Asroth and Calidus' schemes.'\n\n_All that time, as I grew up in his household, and this God-War was already happening._\n\n'I dreamed of you, last night,' Corban said.\n\n'Of me,' Meical said.\n\n'Aye. In the Otherworld.'\n\n'You know that the Otherworld is no dream,' Meical said, looking concerned now.\n\nCorban nodded.\n\n'And what happened, in your dream?'\n\n'I was in a valley. It was beautiful, not like the Otherworld I remember; this had vast cliffs and waterfalls. You were there. I saw you, flying. You landed upon a high ridge, greeted your kin, and entered a cave.'\n\nMeical frowned. 'This happened. I returned to the Otherworld last night. It is dangerous, even for me, but I longed for a moment of home, to speak to my kin.'\n\n_I can understand that._\n\n'I wanted to follow you, but I was afraid, so I just, wandered . . .' Corban tried to remember, but it was all blurred images now.\n\nMeical grabbed his arm, the grip like iron. 'You must not do it again, do you understand? Asroth is looking for you there. If he finds you . . .' Meical shook his head.\n\n'I don't know how to make it stop.'\n\n'Then promise me if you find yourself there again, that you will hide, do not move. Asroth's Kadoshim fly high, like the hawk you caught today. They will see you before you see them. And they are not the only dangers in the Otherworld. There are creatures, rogue spirits that would do you harm if they found you.'\n\n'Rogue spirits?'\n\n'Aye. Kin that went their own way, would not side with Ben-Elim or Kadoshim. They took on new forms, a reflection of their spirits. Some have become . . . savage.' He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them he gripped Corban's wrist. 'Promise me that you will hide.'\n\n'I promise,' Corban said.\n\n'Good,' Meical muttered, calming a little.\n\n'How is it that you and Calidus are here? Made flesh?'\n\nMeical looked into his cup, swirled it around. 'It is part of the prophecy;  one  Ben-Elim,  one  Kadoshim.  Part  of  Elyon's  fairness, I suppose. Though Calidus hasn't entirely embraced that aspect.' He barked a laugh, then sipped some more mead.\n\nThey sat in silence a while, then Meical sat straighter. 'So what I wanted to say to you is this: I have made mistakes, thinking they were the right thing to do, and been outwitted by my counterpart, more  than  once.  So,  perhaps  doing  something  that  I  consider  a mistake will turn out right.' He smiled at Corban and drank some more mead.\n\n'I'll drink to that,' Corban said and raised his cup.\n\nThey set out the next morning with the rising sun, though thick cloud made dawn a grey, shadow-filled place. There was an air of anticipation about them all.\n\n_We will reach the Darkwood today, if no one bars our way. And then Ardan._\n\nThey knew Uthandun was the test, the fortress built by Uthan, Owain's son, overlooking the stone bridge that crossed the river Afren, serving as the gateway to the Darkwood and Ardan beyond.\n\n_If word has travelled ahead of us, then Uthandun is where the resistance will be gathered. I pray that we have moved fast enough to outpace all news of us._\n\nHighsun came and went, with only a short break to rest and water horses. The road was becoming busier, traders with loaded wains, trappers with piles of skins, sometimes a family travelling to the market at Uthandun. All moved off of the road and sought to hide as the warband thundered past.\n\nThe sun sank lower.\n\nThey passed into a region of low-lying hills, to the south-east they occasionally glimpsed the Darkwood, bringing back a multitude of memories to Corban. Walking into a glade full of the dead, feeling a gut-wrenching fear for Cywen, discovering  that  she'd been captured along with Queen Alona and Edana, and finally the exhausting hunt through the night, deep into the heart of the Darkwood as Storm led them unerringly on the trail of the kidnappers.\n\nTukul's voice drew Corban's attention back to the world about him. A rider was galloping towards them. It was the Jehar Enkara.\n\n'Warriors of Rhin ahead,' she said as she reached them. 'About a score - we let them through. They'll run when they see you, and Coralen will pick them off.'\n\nCorban nodded, felt a spike of worry for Coralen and the others.\n\n_Nothing to be done about it._\n\nFigures appeared on the road ahead. Warriors, by the glint of metal and the way they rode. No sooner had they become visible than they were turning and galloping back down the giants' road.\n\nCorban saw them stop, saw figures topple from horses - _Dath and his bow -_ Jehar appearing from woodland on either side of the road as Storm surged into view, leaping upon a rider and dragging him and his mount crashing to the ground.\n\nCorban kicked Shield on, breaking from a canter to a gallop, the warband increasing their speed with him. Even so it was all over when they reached them. Storm greeted him, running up and circling about Shield. Her jaws were sticky with blood. Dead men and horses littered the road.\n\n'Two got away,' Coralen said when she saw him. 'I'm sorry.'\n\n'How far are we from Uthandun?' Corban asked.\n\n'A few leagues,' Coralen said.\n\n'Then we're too close now for it to matter.'\n\nThey rode on.\n\nSoon after, they crested a low hill and suddenly the Darkwood lay spread before them, Uthandun a few leagues away, sitting upon a gentle hill before the forest. Corban reined Shield in, just sat in his saddle and starred.\n\nThe meadows surrounding the fortress were filled with tents. Hundreds of them, men moving about like industrious ants. But that wasn't the worst of it. Corban's eyes were drawn to the river Afren, glistening between the meadow and the forest. It was full of ships with black sails.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n\n#### VERADIS\n\nVeradis stared out of a window high in Uthandun's keep. It was sunset, the day's last rays washing the land in golden hues. And in the distance, far along the curving line that was the giantsway, Veradis saw a dark smudge appear upon it. The smudge glittered with sunshine on iron, like a dirty jewel.\n\n'How far away are they?' Veradis asked Rhin, who was standing at his shoulder.\n\n'Three or four leagues.' She looked sideways at him. 'Too far away for a battle this night.'\n\n'And you are sure it is the Black Sun?'\n\n'Aye. Did Calidus not say so in his messages. That Meical and his puppet, this Corban, would be arriving at the gates of Uthandun within the next day or so.'\n\n'Aye, so you have told me, although I have not seen these messages,' Veradis said, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice and not entirely sure that he had succeeded.\n\n'Do you doubt me?'\n\n_Not now I don 't._\n\n'No, my lady. Of course not.' He paused, straining his eyes to see the gathering warband in the fading light. 'How many did Calidus say?'\n\n'Three hundred swords, or thereabouts.'\n\n'It looks to be more to me.'\n\nRhin shrugged. 'Three hundred, four hundred, six hundred. It matters not. You have close to a thousand men. I have double that. We have our Vin Thalun friends on the river, another five hundred swords.  And  Calidus  and  Nathair  are  four  days  north  of  here, another thousand men. The Black Sun cannot win.'\n\n'They have giants and wolven.'\n\nA remnant of the warband that Rhin had sent north had trickled into Uthandun over the last ten-night, a score of men. All of them told a similar tale  -  of magical  mists, of  giants and  wolven and warriors silent and deadly.\n\n'They do. Forgive me, but you sound . . . scared.'\n\nVeradis bridled at that. _Am I? Maybe a little, but not of them; only of failure._\n\n'I have faced giants and magical mists before, wolven and worse,' Veradis murmured, 'but I have been taught caution since then. Courage does not always equal victory.'\n\n'No, of course not.'\n\n'It feels almost _too_ easy.'\n\n'More wars are won by errors of planning than great valour on the battlefield, or at least that has been my experience. Plan well. When it is time to strike, do it hard and fast.'\n\n_Never, ever, underestimate this woman._\n\n'And think, the God-War could be won in a single day. A single battle.'\n\n'Indeed. How far did you say they are?'\n\nRhin laughed. 'You cannot bring them to battle this night. By the time you reached them it would be full night. On the morrow . . .'\n\n'The morrow,' Veradis said, the words falling from his lips like a long-awaited promise. He could not suppress a smile. 'This is all that I have dreamed of, for so long now. To take to the field against the Black Sun.'\n\n'And to win, I hope,' she said with a sidelong glance.\n\n'Aye, and to win.'\n\n'Good. Then it would seem that your dream is about to come true.'\n\nA smile spread across his face.\n\nThe sun disappeared behind hilltops, the sky turning to dark velvet as they stood in silence and watched. Campfires blinked into existence where the Black Sun's warband had been, undulating across a far slope like a cluster of stars.\n\n'They may attempt to slip around us on the morrow,' Veradis said, imagining being one of them, seeing his warband and the Vin Thalun ships arrayed before them.\n\n'They might,' Rhin said, 'and that would be a shame. Perhaps we should do something to ensure that battle is joined with the rising of the sun.'\n\nVeradis marched along the hard stone of the giantsway. It was cold and dark, the heart of night wrapped tight all about him. There was no sign of Rhin's scouts that were apparently ranging ahead, fifty of them leaving the fortress ahead of him, a protective screen picking methodically over the ground for any sign of the enemy.\n\n_I hope._\n\nThe tramp of his warband's feet on the giantsway behind did a good job of obscuring his hearing, the only sense that was of any use in this inky darkness. Nevertheless he strained his ears, trying to pick out sounds from ahead, not an easy task.\n\n_This was a mistake,_ he thought, not for the first time since leaving Uthandun's walls. Walking into an ambush was not a pleasant thought.\n\nIt had seemed like a wonderful idea when Rhin suggested it, full of deep cunning: a forced march before dawn, not seeking battle, but to be close enough to give the enemy a surprise and no room for retreat when the sun rose.\n\n_No room for escape._\n\nNow, though, all the dangers and potential disasters loomed tall in his mind.\n\n_What if they can hear us coming and are flanking us even now?_ He glanced down at his feet, boots wrapped in lamb's wool, the same as every other warrior behind him. It made a remarkable difference; usually the tramp of two thousand warriors on a stone road would have been close to deafening. Still, they were not silent, and every sound seemed magnified in this darkness.\n\n_We will still win. Cannot lose. Too much is riding on this. And we are meant to win. This is not just another battle, it is the fate of the world._ He shifted the shield on his arm, shrugged the weight of his chainmail shirt, loosened his sword in its scabbard and kept marching.\n\nIt had taken them almost three moons to journey from Dun Taras in Domhain all the long way to Uthandun, travelling through three realms. Rhin had paused along the way, gathering warriors, sending others off to enforce her new sovereignty upon her newborn realm. They had reached Uthandun a ten-night ago, Veradis putting the time at camp to good use. His eagle-guard had drilled hard every day, working on horn signals from the back to signal front-line switches, or flank-strengthening and a myriad of other manoeuvres, working on the weaknesses of the shield wall, not that there were many. And Veradis' excitement and anxiety had grown daily in equal measure as Rhin reported to him of messages that she had received from Calidus.\n\n_They are close, so close. It will be good to see Nathair again. And he has been successful, captured the cauldron, one of the Seven Treasures. He must be overjoyed._ Veradis had felt a worry lift from his shoulders that he had not realized was there.\n\n_It is only a shame that Nathair will not be here to witness the defeat of the Black Sun. He will be disappointed at that._\n\nSomething drew his attention, a flicker in the corner of his eye, just for a moment. A bone-grey blur. His senses strained as he stared into the darkness.\n\n_Nothing._ He looked back over his shoulder as he continued marching, could make out an embankment that dropped  steeply away from the road, but beyond that he saw nothing to confirm that his eyes had seen anything more than a trick of starlight. He marched on, the distant campfires of the enemy growing as they got nearer.\n\nDawn was a sliver of light in the east, the land a uniform grey, punctuated with deep, impenetrable pools of shadow. Muffled hooves drummed behind him; even they had been  bound  with  fur.  Rhin drew up before him, Geraint riding at her side.\n\n'It is time,' she said, her eyes wide and bright with excitement. He felt the same, a night's march doing little to dampen his enthusiasm for the coming battle.\n\n'Proceed as we planned,' Rhin said to him, then leaned in her saddle, reached down and stroked his cheek. 'We'll soon toast our victory over a cup of wine.'\n\nHe shivered, and not in anticipation. He knew that Rhin had a thing for younger men and he had no idea how he'd be able to reject her and live. She pulled on her reins and was gone before his mouth could work. His cheek felt hot where she'd touched him.\n\nGeraint lingered a moment. 'Keep your head down,' the older warrior said, then he was riding away too, back down the road to Rhin's warband - close to two thousand swords spreading wide behind him, a mix of mounted men and foot soldiers.\n\n_This is it_ , Veradis thought, emotion swelling within him.\n\n'Give the signal,' he said, and a warrior blew on a horn, two crisp notes. Before they had faded his eagle-guard was spilling from the road, forming into three blocks facing east. He would lead the first one, the other two behind, and together they would become a spearhead of iron and wood, flesh and  bone.  He  marched  towards  his front rank, glanced at the shield wall to his left, warriors milling, forming lines. He saw Caesus, his captain, leaning out of the front line, looking towards him. They shared a glance and Caesus touched his fist to his heart, a salute. Veradis returned the gesture, then strode along the front line of his wall.\n\nFaces stared back at him, grim and resolute. Many of them he recognized as having stood with him from the beginning, faced the charge of giants and draigs on that hillside in Tarbesh. Nathair's Fangs, they had called themselves, named after the draig teeth Nathair had given to each and every one of the survivors. Veradis' hand slipped to his sword pommel, where his draig tooth had been carved into the wood and leather hilt.\n\n'Victory or death!' he cried in a loud voice and tugged his helmet on, hefted his shield and took his place in the wall. His cry was echoed, a thunderclap in the dawn as his men slammed tight around him.\n\nThe enemy were camped about half a league away, tents sprawled upon a gentle slope to the east of the giantsway, disappearing over the crest of the hill. Their fires were dimming as the sun rose, washing the earth with a pastel glow. Horn blasts rang out and the shield wall slipped into motion, smooth and practised, not a misstep that Veradis could tell. They had all removed the fur from their boots and now their progress was marked by a rumble as they marched forwards.\n\nHis heartbeat and the marching of feet kept time, helping to calm  nerves,  giving  a  discipline  to  their  advance  that  somehow helped to keep in check the surge of emotions that accompanied battle - rage, fear, doubt. They passed across open meadows, the enemy growing ever closer.\n\nVeradis' eyes scanned the hillside but it was still cloaked in great patches of shadow, the sun rising behind it, making silhouettes of tents and figures, and making him squint. Figures stood tall, silently waiting for them.\n\n_Wise, making camp with the rising sun at your back. But sunlight will not save them. Not this day._\n\n_Cywen must be up there._ As soon as he'd heard the news of this warband's approach Veradis had suspected that Cywen must be with them. He had asked Rhin before he had thought.\n\n'I do not know,' Rhin had said, regarding him with a puckered frown.\n\nThe next time she'd told him of a message from Calidus she had walked away, paused at the doorway and told him that Cywen lived, had been taken by Corban and his companions during battle in the halls of Murias.\n\nVeradis had been surprised at the relief he'd felt to hear that she was still alive.\n\n_Corban found her. Rescued her. And she is up on that hillside now. I hope her brother tells her to stay out of this battle, or she 's likely to get herself killed._ He chuckled at that, the thought of Cywen  taking orders from anyone, even the Black Sun, seeming like an impossibility.\n\nHis feet hit the beginnings of the slope, a gentle incline. Behind him he heard the rumble of hooves, neighing, sporadic battle-cries as men summoned their courage.\n\nStill there was no movement from above. He'd expected a charge. Everywhere he'd fought, warriors attacked in the same way. The old way. A wild surge with the blood up, then the singling out of opponents, the distilling of battle down into single duels, the winner moving on to find his next opponent, the loser food for crows. And so on, until the battle was done.\n\n_Not us._ The shield wall had torn apart all that came against it. _Except a charge of draigs, and a stampede of auroch. Here, though, it is against men and giants we fight. We will not lose._\n\nHe felt his heartbeat thumping in his chest, his mouth dry, palms sweaty, and everything seeming enhanced, sharper. The grating of iron-rimmed shields as they rubbed together in the advance, the smell of grass wet with dew underfoot, the sound of wood pigeons complaining as they abandoned branches nearby. This was the precursor to combat, the process his body went through before imminent violence. He was almost used to it now, even welcomed it. He loved the simplicity of battle. All the doubt of the night's march was gone, as if evaporated by the rising sun. He felt alert, confident, focussed.\n\n_This war will be won today._\n\nThey were a third of the way up the hill now, the first fires a hundred paces away. Still no movement. The hairs on Veradis' neck prickled, his eyes searching over the rim of his shield for the enemy. For any sign of movement.\n\n_Something is wrong._\n\n'Sound the halt,' he grunted to the signaller stationed behind him. A horn blast rang out. The shield wall rippled to a standstill, the other two on his wings doing the same, only heartbeats behind. Veradis stared at the clusters of figures before him, standing straight-backed and static, a breeze tugging at their cloaks, a fluttering of fabric.\n\nHe lowered his shield and stepped out of the shield wall, cursing himself for a fool.\n\nHe strode forwards, past a guttering fire, drawing the longsword at his hip as he approached the first group and hacked at a figure. It collapsed to the ground, the sound of sticks splitting, others in the line tugged to the ground where they were tied and stacked together.\n\nHe kicked at the form at his feet - sticks bound together and wrapped in a cloak. Cries from the woodland on his flank rang out: Rhin's horsemen moving through the open trees, discovering the true nature of their foe. Caesus reached him, eagle-guard at his back.\n\n'Search the campsite,' Veradis ordered, already knowing what they would find. Or not find.\n\nRhin cantered up the hill to him, Geraint and a dozen shieldmen about her.\n\n'A trick, my lady,' Veradis said bitterly, lifting a tattered cloak from the ground as she drew near.\n\n'That I can see,' she snapped, her face tight with rage. 'The question is: where are they?'\n\n_Just what I was thinking._\n\nA cry sounded from his warband, spreading, taken up by others. From the slope they were standing on they had a fine view of the surrounding countryside. Veradis saw men pointing back towards Uthandun. A sick feeling flowered in his belly, the aftermath of a punch to the gut. He stared hard at Uthandun, walls bathed in the light of dawn as the sun fully crested the hill at his back. At first he could see nothing wrong, then a flicker drew his eyes. Not Uthandun, but close to it. The Vin Thalun ships.\n\nTheir sails were burning.\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n\n#### TUKUL\n\nTukul ran up the boarding plank onto the black-sailed ship, his sword dripping red, Corban and a score more following behind him. All along the riverbank his Jehar were doing the same, killing guards and boarding ships. Thus far there was little clamour of battle - the defenders having been taken by surprise.\n\n_That won 't last much longer._\n\nThey'd chosen eleven ships to board, eight of these sleeker galleys and three fat-bellied transporters. Enough to hold their entire warband, and their horses as well, if all went to plan.\n\n_But I 've never known any plan to go smoothly._\n\nTo his right there was a burst of brightness and a wash of heat. He glanced, saw a furled sail burning fiercely, fire feeding greedily on fabric, saw the flicker of arrows, flames trailing incandescent in the sky and in moments more ships were on the way to becoming crackling torches.\n\nThe thud of running feet, more warriors emerging from the gloom. They saw him and slowed, came at him hesitantly, circling - hard-looking men with wiry muscle and weather-beaten features, all with dark, oiled beards, iron rings tied into them. For the most they gripped bucklers and short swords. Then Corban and others were spreading out from behind him. Tukul slipped his axe from its holster into his left hand and charged, blades swirling.\n\nMen died.\n\nTukul left his axe buried in a skull, surged on, wielding his sword in great two-handed strokes. Blades stabbed at him,  but  he  sent them all spiralling away. He carved his way down a narrow deck, an unstoppable force, his sword-kin spread either side. Soon the planks were slick with blood and gore. A shadow reared up on his left but then a mass of fur and teeth crashed into it. A glance showed Storm standing over a still form, her jaws dripping. On his other  side Corban swept past him, dressed in his wolven cloak and claws. He blocked an overhead blow with his sword and opened his opponent's throat with a slash of his wolven claws, kicked the dying man aside and ploughed on.\n\nA hand touched his arm, Gar. Their eyes met for a moment and then they were following Corban, cutting into a retreating knot of warriors. A dozen heartbeats later and their enemy, those  who could, were leaping over the sides. Tukul looked about for the next man to kill and realized the deck was clear of any resistance.\n\n_Is that it?_ Tukul thought. _Not so hard to take a ship, then._\n\nHe glanced over the side at the ships moored close by. Combat still raged on them, battle-cries and the clash of weapons ringing loud in the still dawn, echoing back from the wall of trees on the far bank. On one deck he watched giants, war-hammers and axes swinging, saw one giant lift and hurl an enemy into the river.\n\nCorban disappeared down an entrance in the deck and Tukul ran after him, fearing more enemy hidden below-decks. He almost gagged as he climbed down the steep steps, the stench of ordure almost overpowering. He blinked at the bottom, eyes adjusting to the darkness, the only light leaking in through oar-holes.\n\nMen were chained in rows to benches, or what resembled men, all of them skeletal thin, pale and scarred. Most of them were slumped where they sat, regarding him and Corban with flat, empty eyes.\n\nCorban lifted his sword and the nearest man flinched, then Corban swung his blade down and sparks flew, shattering the chain that bound the first bench of rowers.\n\n'I've taken this ship, killed those who enslaved you.' He worked his way down an aisle between the benches, hacking at the chains, splashing through liquid that Tukul suspected wasn't river water. 'You are free to go, if you wish, or row a little longer and be set ashore somewhere else.' He glanced out of one of the oar-holes. 'This is not the safest place to be stranded. Tukul, make sure they understand what I have said,' Corban muttered as he turned and climbed back up towards the light.\n\nTukul ordered barrels of water brought down and made sure the rowers all had their fill, though slowly. One man gripped his wrist. He was short and wiry, with skin that was olive dark, like the men from his homeland in Tarbesh. His eyes burned brighter than the others'.\n\n'What's your name, brother,' Tukul said to him.\n\n'Javed,' he whispered after a long pause, as if he were struggling to remember.\n\n'Some water for you,' Tukul offered a jug from the barrel. Javed drank noisily.\n\n'Is this a Vin Thalun jest?' Javed said, water dripping from his beard. 'Another entertainment?'\n\n'No. You are free, as my lord said.'\n\n'What's the catch? You'll kill us if we try to leave?'\n\nTukul shook his head. 'Leave if you wish, there will be no punishment from us.' He peered through the nearest oar-hole, heard horns ringing from the nearby fortress. 'Though I cannot guarantee the reception you'll receive from them.'\n\nThe man peered through the hole.\n\n'You're welcome to stay.'\n\n'Where are you going?'\n\n'East,' Tukul said.\n\n'East is not the ocean,' Javed snorted. 'Now I know you are playing with us.'\n\n'I speak the truth,' Tukul replied calmly.\n\nJaved stared into Tukul's face. 'Think I'll stay a while,' he said.\n\n_East to Drassil. How quickly plans can come undone._\n\nCorban had turned pale when he'd seen the warband and fleet arrayed about Uthandun. They hastily made camp and Corban had summoned his war council - Meical, Tukul, Gar, Balur,  Ethlinn, Brina and Coralen.\n\nCorban sat in a camp chair with his head in his hands. Craf flapped down from the sky and perched on the arm of Corban's chair.\n\n' _Cheer up_ ,' the crow squawked. He had taken to following Corban everywhere since the plan against Kartala the hawk had succeeded.\n\n'Options,' Brina had snapped at Corban, making him jump and lower his hands.\n\n'What?' Corban said.\n\n'There are always options,' Brina answered.\n\nWith a deep indrawn breath he visibly gathered himself. 'What are they?' he asked.\n\n'Fight.'\n\nA humourless smile. 'Not a good idea. There are thousands of them. We are outnumbered.'\n\n'Run away.'\n\n'Better for us. I'd like to, but where? All routes to Edana are blocked.'\n\n'Run north - retreat, in other words,' Brina said.\n\n'And run into Calidus, Nathair and a thousand Kadoshim,' Tukul pointed out.\n\nCorban shook his head. 'We've tried that already. Not appealing.'\n\n'West, then,' Brina said.\n\n'West is Cambren and Domhain. What is there for us?'\n\n'Nothing,' said Brina, 'but I'm going through the options.'\n\n'So what does that leave?'\n\n'East,' Brina said.\n\n'And what is east? The Darkwood, then marshlands.'\n\n'Drassil is east,' Meical said.\n\nCorban looked at him.\n\n'He's  right,'  Brina  added.  'Much  further  east,  granted.  But you've just said we can't go south, north or west.'\n\n'And what of Edana?'\n\n'Even if we could break through those ahead of us,' Gar said, 'and I for one am happy to try, and avoid those behind, they would be on our trail, would follow us straight to Edana.'\n\n'Would Nathair and Calidus not follow us to Drassil?'\n\n'Perhaps,' Meical said. 'Though somehow I doubt it. I suspect that Calidus' focus is elsewhere.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Corban asked.\n\n'If he wanted to bring us to battle, he could have. They are not so far behind us, could have caught us with a handful of forced marches.'\n\n'Then why hasn't he?'\n\n'I cannot say, for sure, but I suspect he is fixated upon the cauldron. To catch us he would have to leave it behind, under a smaller guard.' Meical shrugged. 'I am guessing, but I do not think they would be as quick to follow us all the way to Drassil. The journey is many leagues longer, and takes us far from the relative safety of Rhin's realms.'\n\nCorban stood and paced for a while. He eventually stopped before Balur and Ethlinn.\n\n'What would you do,' he asked them both.\n\nBalur shrugged his massive shoulders. 'My heart says fight, my mind says  run,  live,  fight  another  day.  When  there's  a  chance  of winning. Here, there is no chance.'\n\n'To fight now is to die, to run aimlessly is a longer death,' Ethlinn said, her voice a rustle, autumn leaves on the air. 'But to run somewhere that has meaning, hope. Drassil is the wisest choice.'\n\nCorban bowed his head for long moments, then sucked in a long breath and looked around at them all, his gaze coming to rest on Meical.\n\n'We will try for Drassil,' he said quietly.\n\nHe was silent a while, eyes staring into the south. Eventually his eyes dropped back to the fortress in the distance, a dark shadow now before the glitter of the river Afren in the twilight.\n\n'They know we're here. Come sunrise there'll be a warband after our blood, whatever direction we decide to move in,' Corban murmured.\n\n'We should leave before sunrise, then. Steal a march on them,' Coralen said. She'd been standing silently in the shadows until now.\n\n'Marching in the dark is no easy task,' Gar said. 'There's a risk of getting lost. We could end up in more trouble than we started in.'\n\n'We'd not get lost with Storm. She's better than the north star,' Coralen replied.\n\n'That river,' Corban said. 'How far east does it go?'\n\n'To the marshes that border Narvon and Isiltir. From there we could follow it to the northern sea,' Meical answered. 'If we had ships we could sail all the way to Gramm's hold.'\n\n'Who is Gramm?' Corban asked.\n\n'A friend,' Tukul said.\n\n'An ally that dwells on the fringes of Forn Forest,' Meical said. 'He has helped us before, and will join us, now that the God-War has begun in earnest.'\n\nCorban had nodded, eyes fixed on the black sails dotting the river Afren. 'Looks like we need some ships then.'\n\nTukul looked up at Dath, who stood on the raised cabin deck at the rear of the ship.\n\n'We must leave _now_ ,' Dath yelled, and Tukul echoed the cry, standing atop the boarding-plank, beckoning to Balur and those still gathered upon the riverbank. All was chaos, ships burning, waves of heat and smoke billowing across the river. Many of the sailors who had fled from the flaming ships were trying to put the fires out, but more than half of the enemy galleys were blazing hotter  than  a forge. Tukul suspected there had been some Elemental assistance to the fire. As more of the sailors gathered upon the bank they launched a fierce counterattack on the ships that were being  stolen.  Horn blasts rang out from Uthandun, the sound of hooves and battle-cries drifting down from the fortress.\n\nBalur was pushing warriors onto the boarding-plank, giants and Jehar both, sending them stumbling up the ramp and onto the ship's deck, then he turned, swung his black axe about his head and launched himself into a knot of enemy warriors surging towards him.\n\nTukul saw the first warrior chopped in half, legs and torso flying in different directions, the second taking the iron-spiked butt of Balur's axe in the face, a third losing his head, then smoke billowed about them, obscuring them from Tukul's sight.\n\nAll else had boarded now, Dath yelling for the ramp to be pulled in and the mooring rope cut, but still Tukul hesitated. He took a few steps down the ramp, yelled out to Balur, glanced back onto the boat, the faces staring at him.\n\n_I 'll not leave the living behind._\n\nHe drew his sword from his back, began to stride purposefully down the ramp, ignoring the voices behind that called his name, then Balur burst from the roiling smoke, blood-spattered, a limp figure slung over one shoulder. He hurtled towards the ramp, other forms appearing behind him, chasing him. Giant  boots  thudded onto the ramp, wood creaking, and Tukul saw Balur carried a giantling across his shoulder, blood flowing from a gash across its scalp.\n\nBalur heaved past him, Tukul stepping to the edge of the ramp, a straight lunge impaling the first sailor chasing after Balur. Tukul kicked him off his sword, sent his corpse falling back into the others following. He stepped forwards, his sword slashing twice, took off a hand at the wrist, opened a face and then the enemy were staggering back, tangled, falling as they tried to get away from him. He turned and sprinted back up towards the ship, Balur dragging the boarding-ramp in as he leaped to the deck, another Jehar slicing the rope that moored them to the bank. Oars rose and dipped; sluggishly at first, the ship pulled away, quickly picking up speed.\n\nAll along the river behind them others were following suit on different ships. Ten more followed, seven sleek-hulled, like the one Tukul was aboard, three wider, deep-hulled transporters with pot-bellies. The horses had been loaded on them.\n\nA weight fell on Tukul's shoulder, staggering him, and he looked round to see Balur, his big hand coming down again to pat Tukul on the back.\n\n'My thanks, little man,' the giant said.\n\nTukul nodded. 'Your companion?'\n\nBalur pointed and Tukul saw Ethlinn, Brina and Cywen bent over the gangly form of the giantling Balur had carried aboard. A female.\n\n'She is in good hands,' Tukul said, then climbed onto the rear deck, where Dath stood wrestling with a steering  oar,  Kulla  the Jehar standing close to him, watching what he did with a raised eyebrow. Corban and Meical were standing at the rail, eyes fixed on the smoke-hazed riverbank. Farrell and Coralen were there, Storm sitting and licking blood from her claws.\n\n'You sure you know what you're doing?' Farrell asked Dath.\n\n'He is a skilled seaman,' Kulla said.\n\n'Course I do,' Dath grunted. 'It's a little bigger than Da's fisher-boat, but the principle's the same,' He wrestled with the oar a moment.\n\n'You need to be stronger,' Kulla pointed out. Farrell laughed.\n\n'She's got a point,' Dath admitted. 'You may be a better choice for this job.'\n\n'Here you are, then,' Farrell said, striding over and taking the steering oar from Dath.\n\n'Try not to ground us on a bank,' Dath said.\n\nFarrell gave him a flat stare.\n\nTukul strode to Corban's side and leaned on the rail. He noticed his hands were dark with blood and grime.\n\nThe  cries  of  those  trying  to  put  out  the  flaming  ships  faded, further away.\n\n'Not all of their ships are burning,' Corban said. 'They could follow us.'\n\n'Perhaps, but not until they've cleared the way. That will be no easy, or speedy, task.'\n\n'Aye.' Corban rubbed his eyes. 'Well, then it would appear that we did it,' he said to them both.\n\n'Aye. Fortunate for us that the bulk of their warband marched during the night,' Meical said.\n\n'Someone on their side has a mind for strategy,' Tukul added.\n\n'Aye. And fortunate for us that we do too.' Corban was staring into the distance, where the smoke had parted to give a view of the surrounding land. They could see the hill they had camped upon, fires still a pale flicker, their stick men and cloak-wrapped crow-scarers facing down a warband thousands strong.\n\n'I'd like to see the look on Rhin's face just about now,' Dath said.\n\nTukul laughed. It had been a close thing, that march through the night to reach the ships before dawn. Especially when Storm sniffed out an enemy warband marching along the giantsway towards them.\n\n_That wolven has saved our lives more times than I can count._\n\n'Coralen, you're a genius - your ruse worked,' Corban called.\n\n'It always has done,' Coralen said proudly. 'Distraction,' she continued. 'Rath taught it to me, and I'm sure you know the rule well enough; the blow that ends the fight is the one your opponent doesn't see coming. Make them look somewhere else, then make your move.'\n\n_I know that rule very well._\n\nTukul saw Meical nodding approvingly.\n\n'You rode with Rath?' a voice grated behind them: Balur, the steps creaking as he climbed onto the deck. Brina followed behind him, small in his shadow. Her hands were red with blood. Craf fluttered down from above, perching on a rail.\n\n'I did,' Coralen said. 'He was my uncle.'\n\nBalur's white eyebrows bunched. 'Did he use that trick against the Benothi?'\n\n'Yes,' Coralen shrugged.\n\nThere was an uncomfortable silence, Balur glowering down, Coralen scowling up.\n\n'We have put old grievances behind us,' Meical said quietly.\n\nThe silence continued, then Balur sighed.\n\n'Aye,' he rumbled and walked away.\n\nThe ship turned a bend in the river; Uthandun disappeared from view.\n\nCorban turned and looked ahead, the river winding beneath the trees of the Darkwood.\n\n'Craf, will you do something for me?'\n\n' _Anything_ ,' Craf croaked. Brina raised an eyebrow at that.\n\n'Find Edana at Dun Crin, tell her we tried, but it was impossible to reach her. Tell her we are going to Drassil. Tell her . . .' He paused, shoulders slumping. 'Tell her my oath still stands.'\n\nWithout a word of complaint Craf launched himself into the sky and winged southwards, disappearing beyond the trees.\n\n'What have you done to my crow?' Brina muttered.\n\nCorban  stared  after  him a  while, then looked  at  their  course ahead.\n\n'So. To Drassil,' he said, though Tukul thought he may have been speaking to himself.\n\n_Indeed. To Drassil._\n\n#### CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n\n#### UTHAS\n\nUthas stepped into a cavernous room, massive pillars rising high to a domed roof far above. A nimbus of light filtered through, as if the material the ceiling was carved from was thin, translucent.\n\n_Asroth 's throne room._ He felt a surge of fear coursing through his veins, paralysing him.\n\n_Why have I done this? What kind of fool am I?_\n\n'Remember, this is what you asked for,' Calidus said to him, still bound in his human form, appearing small and frail  amidst  the might of Asroth's Kadoshim.\n\nAnd they were everywhere. Thousands of them, beyond counting. Not the shadowy wraiths he had witnessed emerge from the cauldron in Murias, but solid, grey-skinned  creatures  of  scale and fang and wing. They wore coats of dark mail and bore spear and sword, regarding him with curious stares. The air crackled as one close by stretched its bat-like wings.\n\nUthas wrenched his eyes away from them and paced down the aisle before him, focusing on Calidus' back. He had walked what felt like a long way when a sound drew his eyes.\n\nA scream.\n\nHe looked to his left, saw a figure chained to a post. A winged man, or what was left of a winged man.\n\n_He is Ben-Elim._\n\nUthas stopped and stared.\n\nOne wing of white feathers, stained with blood and grime, hung broken and useless from his back. The other wing was gone altogether, all that was left of it a frayed stump protruding from the Ben-Elim's back. He was chained to the post, suspended by iron collars about his wrists, head slumped, dark hair hanging. Another collar of iron was fixed about his neck, the chain secured to an iron ring embedded into the ground. As Uthas stood and stared, the Ben-Elim raised his head, dark eyes fixing him.\n\n'Help me,' the Ben-Elim whispered through cracked and swollen lips.\n\n'Why do you not just kill him?' Uthas asked.\n\n'Where would be the fun in that?' Calidus replied. 'Besides, life and death are not the same, here in the Otherworld. It is nigh impossible to slay one of Elyon's Firstborn. They have tried.' He shrugged at the Kadoshim nearby. 'So we settle for pain.'\n\nUthas could not take his eyes away. As he stared, a Kadoshim approached the Ben-Elim, buried a spear-blade into his belly, twisting it; the Ben-Elim screamed in agony.\n\n'Onwards,' Calidus said and they carried on, the screams fading behind them.\n\nEventually they came to wide steps that stretched the entire length of the chamber. Uthas climbed, at their top saw a figure sitting upon a throne that resembled the looping coils of a great wyrm. The figure was reclining, a leg draped across one coiled arm of the throne.\n\n_Asroth._\n\nHe radiated power, silver hair bound into a single, thick warrior braid. He wore a coat of oil-dark mail, leathery wings curled tight behind him. Kadoshim stood about him, some were guards holding bright spears, others were in conversation with the Lord of the Fallen. They fell silent as Calidus and Uthas approached.\n\n'I bring an ally, my King,' Calidus said, more reverence and fear in his voice than Uthas would have thought possible. 'Uthas of the Benothi  clan.'\n\nBlack eyes in a milky-pale face that could have been carved from alabaster regarded Uthas.\n\nAsroth rose from his chair and paced forward. The ground smoked and hissed with each footstep, leaving behind a blackened imprint.\n\n'Welcome to my home,' Asroth said, smiling through blue-tinged lips.\n\n'My lord,' Uthas said. He stood a hand taller than Asroth, but still his legs were suddenly weak and he slid to his knees.\n\nAsroth crouched before him, a broken-nailed finger tracing Uthas' chin, lifting his head so that their eyes met. The ground lurched beneath Uthas' feet, he felt as if he was falling. He did not much care for the sensation.\n\nAsroth licked his lips with a black tongue, as if tasting the air. 'I know you,' he said. 'You are mine.'\n\n'I am,' Uthas heard himself say, voice dry as gravel. He remembered vividly when Rhin had conjured Asroth through spells and flame. At the time it had been terrifying and exhilarating both. This time it was mostly terrifying.\n\n'Why are you here?' Asroth asked.\n\n'Uthas has information of value to our cause,' Calidus said. 'He knows the whereabouts of two of the Treasures.'\n\n'That will be most helpful,' Asroth said. 'They are vital to our campaign. Which Treasures?'\n\n'The cup and the necklace, my lord,' Uthas said.\n\n'Nemain's necklace,' Asroth said quietly. He closed his eyes, dark veins tracing his eyelids. 'I remember seeing it about her neck as she fought me.' He smiled, opening his eyes. 'She had spirit. And you slew her.'\n\n'I did,' Uthas said, feeling both shame and pride flow through him.\n\n'So where are these Treasures?'\n\n'I am aware of their last known locations,' Uthas said.\n\n'Not quite the same as where they are now,' Asroth said.\n\n'No, my lord, but it is unlikely that they have been moved.'\n\nAsroth nodded. 'So. Where are these last-known locations?'\n\nUthas paused, fighting the urge to speak, to spill the information from his mouth. He clenched his teeth together.\n\n'Uthas would ask a reward of you, for this information,' Calidus said.\n\n_Thank you_ , thought Uthas. Never had he felt more grateful to someone for speaking for him.\n\nAsroth frowned, his alabaster skin creasing like old parchment.\n\n'You would bargain with me?'\n\n'No, my lord,' Uthas uttered. 'A reward . . .'\n\n'Ahh.' Asroth stood and strode back to his chair, his leathery wings wrapping around him as he sat. 'It is true, I reward those who serve me - successfully. And punish those who fail me. What reward do you wish for?'\n\n'To be King of the giant clans - and to rule from Drassil, our ancient home. When the war is won.'\n\n'But your giants are Sundered. Even I cannot change what is already done.'\n\n'I ask that they be given the choice, in this God-War. Those who join your cause have me as their lord, your vassal king. Those that refuse, back to dust.'\n\nAsroth smiled. 'That does not seem unreasonable. I agree. If you are successful in your part of the bargain. Calidus must have these Treasures in his possession before your part is deemed fulfilled. Agreed?'\n\n'Agreed,' said Uthas.\n\n'Good. Now, where are these Treasures?'\n\n'The necklace is in a tomb in the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg. The cup was lost in the marshes around Dun Taras. I know the location, but I have never been able to search there because it is in sight of the walls of Dun Taras. The men of Domhain would have fallen upon us. But now, Domhain belongs to Rhin, so I would have the freedom to search.'\n\n'Can you find them? Bring them to Calidus?'\n\n'I believe so,' Uthas said.\n\n'You can, or you cannot. Which is it?' Asroth's voice was a deep basal rumble, filling his senses like a vapour.\n\nUthas licked his lips, which were abruptly dry. 'I can. I will.'\n\nAsroth grinned. 'Good. I am pleased.' He held his arm out, black veins mapping it. He pressed a long, broken nail against the pale flesh, drew a line, dark blood welling.\n\n'A bargain must always be sealed in blood, no?'\n\nUthas nodded and Asroth gripped his wrist, pulled his arm out and dragged a sharp nail across the inside of his forearm. His flesh parted as if cut with the sharpest iron, feeling as if Asroth had lit a fire in his veins, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to show any weakness.\n\nAsroth wrapped long fingers about Uthas' forearm in the warrior grip,  their  blood  mingling.  Within  heartbeats  Uthas  was  feeling dizzy, intoxicated.\n\n'Bring me the cup and necklace,' Asroth growled as he released his grip.\n\nDimly Uthas was aware of Calidus leading him from the great chamber, walking out into the pale light of the Otherworld.\n\n'You must return to the world of flesh now,' Calidus said to him.\n\n'What of you?' Uthas said. He blinked, trying to focus. He was aware that he did not want to leave Calidus. He had come to find the old man's presence comforting in this grey world.\n\n'I have another ally to meet,' Calidus sighed. 'My work is never done.'\n\nUthas woke to the sound of Calidus screaming.\n\nHe staggered upright, reaching for his spear. His arm throbbed and he looked down to see a scab of black blood. He blinked and shook his head, for a moment a vision of Asroth's pale face and dark eyes consuming his mind.\n\nMoonlight shone upon Salach, who lay close by, seemingly reaching full alertness before Uthas. Eisa was curled beside him.\n\nUthas felt a pang of jealousy, but quickly buried it.\n\n_We find comfort where we can, and in these end days it is rare and often short-lived._\n\nMore screams rang out, magnified by the darkness. Uthas followed the sounds, Calidus' voice distinct, even in rage. And the screaming was soaked with it - not fear, not pain, not even anger, but pure, undiluted rage. As Uthas drew closer he heard the rasp of a sword drawn, the thud of iron cutting flesh, a wild neighing, then Uthas saw him.\n\nCalidus was standing amidst the paddocked horses that pulled their wains. He was hacking at a stallion, the beast already fallen to its knees, eyes rolling white, blood spurting black in the night from a great rent in its neck. Even as Uthas stood and stared, dumbstruck, the animal crashed onto its side, legs kicking as if it were running. With a shiver it lay still.\n\n_He has gone mad._\n\n'Calidus,' Uthas called out, striding over to him. He was dimly aware of footsteps behind him, Salach, no doubt, as well as a growing number of Kadoshim. Uthas dipped beneath a rope bound between trees. Calidus turned his eyes upon the giant, blazing with malice, and Uthas froze, deciding that getting too close to Calidus with sword still in hand might not be the wisest move.\n\n'What is wrong?' Uthas asked.\n\n'Incompetent. Fools,' Calidus hissed, then turned and swung his sword overhead, chopping into the dead horse, wrenching his blade free in a spray of blood and bone.\n\n'Who?' Uthas asked.\n\n'Rhin. Veradis.' With each name he hacked into the horse again. Then once more. Finally he pulled his blade free and leaned upon it, chest heaving, head bowed. After a while he wiped his blade clean on the horse's carcass and strode to Uthas, saw a crowd of faces staring back at him.\n\n'Meical and his puppet have escaped,' Calidus said, all calmness and composure now, although somewhat ruined by the streaks of blood splattering his pale face and silvery hair. 'And the Vin Thalun fleet is burned, sunk or stolen.'\n\n'What! How can that be?'\n\n'They attacked the Vin Thalun fleet moored at Uthandun, stole some ships and sailed east, burned the rest. The details are vague. We shall have to wait until we see Rhin face to face for the finer details. I met her in the Otherworld and must confess, I became . . . a touch irritated. She fled from me.'\n\n_I can understand why._\n\n'Meical is behind it, of that I have no doubt,' Calidus said.\n\n'We could change course, pursue them, perhaps catch them before they leave the Darkwood.'\n\n'No,' Calidus snapped. 'The opportunity was too great to resist - to catch them between our two warbands. But to change course, chase them across the Banished Lands. No. I cannot lose sight of the task I have been set.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Uthas asked.\n\n'I was not clothed in flesh to destroy Meical's Bright Star,' Calidus snarled at him. 'My task is to make Asroth flesh. To bring him across the divide, from the Otherworld to this  world  of flesh.' He shrugged. 'Once that is accomplished, Meical and his Bright Star will die. It will be inevitable. Though this was still an opportunity missed, and causes me to doubt those I have raised about me.'\n\nUthas reached inside his cloak and drew out a leather flask. He pulled out the stopper, the oaky scent of usque drifting out, and offered it to Calidus.\n\n'A good idea,' Calidus muttered, taking a long drink from the flask.\n\nA glow in the east heralded the coming of dawn.\n\n'Make ready,' Calidus called. 'I will see Uthandun today.'\n\nFigures melted back into the darkness, Kadoshim seeing to their packs, going about the tasks of breaking camp.\n\nUthas looked at the humped shadow of the butchered horse.\n\n_The cauldron 's wain will move slower, not faster, with one less horse pulling._\n\nCalidus followed Uthas' gaze over his shoulder to the dead animal.\n\n'Tell Nathair he can give that to his draig.'\n\nUthandun appeared as they crested a hill, the Darkwood a solid wall behind it, between fortress and trees a river glittering in the sunlight. Even from this distance Uthas could see the blackened hulls of ships half-submerged in its waters. Beside him Calidus hissed an expelled breath, the extent of his rage now. A vent to the deep ocean of fury that no doubt still surged within him.\n\n_He must have been angry indeed. I have never known Calidus to be anything but calculated control._\n\nThey rode down the slope, Calidus looking either side at the remains of fires, here and there were branches tied in  the  loose shapes of men, wrapped in cloaks. His mouth twisted in disgust. Behind them the wain carrying the cauldron rumbled over the crest of the hill, pulled by seven horses and a dozen giants. Uthas had ordered Benothi strength to replace the dead horse and ensure that they reached Uthandun before nightfall. Surrounding the great wain were the Kadoshim. They had changed over the course of their journey from Murias. Calidus had taught them a measure of self-control - they still had a taste for flesh, but Calidus had instructed them how to cook and eat like normal men, and also how to use and care for their host bodies of flesh and blood, like a treasured weapon. Now they looked comfortable in their skins, no ungainly jerks or spasms, and they had learned to use their hosts' voices, as well as harness their skills. They had learned discipline.\n\n_A fearsome combination - the skill of the Jehar and the strength of the Kadoshim._ They exuded power, almost a physical thing, like waves of heat rippling about them on a hot summer's day.\n\nCalidus spurred his mount on, speeding up to ride alongside Nathair, who rode at the head of their column. He sat  straight-backed upon his draig, the beast's belly swollen and swaying with its recent meal. Alcyon was striding beside Nathair, as always.\n\n_This will be a test for our young king,_ Uthas thought. He had been mostly a silent travelling companion. _That is understandable, he has had much to think on, and grow accustomed to. Not least selling his soul to Asroth._\n\nOccasionally Nathair had asked Calidus a question - usually on the subject of the new order that Calidus had hinted at, sometimes about a strategy for the coming war. He had always seemed, if not submissive, then at least resigned to the stark realities of his new world.\n\n_But he will see Veradis soon. Then we will see where his loyalties truly lie._\n\n'You are ready for this?' Calidus asked Nathair.\n\nNathair looked at Calidus, his face stern, otherwise emotionless.\n\n_He is learning to mask his feelings._\n\n'Of course,' Nathair said. 'I have made my choice, and sealed that bargain.' His lips twisted briefly.\n\n_Though he still has some way to go with that._\n\n'You need not worry, Calidus.'\n\n'I always worry,' Calidus said with a shrug. 'It is why I am still alive, and why we are winning this war.'\n\n'I will perform my task. Play the king, the figurehead.'\n\n'You are far more than that, Nathair. You are my supreme general, and unlike Rhin, you have never failed at a task.'\n\n_I would not wish to be in Rhin 's cloak when they meet._ Nathair straightened at that.\n\n_How fickle are these men, who are swayed so by a little flattery._\n\n'And you remember what to say, in our war council?'\n\n'I do. Certain things must be made to happen.'\n\n'Indeed. And Veradis,' Calidus probed. 'You are prepared for meeting him?'\n\n'I am,' Nathair said with a sigh. 'He is a good man; he is my friend.'\n\nAlcyon grunted beside Nathair, the first sound the giant  had made.\n\n'He will not understand . . .' Nathair trailed off. 'He will not understand the complexities of our situation. Yet. But in time I hope to be candid with him. Bring him into your, our, circle . . . ?' It was a question more than a statement, Nathair looking almost pleadingly at Calidus.\n\n'Of course,' Calidus said. 'I am fond of Veradis.'\n\nAlcyon looked at Calidus, brows furrowed.\n\nUthas watched the giant suspiciously. 'And Veradis is a great asset,' Calidus continued. 'Skilled, more loyal than a faithful hound. A fighter and a tactician. I have many plans for Veradis.'\n\n'Good,' Nathair said with a curt nod.\n\nFrom Alcyon's expression, the giant was not as convinced.\n\nUthas sat in a chamber high in Uthandun's keep. Unlike most of the fortresses that served as mankind's seats of power in the Banished Lands, it was not giant made, nor stone, just timber and thatch, and so it was cramped and uncomfortable, doors too narrow, ceilings too low. There were no chairs suitable for a giant, and so Uthas and Alcyon stood behind Nathair and Calidus. The Kadoshim Sumur was also there, stood a pace behind Nathair, his eyes dark pools in a pale face.\n\nThe door opened and Rhin walked in,  warriors  behind  her. With a wave of her hand she ordered them to remain in the corridor. Rhin shut the door and sat. She looked tired, dark shadows beneath her eyes. Uthas felt a wave of sympathy for her. She had been many things to him over the years - his enemy, his captor, torturer, saviour, and finally, strangely, friend. But he knew he could not help her now. Calidus glowered at her in her chair. Slowly she raised her eyes and met his gaze. A silence grew. She did not look away.\n\n'Well?' Calidus eventually said, his voice breaking the quiet like a whip-crack.\n\n'We were outmanoeuvred,' Rhin said. 'A battle lost, not the war.'\n\nCalidus slowly stood, the leather of his surcoat creaking. With deliberate steps he walked around the table to Rhin and stood beside her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. She twitched.\n\n'You have made a mistake,' Calidus said, a whisper that filled the room.\n\n'Yes, I ca--'\n\n'No,' Calidus said. 'Do not shame yourself with excuses. There are no pretences amongst us, Asroth's inner circle.'\n\nRhin's eyes darted to Nathair.\n\n'Yes,' Nathair said with a cold smile. 'I have been enlightened.'\n\n'That is . . . good,' Rhin whispered.\n\n'It is,' Calidus agreed. 'What is not so good is letting Meical and his Bright Star slip through your fingers, and allowing my fleet to be _destroyed_. Ships that were to take us, take the _cauldron_ , to Tenebral.'\n\nAfter a long silence Rhin finally spoke.\n\n'I am  sorry.'  Rhin  said.  Uthas saw  her  shoulder  twitch  again beneath Calidus' hand.\n\n'I am sure that you are,' Calidus said, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. 'But good intentions alone will not win us this war.' He muttered, his hand upon Rhin's shoulder moved, fingers contracting, a black mist flowing from his palm, slipping about Rhin's throat like a dawn mist, heavy and slow. Rhin gasped, her mouth opening wide.\n\n'Do not try to speak,' Calidus said, calm as before, 'you'll only find that you cannot. Only listen.' He bent close, lips almost brushing her  ear.  'Asroth  rewards,  but  he  also  punishes.  Faithfulness is good. Faithfulness and success is better. Failure,  on  the  other hand . . .'\n\nHe took his hand away from Rhin's shoulder, the black mist coiled within his grip, looped about her neck. He clenched his fist, the mist contracting. Rhin's hands grasped at her throat, passed through the mist, clawing her own flesh. Her eyes bulged, flesh turning red, then purple. She threw herself about in the chair but Calidus wrenched her back, put a hand in her hair and twisted, holding her still.\n\n'Never. Ever. Fail.'\n\nThere was a knock at the door and Calidus stepped away from Rhin, opened his palm and with a hiss the black mist evaporated. Rhin collapsed to the table in a fit of coughing.\n\nCalidus walked back to his seat, adjusted his cloak, then sat.\n\n'Compose yourself,' he said to Rhin, who pulled herself upright in her chair, dragging in deep breaths. Slowly the rise and fall of her chest calmed. 'Enter,' Calidus called out.\n\nThe door opened and Veradis stepped in. He looked solemn, almost guilty.\n\n_He feels the shame of defeat, also_ , Uthas realized.\n\nNathair stood as Veradis entered the room. At the sight of Nathair a grin broke across Veradis' face and Nathair smiled in return, the expression looking out of place on his face.\n\n_That is a deep and genuine friendship. I have not seen Nathair smile since before Murias._\n\nVeradis took a few long strides and dropped to one knee before Nathair.\n\n'My King,' Veradis said.\n\nNathair stood there, looking down at his friend in silence, his smile slowly fading. A shadow crossed his face. He glanced at Calidus, adjusting his expression to cold inscrutability, and then he put a hand on Veradis' arm.\n\n_And now we shall see how deep your oath to Asroth is rooted._\n\n'None of that, old friend,' Nathair said, pulling Veradis upright. The two men embraced; Veradis took a step back, looking into Nathair's face. He frowned.\n\nFrom the corner of his eye Uthas saw Calidus' hand slip to the hilt of a knife at his belt.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY\n\n#### VERADIS\n\n'What's wrong?' Veradis asked.\n\nAt first Veradis had been focused only  on  Nathair,  consumed with the sense of relief that always flooded him whenever he was reunited safely with his King. But as that started to melt away he became aware of something else. There was a tension in the room, the air heavy with it. Rhin was sitting with eyes downcast, Calidus straight-backed, lips a tight line beneath his close-cropped silver beard. Sumur and Uthas the giant were shadows outlined by sunshine through an open window. And Nathair. He looked gaunt, a strain in his features that spoke of more than weariness at the end of a long road.\n\n'Wrong? Nothing,' Nathair said. 'We have the cauldron, a dream of many years fulfilled.' He smiled, but to Veradis' mind it looked weak, somehow. Empty.\n\n'The cauldron, after so much - the dreams, the planning, the hardship,' Veradis smiled in return. 'I have known for a while - Rhin has received messages. It is wonderful news.'\n\n'Aye. It is,' Nathair said.\n\n_And yet, I expected something else. What? He should be overjoyed. This does not seem like the focused, determined man whom I left on the borders of Domhain._ 'You look weary, Nathair, but there is more, I think.'\n\nUthas shifted behind Nathair.\n\n'We have endured hard battles, a long road,' Nathair said. 'And I find that I have completed a quest only to realize that it is the beginning of another one.' He looked about the room, eyes lingering on Calidus before they returned to Veradis. 'I _am_ weary, but you are right, there is more.' He paused again, just stared at Veradis for long, silent moments. 'I am disappointed in you, Veradis. You had a chance to end this. The Black Sun with only a few hundred swords about him. And you let him escape. This is the first time that you have failed me. And now it feels like the battle against the Black Sun is only just beginning, a long road with the end far from sight.'\n\nVeradis felt each word like a blow, a knife punching into his belly and twisting with each new syllable.\n\nVeradis dropped his eyes, shame coursing through him. 'I know. It could have been over.' He shook his head, eyes filled with shame. 'I let them get away.'\n\n'You did.'\n\n'We expected more from you,' Calidus said.\n\n'But it is done now, Veradis, no changing it,' Nathair said. 'An opportunity missed, aye. We will fight on.'\n\n'Replace me,' Veradis said.\n\n' _No_. That is the coward's way out.' Nathair's voice was harsh, harder than Veradis had ever heard, and more painful than lashes across his back. He gripped Veradis by the shoulder. 'You've made a mistake. Do _not_ make another.'\n\n'Never. Death first,' Veradis assured him.\n\nNathair nodded curtly and returned to his seat. Veradis sank into a chair besides Rhin, for the first time seeing Alcyon's bulk standing in the shadows. He smiled ruefully at the giant.\n\n'Well met, little man,' Alcyon said, a smile twitching his moustache.\n\n'Not so well, I'm afraid,' Veradis said.\n\n'You live, that is well enough, by my reckoning,' Alcyon grunted.\n\n'Very touching, but enough of that. Time for greetings later,' Calidus snapped. He turned his hawk-like gaze upon Veradis and Rhin. 'I need to know - what happened?' There was something in Calidus' voice, an edge that whispered of rage well concealed, enough leaking through to fill Veradis with a sense of dread.\n\n_This is worse than my childhood weapons training, when Krelis would beat me black and blue, and then Alben would make me tell him what I did wrong._\n\n'We were concerned that the enemy would flee, once they saw how outnumbered they were,' Veradis said, reciting the strategy emotionlessly. 'So we marched at night and crept up on their camp in the dark. I thought, if we were close enough come sunrise that we would be able to bring them to battle, give them no time to flee.'\n\n'And you agreed with this?' Calidus asked Rhin. She lifted her chin and met Calidus' gaze.\n\n'It was _my_ idea,' Rhin said.\n\n'It seemed like a good plan, at the time,' Veradis added weakly.\n\n'They usually do,' Calidus said flatly, leaning back and folding his arms. 'So what happened?'\n\nVeradis explained about the march and the deception that they had fallen for.\n\n'So they crept around you, stole my ships and burned the rest.' Calidus leaned forwards in his chair.\n\n'Not all of them,' Rhin said.\n\n'Ah, that's something.'\n\n'How many left?'\n\nFifteen.'\n\n'A transporter? We need a transporter to carry the cauldron.'\n\nVeradis shook his head. 'No, only the galleys.'\n\nCalidus frowned.\n\n'We could take the fifteen ships and sail after them,' Veradis offered.\n\nCalidus tugged at his short beard. 'They number three to four hundred, mostly Jehar, also Benothi giants, Corban and his followers - who almost single-handedly decimated the garrison at Dun Vaner . . .' Calidus shot a withering glance at Rhin. 'The maximum you could sail with would be a thousand men - your warband. You would lose.'\n\n'My shield wall has faced giants before, draigs, wyrms,' Veradis said.\n\n'Aye, but not a warband commanded by one of the Kadoshim and his Black Sun. Or the Jehar.'\n\n'Or Balur One-Eye,' Uthas muttered. 'He is a formidable foe.'\n\n_I have heard his name in the tales my nan used to tell me._\n\n'The answer is no,' Calidus continued, frowning at Uthas' interruption. 'You will not pursue them. When it was our  combined forces against them then the answer was beyond doubt. I will not take risks, you and the eagle-guard are too valuable. And I cannot spare men who are guarding the cauldron to swell your numbers. Besides, I know their destination - they are going to Drassil. We shall follow them there in our own time, when all is ready and the cauldron is safe.'\n\nVeradis bowed his head, defiant but resigned. 'Where is the cauldron?' he asked. 'The story of its taking is something I'd dearly love to hear.'\n\n'It was a hard battle,' Nathair said. He looked out of the window, eyes distant. 'A tale I'll tell you another time, over a jug of wine. And now a great weapon is in our hands.' He looked back to Veradis. 'Our plan was to transport it by ship to Tenebral, and for all of us to sail with it.'\n\nVeradis hung his head.\n\n'All is not lost,' Calidus said. 'Correct me if I am wrong, Nathair, but your plan was to summon our allies to Tenebral: the kings of Isiltir, Carnutan and Helveth, for a council of war?'\n\n'It was.'\n\n'Well then, if we march the cauldron back we could travel through Isiltir, send messengers ahead and summon Jael, Gundul and Lothar to meet us at some practical location; say, Mikil.'\n\n'Good,' Nathair said, nodding slowly. 'We would need to move fast, to reach Mikil before winter comes.'\n\n'Aye. It could be done.'\n\n'A good plan,' Veradis said.\n\n'You will not be coming, I'm afraid,' Calidus said.\n\n'What?'\n\n'I have heard news from Lykos in Tenebral. There is trouble brewing - a rebellion. He claims he can deal with it, but he is Vin Thalun, born to fight on the seas. Land war is not his speciality. I think he needs some help. Take the galleys and your warband back to Tenebral. You can put down this rebellion and then meet us in Mikil.'\n\n'What?' _No. How can I be parted from Nathair, again. What kind of first-sword spends his life fighting hundreds of leagues apart from his king?_\n\n'And you want _me_ to go?'\n\n'Yes,' Nathair said. 'There is no one else whom I would trust with such a task.'\n\n'But I am your first-sword, I should be at your side,' Veradis said pleadingly to Nathair.\n\n'And you are also my battlechief. Do this for me, redeem yourself for yesterday's failure.'\n\nVeradis sighed, feeling his heart sink. 'Who leads this rebellion in Tenebral?' he asked.\n\nNathair looked at him sorrowfully. 'Your father.'\n\nVeradis walked through the corridors of Uthandun in search of Nathair.\n\nTwo nights had passed since Nathair had arrived, and he had hardly seen his friend and King, and then only amidst a press of voices all clamouring for Nathair's attention. Even then Calidus would always appear and send him off on some other task.\n\nAnd now it was the day of leaving and so Veradis had left his chambers while it was still dark, determined to find Nathair, only to find that his King's chambers were unguarded and empty. Muttering curses Veradis marched through corridors, flickering torchlight fading as the corridors became pale with dawn.\n\nEventually he found Nathair on the meadows beyond Uthandun's walls. He was standing in a shallow dell, an area roped off into a paddock sheltered by a line of trees that edged a stream. The King of Tenebral was standing with his draig, throwing the great beast quartered sections of an auroch. Alcyon was standing a few strides away, a dark silhouette in the pale dawn.\n\n'I have been searching for you,' Veradis said as he approached. Nathair looked up but said nothing, just went back to pulling chunks of meat and bone from a sack and throwing them to his draig.\n\n'I did not think _I_ was that hard to find,' Alcyon said.\n\n'Surprising, I know,' Veradis grinned at Alcyon.\n\n_Another thing that is even more surprising is how I have come to value a giant as a friend._ The first time they'd met, Alcyon had broken Veradis' nose, but then Veradis had just hurled a spear at the giant. Since then, though, they had travelled and fought together, saved each other's lives many times, and slowly the barriers had melted and a friendship had formed. They stood together a moment in companionable silence, Nathair with his back to them.\n\n'I have heard talk of the battle of Domhain Pass, and your name is always mentioned,' Alcyon said.\n\n'Aye. It came as a pleasant surprise that I can manage to survive a battle even if you are not there to save me.' Veradis looked up at Alcyon with a smile, saw the hilt of a longsword arching over the giant's shoulder.\n\n'Where is your black axe?'\n\nAlcyon scowled. 'It was taken from me, in battle.'\n\n_That axe was one of the Seven Treasures._\n\n'So two of us out of favour, then.'\n\nAlcyon looked down at Veradis with a frown. 'More than you could ever imagine,' he said.\n\n'Who took it?'\n\n'An enemy.' Alcyon rippled, a tree shrugging off snow. 'I will meet him again.'\n\nVeradis did not doubt it. He glanced sidelong at the giant, at his tattooed thorns swirling around the slabs of his forearms to disappear beneath chainmail sleeves, his long drooping moustache bound with leather cords, dark eyes in a pale, angular face. _Different, and yet not so different, after all._\n\n'Who are you?' Veradis asked him.\n\n'Huh?' grunted the giant.\n\n'You are of the Kurgan clan, are you not?'\n\n'I am,' Alcyon agreed slowly.\n\n'Where are they from?'\n\n'We lived once in your Tenebral,  our realm stretching  further north and  east, all the  way to what you  call Arcona, the  Sea of Grass.'\n\n'And within your clan, who are you?'\n\n'What do you mean?' Alcyon asked suspiciously.\n\n'You see how our people are divided - king, shieldman, warrior, blacksmith, horsemaster, shipbuilder, and so on. What were you?'\n\nAlcyon's brows jutted, a frown creasing them. 'I am nothing,' he growled.\n\nVeradis shrugged. 'It's your business. But for my part, I don't agree that you are nothing, now. If nothing else you are my friend.'\n\nAlcyon turned his gaze upon Veradis for long moments. Then he nodded. 'As you are mine,' he said.\n\nNathair turned and walked over to them.\n\n'I am sailing for Tenebral today,' Veradis said, remembering why he came here. 'I wished to speak with you, before I left. As we once did.'\n\nNathair nodded. He looked pale, much as he had after taking his wound when Aquilus had been murdered. 'I have wished to speak with you, share that jug of wine. But . . .' he spread his hands.\n\n'I know. The days are too short,' Veradis finished for him. There was a change in Nathair. Veradis recognized it. The same aura surrounded Alcyon, always had.\n\n_Melancholy._\n\n'Aye, they are,' Nathair agreed.\n\n'We have now, though, at least.' Mist drifted around their feet, evaporating with the rising sun. Behind them Uthandun was a hazy shadow, the sounds of its waking distant and muted. All seemed still and silent. Veradis pulled a wine skin from his shoulder and pulled out the stopper with his teeth. 'Good wine from Ripa,' he said, grinning.\n\nNathair smiled at that, took the skin and drank deep. For a moment Veradis thought he'd drain the whole skin. He passed it back, a drop of dark red wine running into his short beard.\n\nVeradis offered some to Alcyon.\n\n'So, tell me of Murias,' Veradis said to Nathair.\n\nNathair grimaced, a twist of his mouth. 'The Benothi  were fierce, fought harder than I imagined possible. Wyrms guarded the cauldron, many. Three, four  score  of  them.  Near  a  thousand  of the Jehar fell.' He recited the facts with little to no emotion.\n\n_He speaks as if he is reading it from the histories, not as if he were there, in the thick of it._\n\nThe Jehar were the most accomplished and deadly warriors Veradis had ever witnessed. He could not imagine a foe strong enough to slay a thousand of them.\n\n'How many Benothi were there?'\n\n'A few hundred,' Alcyon said. 'But many sided with Uthas.'\n\n'Survivors?' Veradis asked.\n\n'Uthas has fifty or so Benothi with him,' Alcyon answered. 'Of those who stood against us, they have joined with Meical and the Black Sun. Maybe thirty.'\n\n'And what of Cywen?' That was a question he'd wished to ask since Nathair had arrived, but felt somehow foolish asking it when the others were around.\n\n'Cywen,' Nathair raised his eyebrows and Alcyon looked at his feet.\n\n'She escaped,' Alcyon rumbled. 'Another failure that I am held accountable for.'\n\n'Corban took her. He appeared when the battle for the cauldron was at its most fierce,' Nathair said. 'I saw them flee the hall together.'\n\n_Good._ Veradis did not know why, but it was important to him that Cywen lived. That she was safe. She had seemed to be an innocent swept up in dark times. _Not that she is safe while in the company of the Black   Sun._\n\n'I met Corban, the Black Sun,' Veradis said. 'He was at the Battle of Domhain Pass, led a night raid on Rhin's warband. He wore a wolven pelt, he and a few others.'\n\n'He has a wolven,' Nathair said. 'Storm, he calls it. It was at Murias.'\n\n'Aye. Between them they scared the living hells out of Rhin's men. Many fled during the night.'\n\nNathair shrugged. 'I'm not surprised, if they thought wolven were fighting against them.'\n\n'He called for you - Corban, when he saw the eagle-guard and our shield wall.'\n\n'Called for me?' Nathair raised an eyebrow at that, for the first time looking more than mildly interested.\n\n'Aye. He called you out, declared you coward, claimed you slew his da.'\n\n'I did,' Nathair whispered.\n\n'He challenged you to the court of swords.'\n\n'He did? Brave of him.'\n\n'Aye. I went to fight him in your place, but . . .' He trailed off, remembering Bos dragging him back, because of the Jehar who had stood beside Corban, the one that had single-handedly slain Rauca and near a dozen other eagle-guard. He closed his eyes, the chaos and panic caused by the night raid coming back to him in vivid detail, could hear the crack of the shield wall closing up tight before him.\n\n'He got away,' Veradis shrugged.\n\n'Aye, well. He seems to have a knack for that.'\n\nVeradis dropped his eyes.\n\n'It was meant to be, I suspect,' Nathair said, his voice softening. 'We shall meet someday, he and I, of that I have no doubt.'\n\n'Aye. As long as I am with you when that day comes. We should face him together. That is my dream - our warbands gathered behind us, facing the Black Sun and his allies, the war to be decided in one fell battle.'\n\n'That is how I imagined it, once.'\n\n'You don't think it will happen like that?'\n\n'Perhaps,' Nathair sighed. 'The Black Sun,' he  whispered, speaking the words as if for the first time.\n\n'Aye.' Veradis frowned. _What is wrong with him? It is as if he suffers with some malaise._ 'We will hunt him down,' Veradis repeated, trying to stir up some spirit in his friend. 'But first I must deal with this rebellion in Tenebral.'\n\n'Aye. It is a delicate situation,' Nathair said. His face became stern, angry, more fire in his eyes than Veradis had witnessed since they'd been reunited. 'But it is Tenebral. How can I lead an alliance or rule an empire if I cannot keep my own realm in order. You must be my hand of justice, Veradis.'\n\n'I know,' Veradis said, fear edging his voice. Not fear of battle, of death, but fear of what he may have to do. _My father. My brothers._\n\n'It is your kin, I know,' Nathair said, his face softening. 'I suspect your father's hatred of the Vin Thalun is at the heart of it.'\n\n'And my brother's,' Veradis muttered. 'Krelis despises the Vin Thalun.'\n\n'If that is the root of the problem then I think you can repair the damage that has been done. It will require some diplomacy, which is not your strongest point, but it could be done.'\n\n'Aye. If that is the problem, then I will solve it.' _But what if it is more? What if it is deeper than that? I remember how my father spoke to Nathair. Dismissing him as an arrogant boy. I chose whom I would follow that day._ He took a deep breath, swallowing his worry. _All choices have consequences._\n\nNathair put a hand upon Veradis' shoulder. 'Perhaps I should send someone else, it is unfair to ask you to do this.'\n\n'No,' Veradis said. 'You can trust me in this.'\n\n'Trust you to do what?'\n\n'Whatever is right. To enforce your will. You are King, your will and word is law.'\n\nNathair smiled, but even that was a faded shadow of its former self. His eyes narrowed as if he were in pain. 'If you judge that force is necessary . . . tread carefully. Keep your blade sheathed until all other routes are exhausted. He is your father . . .' Nathair looked at the palm of his hand, where he traced a white scar. Veradis had one of his own, made the night he and Nathair had sworn their oaths to one another, become brothers bound by blood. Alongside Nathair's old scar was a new cut, pinked now, healing but obviously fresh.\n\n'What's that?'\n\nNathair stared at the new scar, then looked up at Veradis, emotion heavy within his eyes.\n\n'Someone comes,' Alcyon said.\n\n'There you are,' a voice called, Calidus and Sumur appearing over the crest of the dell. They marched quickly towards them.\n\nNathair leaned close to Veradis. 'It marks a new oath,' he whispered.\n\n'A new oath? To whom?' Veradis asked.\n\nNathair's face shifted, emotions crossing it like clouds on a windswept day. 'Remember what I said, about your father.'\n\n'Of course,' Veradis said. 'Nathair, you are troubling me. What is wrong? What new oath?'\n\n'It is nothing,' Nathair said. He turned away, back to his draig, then glanced back over his shoulder. 'Keep a close watch on the path you follow, my friend, else one day you will look about you and not know where you are,' Nathair said quietly.\n\n'Veradis,' Calidus said as he reached them. 'I have been looking for you. There are many last arrangements to speak of, before you sail.'\n\n'Of course there are,' Veradis sighed. He was frowning, still looking at Nathair. 'I was just . . .'\n\n'What?' Calidus asked, his wolf eyes boring into Veradis.\n\n'Saying goodbye,' Nathair said for him.\n\n'Ahh.' Calidus looked between the three of them - Nathair, Veradis and Alcyon.\n\nVeradis looked behind Calidus to Sumur. He had seen little of the Jehar since they had arrived, so busy had he been with the organizational duties of the journey to Tenebral that  he  had  not even had time to go and view the cauldron, something that he had dearly wanted to do.\n\nSeeing Sumur now he blinked and swore.\n\n'What has happened to you?' he gasped. Sumur was clothed in his usual dark chainmail, his curved sword arching across his back; he was eating a chicken leg. His tanned skin had paled, though, veins clear beneath the skin. More striking though were his eyes. They were black, no pupil, no iris, just dark, inky wells.\n\n'A token of the battle for the cauldron,' Calidus said. 'Witchcraft was used by the Benothi, and the Jehar bore the brunt of it. Many died, and those who survived now bear this memento. Think of it like a scar. A badge of honour, of their bravery.'\n\n'This has happened to every one of them?' Veradis asked.\n\n'Aye. Every last one who survived.'\n\n'What of your vision?' Veradis said to Sumur, peering closely at the Jehar. 'Is it hindered?'\n\n'No,' Sumur replied, his accent thick.\n\nVeradis frowned, not quite believing him.\n\nSumur threw his chicken leg  into the air; faster than  Veradis could track he drew his sword from his back and left a silver blur as the blade hissed through the air.\n\nThe chicken leg fell to the ground, in two portions, neatly chopped in half.\n\n'See,' Sumur said, sheathing his sword smoothly.\n\nVeradis shrugged. 'Clearly your vision is fine.'\n\nCalidus put an arm around Veradis' shoulder and steered him away.\n\n'I wanted to talk to you,' Calidus said. 'Of the rebellion in Tenebral.'\n\n'We have just been speaking of it,' Veradis said.\n\n'No surprise, it must be on your mind.'\n\n'Aye, it is.'\n\n'Kin, eh. You can choose your friends, but not your kin,' Calidus said. 'My kin have had a habit of getting me into trouble. Try and find the middle ground. Avoid bloodshed if you can.' Calidus steered him back towards Uthandun. 'Of course he is your kin so a peaceful solution must be sought, but even putting sentiment aside, we need your father, Ripa, and his swords. Only remember, most of all you must support Lykos, not undermine him. And let your support for him be seen.'\n\n'I will. Nathair has already asked as much.'\n\n'Good. There is more, though. The situation in Tenebral is delicate.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Fidele is involved.'\n\n'Fidele, how?'\n\nCalidus sighed a deep breath. 'There is no easy way to say this. I suspect that her mind is unhinged.'\n\n'What?'\n\n'She has behaved most strangely, I fear there is no other explanation. You remember when we met with Lykos at Dun Carreg, he told us of how the barons of Tenebral were manipulating Fidele, how she was proving unsuited to ruling.'\n\n'Aye. Nathair thought that she was still grieving for Aquilus.'\n\n'Yes.  Well,  upon  Lykos'  return  Fidele  began  behaving  in  ever more erratic ways. She divided the eagle-guard and sent them to the four corners of the realm on meaningless errands. She arrested Peritus and Armatus.' He stopped walking and looked back at Nathair, checking that he was well out of earshot. 'She wed Lykos.'\n\n'What!' _I cannot believe that. Regal, cultured Fidele and that corsair._\n\n'It is true, and Nathair cannot know. Not yet. He has too much to focus on. I need you to bring her to me, discreetly. And by that I mean secretly, in chains if needs be.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n\n#### RAFE\n\nRafe threw Sniffer a strip of dried meat, the animal seeming to swallow it without chewing.\n\n'Go on, boy, after them,' Rafe said, pointing into the distance with a flick of his wrist. Sniffer turned and loped ahead, his nose low to the ground.\n\n'How far ahead, do you think?' Evnis asked him.\n\nRafe squinted into the distance. 'Half a day,' he said. The Baglun Forest was a solid wall to their right, curling away westwards as they rounded its eastern fringes. Behind them a hundred warriors sat upon their horses, a mixture of men from Ardan and Cambren, though all wore Rhin's colours.\n\nRafe sucked in a deep breath, the air fresh and clean with dawn.\n\n_I am riding at the head of a hundred shieldmen, beside Evnis my old lord and new King; it is good to be home. Good to be alive._ He had not felt like this for a long time. _Ever? Certainly since Da died._ He felt happy. But Evnis had been so full of praise for him, had treated him so well since they had ridden out from Dun Carreg, that he found it almost impossible to feel any other way. The only blight in the ten-night since they'd left had been on the first day, when they'd ridden down the winding slope of the hill that Dun Carreg was built upon, past the wind-choked copse of trees where he had had his arm ripped open by Corban's wolven. Memories of that day had flooded him. Idly he ran a finger down the scar on his forearm, running near enough from elbow to wrist.\n\n_There 'll come a day of reckoning, mark my words._\n\nHe knew why Evnis had been so full of praise for him.\n\n_Vonn._\n\nRafe had brought the news that Evnis had wanted to hear. His son was back in Ardan. Not with absolute certainty, of course. But he knew that Edana had intended to flee to the marshes in Ardan, and that when Rafe had last seen her, standing upon a ship's deck as it sailed away from a beach in Domhain, Vonn had been standing beside her. And that pleased Evnis.\n\n'Let's be after them, then,' Evnis said and kicked his mount on. With a clatter of harness and the drumming of hooves the hundred-strong honour guard lurched into motion. The sun rose steadily in the east and soon Rafe was sweating.\n\n'You were a friend to my Vonn,' Evnis said after they'd ridden some leagues in silence.\n\n'I was, my lord,' Rafe said.\n\n'We can dispense with the \"lord\", I think,' Evnis said. 'At least when we are alone, anyway. I have known you since you were a bairn clinging to your mam's skirts.' Evnis smiled good-naturedly at Rafe. 'What kind of friend was Vonn to you?'\n\n'I always looked up to him,' Rafe said automatically.  'He's  a couple of years older than me, seemed like a hero. He was the best out of us all with sword and spear, always knew what to do, no matter the problem.' He thought a bit harder. 'He always tried to do the honourable thing.'\n\n'Hmm, yes,' Evnis muttered. 'That was becoming a problem.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\nEvnis shrugged. 'It's no secret that we argued. That's why he's been wandering about the Banished Lands, instead of riding beside me now. He was - is - young, his head still full of tales of noble warriors and deeds of valour. The world was black and white to him - good and evil. And he was in love, which didn't help matters.'\n\n'Mordwyr's girl,' Rafe said.\n\n'Aye. I thought it was their secret.'\n\nRafe shrugged. 'I'm born and bred a huntsman's son. Been used to watching, observing, reading signs.' _Spying._\n\n'I wish I'd spoken to you sooner,' Evnis sighed. 'As you know, I had plans. Brenin stopped me from saving my wife Fain . . .' He fell silent, mouth twisting. 'That is avenged now. But Vonn did not understand.'\n\n'You have to be realistic,' Rafe said.\n\n'Exactly. Perhaps some time in the world has helped to teach that lesson to Vonn.' Evnis sighed and shook his head.\n\n'If he is with Edana still, we will get him back,' Rafe said.\n\n'We will, one way or another.'\n\nThey rode on in silence.\n\nHighsun came and went, the sun sinking ever westwards, sending their shadows stretching towards the first trees of the Baglun. A few hundred paces ahead a figure emerged from a copse of rowan, one man upon a horse, a hound at his side. Sniffer bounded up to them, began leaping playfully about the hound.\n\n'It is Braith,' Rafe said to Evnis.\n\n'We are close, then,' Evnis said.\n\n'Well met,' Braith said as they drew near. The huntsman flashed a grin at Rafe, then dipped his head to Evnis.\n\n'Well met,' Evnis replied, riding close and offering his arm to Braith in the warrior grip.\n\n'Halion. Where is he?'\n\n'Less than half a day ahead.' Braith pointed into the distance, along the southern fringes of the  Baglun.  'The  marshlands  of Dun Crin are south and west of here, where Halion is headed, but he is keeping to the edges of the Baglun for now - more cover, is my guess.'\n\n'After him, then,' Evnis said.\n\n'Not so hasty,' Braith said. 'You should lead your warband into the forest and follow along under better cover - it's open woodland, easy enough to ride through, but it'll hide you from prying eyes.'\n\n'Can he see us, then?' Evnis asked, peering into the distance.\n\n'I saw you,' Braith shrugged. 'We don't want to get too close or we'll spook him, then we'll never find Edana.'\n\nEvnis nodded and led his warriors into the fringes of the forest.\n\n'Not you,' Braith said to Rafe. 'You can ride with me.'\n\nThey set off again, Scratcher and Sniffer leading them unerringly west, skirting the edges of the forest.\n\n'Anything to report?' Braith asked him.\n\n'Evnis is desperate to find his son, Vonn. I saw him on the ship with Edana.'\n\n'I know,' grunted Braith. 'I was there.'\n\n'Thought you might have been too busy getting kicked off of the pier by Camlin to notice.'\n\n'That's enough of your cheek, now.' Braith's expression shifted, a dark cloud. 'Anything else?'\n\n'There is a resistance based in the marshes. There have been raids; nothing of any real impact yet. There is a warband down here hunting for them. Morcant leads them.'\n\n'Ahh. Not the best man for a task like this.'\n\n'How so?' Rafe asked him.\n\n'To catch rats you need patience. Morcant is proud, impatient, spontaneous. Though I'd not tell him that to his face.' Braith grinned. 'He's a rare talent with a blade.'\n\n'I know. I saw his duel against Conall. He lost, but then, so would most against Conall.'\n\n'He's that good, Conall?'\n\n'Oh aye.'\n\nBraith nodded, looking thoughtful, but said no more.\n\nTo the south the land dipped, spreading into a wide bowl of water-dappled land, dotted with patches of woodland. They passed a few villages, columns of smoke and tilled land marking them out. Rafe saw the occasional tower standing lonely on a rare hill, large pyres beside them built up high and silhouetted against the skyline. Sometimes there was a palisaded wall about the tower. It was hard to tell from that distance, but something about them suggested to Rafe that they were recent constructions.\n\nAs the sun began to sink behind the Baglun the hounds came to a sudden stop. They both stared into the distance, still as statues, their hackles rising.\n\nRafe stared too,  saw distant  figures materialize in  the fading light: riders, lots of them. 'It's Morcant, or at least a large portion of his men,' Braith said. 'See the banner - Rhin's broken branch.'\n\nHooves drummed behind them and Rafe turned to see Evnis approaching.\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'Morcant, I'm guessing,' Braith said. 'Do you want us to go and fetch him?'\n\nEvnis just sat and stared a while. 'No,' he said eventually. 'I don't want him charging in head first and scaring Halion off. We'll likely only have one chance at this.'\n\n'I agree,' Braith said. 'We may as well make camp here. The dogs won't lose Halion's scent now. They've tracked him half a thousand leagues already.'\n\n_And Vonn. That 's who Evnis really wants to find. Thing is - what will he do once he finds him?_\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\n'How're we going to get in there?' Vonn asked Camlin.\n\nThey were lying on a slope amidst long grass and wildflowers, staring at a palisaded tower that was built upon a low hill, a massive pyre of wood piled high about a hundred paces from the gates. The setting sun was hot upon their backs.\n\n'The wall's not more'n two men high. Two or three of us with a lift over'll get those gates open.'\n\n'Is that possible? There are men on the wall, at the gates. And how many more inside?'\n\n_I 've done it before. Many times._ The last time had been at a hold south of Dun Carreg. He'd been leading the crew then, as well. It had gone smoothly at first - over the wall and gates open. Then they'd been heard and blood had been spilt. He felt a flush of shame as he remembered the women and bairns.\n\n_Feels like a different life. A different man._\n\n'There's not many left in there. Most of them rode out with Morcant.'\n\nThey'd caught up with the chest of silver yesterday, after almost a ten-night of tracking it, Meg leading them through a confusing network of waterways that edged the marshes. Unfortunately, when they caught up with the wain carrying the chest, it had been surrounded by Morcant and a convoy of over two hundred swords. When Morcant had stopped in the open and made camp for the night Camlin had considered attempting to snatch the chest, but there had just been too many guards and Drust had refused to commit his men. So they'd followed Morcant and his chest of silver the next day to this tower.\n\nCamlin and the three of them had spent half the day creeping closer to the fortification. When the sun was a shield of fire shimmering above the Baglun the gates had opened, Morcant riding out at the head of at least two hundred warriors. They had headed east, the sound of their horses hooves fading like distant thunder.\n\n'We should strike just before dawn,' Camlin said, looking at Drust.\n\nThe ageing warrior stared at Camlin. 'I'll not risk my men's lives for nothing. You are sure the chest is in there?'\n\n'Aye. We saw it carried in there upon a wain, and it hasn't come out. And Morcant just left with his warband. No wain.'\n\n'He'd have left men to guard it, though.'\n\n'Of course, but not many. I've counted six on this watch - there'll be double that, then maybe a dozen others to keep the place running, no more'n that. Remember, Morcant's a proud, arrogant bastard and the chest's in his tower, behind a wall and a score of men. He doesn't think anyone'd have the stones to try and take his silver.'\n\nDrust smiled at that. 'Put that way it's a hard challenge to resist.'\n\n'Now,' Camlin whispered and ran, stooping low to the ground, his eyes never leaving the palisaded wall he was approaching. He heard the thud of Vonn's footsteps behind him, Baird, Brogan and a few others as well.\n\nThey approached from the south-west in the dim of false dawn, the tower a solid blackness amongst the shadows. They headed for a dark patch of wall between two torches, Camlin picking up his speed as he neared the wall, twenty paces, his heartbeat loud as a drum in his ears.\n\n_Almost there._\n\nThe slope was gentle but Camlin was still breathing hard when his back finally touched the wall, the timber planks smelling sweet and leaking amber.\n\nOther figures reached the wall about him and he searched out Brogan, nodding to the big man from Domhain. Brogan cupped his hands, Camlin put a foot in them, and then he was being hoisted into the air, hands gripping the wall's rim and he was over. For a horrifying moment his slung bow snagged on the wall. He wriggled, trying not to snap the string, then he was free. He dropped to a walkway with hardly a sound, hand searching for the hilt of his knife.\n\nBaird appeared heartbeats later, the one-eyed warrior grinning like a fool, Vonn and three more following shortly behind.\n\nCamlin closed his eyes and listened. Heard the deep lowing of auroch nearby, further off the whinny of a horse. Nothing else.\n\n_Place like this should always have a hound or two. Or a wolven. Or a crow._ He missed Corban's company, and the reassurance of Storm and Craf.\n\nHe rose to a crouch and moved along the walkway, Vonn following him, Baird and the other three dropping to the hard ground and shadowing them.\n\nThe torchlight over the gates grew quickly closer, two men standing within the circle of light. On the ground there were two more guards, and nearby the window of a small guardhouse bloomed orange with firelight.\n\n_Another in there, most likely._ He gestured to Baird, then, a handspan from the edge of the light, he put one knee on the walkway, pulled and nocked an arrow, drew and released.\n\nThe first warrior toppled and fell with hardly a sound, until he hit the ground with a thud. Vonn had surged past Camlin the moment his arrow had left the string, his sword scraping from its scabbard, the second guard turning weary eyes their way. With a flash of red in the torchlight Vonn's sword ripped the guard's throat open.\n\nHe saw Baird pausing for a moment in the doorway to the guardhouse. Camlin leaped to the ground, regretting it as he felt the impact in his knees. Vonn ran down the stairs to stand beside him.\n\n_I 'm getting too old for this._ He winced at the throbbing in his knees.\n\nVonn looked to him, the young warrior's face all dark pools of shadow and flickering torchlight. Together they shouldered the bar from the gates and pushed them open.\n\nBrogan's grinning face greeted them, standing at the head of fifteen warriors, Drust amongst them.\n\nCamlin held a finger to his lips and led them into the hold.\n\nBetween scaling the wall and killing the gate guards true dawn had arrived, and now buildings were materializing out of the uniform shadow. The men moved methodically, checking the buildings as they went. All were empty apart from one - a naked man and woman wrapped around one another in a cot.\n\n_Wife or whore? Probably whore, as there seem to be no families here, no bairns or other women, no signs of permanent settlement._\n\nThe man was snoring. A helmet and leather cuirass hung over the end of the bed, scabbarded sword leaning against a chair. His eyes flickered open and he opened his mouth to cry out but Camlin's sword-point at his throat silenced him.\n\n_Kill him, move on. Time is short._\n\nCamlin drew his arm back, tensed for the killing thrust, the warrior on the bed frozen. Yet he hesitated.\n\nFor a moment he felt as if he was back in Braith's crew, knew he would have cut the warrior's throat without a second thought.\n\n_I 'm not that man now._\n\nThe door creaked and Vonn entered, eyes moving from Camlin to the two upon the bed.\n\nThe moment stretched.\n\n'Bind them,' Camlin said, holding his sword ready as Vonn tore strips from the warrior's cloak and bound and gagged the two on the bed.\n\nThey moved on, past a small smithy and a stable; beyond them was the tower that the fortification was built around. An open space ringed the tower and Camlin stopped in the shadows of the stable, gestured to Drust and the others to do the same, then nocked an arrow and waited.\n\nIt only took a few moments for the tower doors to swing open, revealing a small feast-hall. Warriors emerged, three of them, others clustered behind. Camlin's first arrow hit one through the eye and he collapsed bonelessly; his second arrow punched into a warrior high in his chest, piercing leather vest and woollen shirt beneath, sending him stumbling back into someone behind. Others came out, shields raised. Camlin sent another arrow into an exposed thigh. Another dinged off an iron helm, the man staggering, and then Drust's men were amongst them. Camlin dropped his bow and drew his sword.\n\nVonn was ahead of him. He had no shield and so was sending controlled strokes at ankles and heads. Beside him Brogan roared into the fray, face twisted like a madman, swinging an overhead blow crashing into a shield with such force that the rim crumpled, his blade carrying on to crush a helm. The warrior collapsed, dead or unconscious. Brogan leaped over him as he roared a battle-cry.\n\nWith his left hand Camlin pulled a knife from his belt and joined the battle.\n\nBaird was retreating before a man who knew how to use his shield. Camlin stepped in  close  on  the  man's  flank  and  stabbed his sword behind the shield, felt it scrape along knuckles and flesh.\n\nThe warrior lowered his shield, blood dripping from the rim and lunged wildly at Camlin. Baird punched his sword-point into the warrior's face and he collapsed in an explosion of bone and brains. Two of Drust's men were battering at an enemy, pushing him back into the doorway of the tower. There was a hissing noise and suddenly a spear sprouted through one of Drust's warriors, dropping him. Camlin glanced behind, searching for the spear-thrower. He was standing on the walkway of the palisade, over a hundred paces away, three or four other warriors in black and gold about him.\n\n_Hell of a throw, that._\n\nThe battle here was moving inside the feast-hall, only a handful of Morcant's men left. Camlin grabbed Vonn, Brogan and Baird and pointed to the men on the wall. With only a fierce grin from Brogan they set off running, Camlin stooping to retrieve his bow.\n\nA hundred paces closer and Camlin saw the warrior who had cast the spear take his comrade's spear. Camlin skidded to a halt, drew an arrow as he saw the warrior aim for Camlin's comrades. Camlin sucked in a breath, held it, drew back the arrow until the feathers brushed his cheek, then released.\n\nCamlin's arrow hit the man at the base of his throat, just above the rim of his cuirass. He crashed back a couple of paces into the wall and toppled over it. Then Brogan and Baird were charging up the stairs, Vonn right behind them. Camlin launched another arrow before they clashed, sending another warrior in black and gold reeling. He slung his bow and ran, drawing his sword as he reached the stairs. By the time he made it to the top the remaining enemy were dead, Vonn, Baird and Brogan all blood-spattered and breathing heavily.\n\nThe sun had risen fully now. Inside the hold the clash of arms still rang out, but it was the sound of only a few men.\n\n_It is done. We 've taken it._ Camlin gave his friends a savage grin. 'We've done it, lads.'\n\nHe told Vonn and Brogan to put on black and gold cloaks and patrol the walkway. 'Keep an eye out, just in case Morcant forgot something,' he grinned again.\n\n'Aye, chief,' Brogan said. Camlin quite liked the sound of that.\n\nHe headed back to the tower with Baird, found Drust putting his men to work, dragging the dead out into an open space before the tower.\n\n'Twenty-one of Morcant's dead,' Drust said as Camlin approached.\n\n'There's another six dead on the wall,' Camlin said with a jerk of his thumb over a shoulder. 'Five more at the gates.'\n\n'Thirty-two, then. More than you guessed. Bad odds for my men, bad guess from you.'\n\n'How many dead of ours?' Camlin asked.\n\n'Three,' Drust said.\n\n'Don't know what dice you've been playing but that sounds like good odds to me,' Baird said.\n\n'A risk worth taking,' Camlin added. 'We need that chest of silver.'\n\nThey found the chest in a room at the back of the first floor. Camlin just smiled when they opened its lid, the silver glowing in reflected torchlight.\n\nHalf a dozen men carried it out while others found the wain it had arrived in and harnessed an auroch up to it. When Camlin emerged from the tower the day was bright, all of the enemy warriors stripped of their useful items - weapons, boots, armour, warrior torcs.\n\n'Take their cloaks,' Camlin said to Drust. 'Anything else with Rhin's colours or sigil.'\n\n'We'll not be wearing Rhin's black and gold,' he spluttered.\n\n'Might come in handy,' Camlin said with a shrug. 'This is the second newly built tower we've passed in the last ten-night. My guess is they're in your - the resistance's - honour. Might have to do something about that.'\n\n'What do you think they're up to?'\n\n'Flushing you out. Morcant wants results. Did you see the pyre piled high out on the hill? Looks suspiciously like a warning beacon to me.'\n\nDrust nodded thoughtfully. 'Let's get that chest onto a boat.'\n\nThey left the hold behind; the ground levelled as they approached the marsh. Meg came scampering out from a tall bank of sedge.\n\n'There's someone over there, on the north slope in  the  long grass. He's watching you. Best not look - don't think he can see us from where he is, but better safe than sorry.'\n\n'How many?' Camlin asked.\n\n'Just one that I saw,' she shrugged. 'Could be more. Saw him hobble his horse and sneak closer. He was good at it.'\n\n'Better get this chest loaded,' Drust said. 'I'll send a few swords to poke him out of the long grass.'\n\n'Best not kick the nest till you know how deep it goes,' Camlin said. 'I left Vonn and Brogan walking the walls in black and gold; that should buy us some time. Get everyone out of that hold and into the marshes, but calmly. No rushing. I'll go and take a look at our uninvited guest.'\n\nDrust caught his arm and stared at him. 'You did well, Camlin. I may have judged you wrong.'\n\n'Too early for back-slapping,' Camlin said gruffly. 'We're not out of this yet.'\n\nCamlin left them to it, slipping into a bank of tall sedge, Meg at his heels.\n\n'Best stay here, lassie,' he said to her. 'Don't want you getting hurt.'\n\n'I can look after myself,' she sniffed. 'And you don't know where he is.'\n\nCamlin took a moment. 'All right, come part of the way. Stop when I tell you.' He held her eyes until she nodded.\n\nThey looped wide around the hill, following the sedge and willows that grew thick on the marshland's border, eventually replacing  that  cover  for  tall  witch-grass.  Camlin  stooped  low, following narrow trails through the grass that spoke of foxes and weasels, curling slowly north-east around the base of the hill.\n\n'Over there,' Meg eventually whispered to him, pointing towards a gnarly old elm that grew in the meadow on the north side of the tower.\n\n'All right, lass. You get on back to your boat, now.'\n\nShe nodded, flashed him a grin and disappeared back into the meadow grass.\n\nIt was highsun when he saw the horse tied on the far side of the elm, a dapple-grey mare. He edged closer, saw it was fitted with what looked like good-quality but travel-sore kit, the saddle-blanket fine wool but mud-spattered and its edges fraying. He scanned the area between the elm and the tower, eyes methodically running over every patch of ground.\n\n_There._\n\nA shadow in the grass, a flicker of movement. Slowly he pulled an arrow from his quiver, quieter than the sighing of the grass, then crept closer, eyes flitting between each new space for his feet and the shadow up ahead.\n\nAt the edge of his vision he saw a figure walking along the tower wall, knew without having to focus that it was Brogan. Closer and closer he inched, until the whole figure was outlined in shadow through the grass, now only twenty paces ahead.\n\n_Close enough that I won 't miss, too far for a dash with a sword._\n\nHe straightened and drew his bow, the wood creaking.\n\nThe man in front of him froze, hearing the sound. He held his hands out, showing they were empty.\n\n_He knows what a drawn bow sounds like._\n\n'Nice and slow, turn around now.'\n\nThe man turned.\n\n_Elyon 's stones,  it  cannot be. _ Then Camlin was blinking, lowering his bow, rushing forwards to embrace the man before him, caught up in a bear hug in return.\n\nIt was Halion.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-THREE\n\n#### EVNIS\n\nEvnis rode amongst the wide-spread trees, dappled sunlight slanting in from the east. His eyes constantly drifted out onto the meadow to where Braith and Rafe rode, the two grey hounds ahead of them. Beyond  them  sunlight  glistened  on  a  thousand  waterways,  the marshlands opening up like a jewel-crusted spider web of streams and rivers, fragmented by drab, impenetrable clusters of woodland.\n\n_Is Vonn truly out there?_ When Rafe had walked into the feast-hall and told him that Vonn was most likely back in Ardan it had hit him like a punch in the gut.\n\n_What will I say to him? Will I ask him for forgiveness? Will I scold him for a fool?_ He recoiled at that thought. _No, I will not drive him away. Not again. I will reason with him. He has had a taste of the real world now, surely his notions of honour and glory have been doused with a good dose of reality._\n\n'My lord,' Glyn said close by, startling him from his reverie.\n\n'What is it?' Evnis asked, more irritably than he had intended.\n\n'Rafe's coming.'\n\nIndeed he was. Evnis raised his hand, his warband stuttering to a halt amongst the shadow-drenched woods.\n\n'Braith thinks you should join us,' Rafe said as he entered beneath the first branches.\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Dogs are acting strange, and there's something up ahead, in the distance. Looks like a tower.'\n\n'It may be one of Morcant's. I received a message from him some time ago that he was considering building a series of watchtowers around the marshes. I told him to do whatever he liked, so long as it ended in rebels swinging from a noose.' Laughter sputtered fitfully through the warriors at his back.\n\n'Maybe it's one of them, then. But still, the dogs. Think we're getting close to Halion.'\n\nEvnis sat there a moment, felt a lightness in his chest, excitement and fear mixed.\n\n'Glyn, send two men with a change of horse. Tell them to ride and bring Morcant back. Quickly.'\n\n'Aye,' Glyn grunted.\n\n'And give me that,' Evnis said, pointing at a horn hanging from a hook on Glyn's saddle.\n\n'Come on, then,' Evnis said as he kicked his horse into a trot. Rafe caught up with him and they rode into the meadow.\n\nEvnis crept through the long grass, occasionally catching a glimpse of the tower.\n\n_My back aches._ He'd joined Braith and ridden through the meadows for a while, but then the hounds had become excited, so agitated that they had been forced to dismount and creep through the meadow grass, crouching low. It felt as if they'd been walking for a ten-night, but in truth it was only a little past highsun. _Long enough to cripple my back. I am a king now; I should not be slinking through the grass like a snake._ Not for the first time he reminded himself why he was here. _Edana, a threat to my crown. And Vonn, my son. Just a little more patience and all will be well. Edana dead, Vonn back at my side. And I can do patience. There have been years of waiting, and now my dream is reality. I rule Ardan._ At first it had been the most overwhelmingly euphoric feeling, just _knowing_ that he was king. Lord of all he surveyed. Crossing Stonegate as the lord of Dun Carreg, walking into the feast-hall as king. _Not king,_ a voice whispered in his head. _As Rhin 's regent_.\n\n_That does not matter. The reality is that I rule._\n\nRafe stopped in front of him and Evnis almost collided with him. He slipped to the side, saw the two hounds a dozen paces ahead, their whole bodies trembling, tense as drawn bowstrings. They were staring straight ahead. Rafe put a hand on each one and they seemed to calm, marginally.\n\nEvnis saw the tower, part of a larger hold with a palisaded wall around it. A figure moved along the wall, even from this distance the black and gold of his cloak catching the sun. Closer, about a hundred paces to the left, stood an old thick-trunked tree. A horse was cropping grass before it. It was saddled, but riderless.\n\nEvnis opened his mouth to speak but Braith put a finger to his mouth, then pointed.\n\nSomething was moving in the long grass ahead of them, a ripple that went against the breeze.\n\nThey sat and watched, the sun sliding across the sky. Sweat dripped into Evnis' eyes. His back muscles burned, slowly began to scream at him.\n\nJust when he thought he could stand it no longer a man stood in the long grass, back to them. He raised a bow, pointing it ahead and drew an arrow.\n\nBraith gasped, a name hissed venomously as quiet as the breeze. 'Camlin.'\n\nEvnis saw the huntsman reach for his own quiver of arrows, at the same time slipping his strung bow from his back. Evnis reached out and gripped his wrist.\n\nBraith stared at him, and for a moment Evnis saw murder in the huntsman's eyes.\n\nEvnis shook his head. He mouthed a word.\n\n_Edana._\n\nSlowly, incrementally he saw the commitment to violence leave Braith's face.\n\nThen  Camlin  was  moving  forwards,  another  figure  emerging from the grass a little further ahead. Evnis recognized him instantly.\n\n_Halion._ He had changed. Looked exhausted. Leaner, definitely, his face all sharp bones, his beard ragged, but still he had that _look_. Those grey eyes that could stare you down, calm, terrifyingly so, in the face of fury. That was why Evnis had determined to turn his brother against him. Together Halion and Conall were unstoppable, two parts of the same whirlwind, the calm and the fury. Separate, they were just men. Dangerous, still, but not unstoppable.\n\nHalion and Camlin embraced, a silent camaraderie passing between them that stirred up anger in Evnis' belly. He could not say why.\n\nThey  parted,  grinning  like  fools  at  one  another.  Words  were exchanged, too low for Evnis to hear, and then Camlin was dragging Halion through the long grass, up the slope towards the tower shouting at the guards on the wall.\n\n_What are they doing? They 'll be seen._\n\nThen the word Camlin was shouting coalesced inside Evnis' head, finally making sense.\n\n_Vonn._\n\nA man in a black and gold cloak was leaning over the timber wall. As Camlin and Halion climbed the hill the man on the wall vaulted over, landed agilely with knees bent.\n\nSuddenly, like a candle lit in a dark room, Evnis knew him.\n\n_My son._\n\nHe was tall, a shock of golden blond hair on his head, a neatly trimmed beard with streaks of red amongst the gold. He ran the dozen strides between him and Halion and hugged the older warrior, grinning and laughing.\n\nEvnis stood up from his hiding place in the grass, shook off grasping hands from Braith, cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled his son's name.\n\n' _VONN_.'\n\nThe three men on the hill turned and looked at him, and for a frozen moment the world dimmed, seemed to form a tunnel to the exclusion of all else between Evnis and Vonn as they stared at one another. Then Braith swore and stood beside him, his bow drawn.\n\n'Damn you to hell,' the huntsman spat at Evnis, then loosed. His arrow sped towards the three men, Camlin moving first, shoving the other two so that Braith's arrow slammed thrumming into the timber wall.\n\nA heartbeat later an arrow came back at them, Rafe dragging Evnis to the ground, the arrow hissing by frighteningly close. There was shouting from around the tower wall, figures appearing from the south. Figures with swords and spears in their hands.\n\nBraith and Camlin were launching arrows at one another. Evnis caught fleeting glimpses of Halion and Vonn running along the wall, away.\n\n_Away._ At the same time other warriors were moving closer, a dozen at least, some of them already wading into the long grass on the hill slope.\n\nEvnis reached for Glyn's horn that he'd tied to his belt and put it to his lips, blew hard, a long wavering blast issuing from it. Men paused all over the hill.\n\nA sound filled the silence, a distant rumble. Heads turned, staring northwards to see Glyn and a hundred warriors riding out of the tattered fringes of the Baglun. Then an older warrior with rust-coloured hair spilling from an iron helm was shouting, giving orders to those on the hill. They retreated, heading  southwards.  Before Evnis knew what he was doing his feet were moving and he was running, up the hill, wading through the long grass. Voices called after him but he ignored them, eyes fixed on the back of his fleeing son.\n\nBehind him the rumble of his approaching warband was growing louder, but not loud enough to reach him in the next hundred heartbeats. For a moment he considered stopping, retreating, the sensible part of his mind screaming at him to listen, but then he caught another glimpse of Vonn, staring back at him briefly.\n\nHe drew his sword and carried on.\n\nTwo warriors came at him, and a small thread of fear squirmed through his belly. In a few heartbeats he appraised them - both younger men, lean and hungry for glory, their armour consisting of little more than leather vests and thick armbands, whereas Evnis wore a coat of mail that hung almost to his knees. It was making him sweat but he was glad of it.\n\n_They probably do not know who I am, or more of them would have turned to take my head. I am a fool._ He started to regret his decision.\n\nOne came straight at him, the other circling to his left. Evnis blocked an overhead blow, deflecting it so that his opponent's swing pulled him off balance. Evnis turned his block into a cut, one of the first moves he'd been taught in the Rowan Field, and to his surprise he felt his blade connect. It cut into the back of his opponent, not deep, the leather vest taking the brunt of the blow, but nevertheless there was blood on Evnis' blade and he felt a rush of elation. The young warrior stumbled forwards.\n\n_I will do this._\n\nThere was movement at the edge of his vision and Evnis twisted to see the other warrior swinging at his neck. Evnis staggered clumsily, partially catching the blow on his blade. A pain lanced through his wrist and his opponent's blade crashed through his defence, glancing off his shoulder, the chainmail turning it, his arm going numb. Evnis attempted to pivot, desperately trying to summon the sword forms he'd learned with so much dedication from the Field, so easily done when someone with sharp iron in their fist wasn't trying to kill you. The hard grin on his enemy's face didn't make him feel any more confident. Somehow he managed to avoid the next blow, grabbed a wrist and then their limbs were tangling and they were falling, rolling down the slope. They came to a halt with Evnis on his back, his opponent sitting on his chest.\n\n_This isn 't going as I'd imagined._\n\nThey'd both lost their swords in the tumble, but the man sitting on his chest had at some point pulled a knife from his belt. He raised it high, Evnis struggling futilely, his arms pinned.\n\nAn arrow slammed into the throat of his attacker and he was thrown backwards, a spray of blood misting across Evnis' face. Evnis pushed up to his elbows, saw the other man bearing down upon him, sword raised.\n\n_My sword, where 's my sword?_ His hand scrabbled around in the grass. _I 'm going to die. Should have waited for the warband._\n\nThe man standing over him with his sword raised paused, his expression shifting from a victory grin to fear, then he was thrown backwards by a mass of fur and snapping teeth. Hands reached down to help Evnis stand, Braith glaring at him. Rafe ran past, his sword stabbing down into the body that was wrestling with two hounds. Rafe's sword came away bloody, the warrior's feet drumming on the ground, then falling still.\n\n'My thanks,' Evnis said as he retrieved his sword. Braith nodded curtly, his face still tight with anger. They were alone on this side of the hold; their enemy had fled southwards. Behind them Glyn thundered up, a hundred warriors following. He dragged on his reins to stop before them.\n\n'Horses,' Evnis shouted and in short moments he was mounted and leading his warband around the curve of the hold's wall. Ahead he saw men running down the hill onto flatter marshland. He glimpsed a river, boats upon it.\n\n'After them,' he yelled, pointing his sword and kicking his horse onwards.\n\nThey galloped down the hill, a summer storm; a few of those they were chasing were overtaken and ridden down. The ground rapidly turned to sucking mud, though. One horse fell, screaming as its leg broke. Swearing, Evnis dismounted, picking his way carefully through the spongy ground. Ahead of him men were leaping into boats, pushing away from the bank with long poles and oars. A few paces away one of his men fell with an arrow in the face.\n\nEvnis paused, slipping behind the cover of a draping willow. He was calmer now, had a grip on the emotion that had overwhelmed all reason earlier. _Think. Don 't repeat your mistakes, rushing in and nearly getting yourself killed._\n\nHis warriors were following him, dismounted and threading their way through the marshes. Some had forged ahead and reached the riverbank, swords clashing with a few stragglers. Another arrow sent one of his men spinning. Rafe appeared beside him, the two hounds flanking him. The fur of their jaws was matted with blood. Braith was a shadow further away, his back to an alder, stepping out to shoot an arrow at the retreating warriors. A man on a boat screamed and toppled into the water.\n\nA new sound grew, rising above the cries of battle along the riverbank. Evnis looked back to see riders crest the slope, sunlight glinting on iron. He felt a moment of panic.\n\n_This is not a good place to be trapped, between horsemen and marshland._\n\nThen he saw the black and gold, Rhin's banner of the broken branch whipped by the wind. Morcant rode at their head, taking in the scene and riding hard for the marsh. Even as Evnis watched, he saw Rhin's disgraced ex-first-sword rein in his mount and slip from his saddle, drawing his sword without breaking a stride. Grudgingly Evnis felt some admiration for his skill.\n\n_Not like me, rolling in the grass and losing my sword._ He determined then and there to resume his sword training in the Rowan Field.\n\nMorcant was yelling orders, pointing, a few score riders peeling off to ride back up the hill and through the tower wall gates. Then he saw Evnis.\n\n'What's going on?' Morcant called out to him above the din, striding over.\n\n_No_ ' _my King_ ', _no bend of the knee?_ 'Your hold appears to have been attacked,' Evnis said, not wanting to talk about Halion and Vonn right now. An arrow whistled through the air, skittering off Morcant's helm. He staggered a step, then joined Evnis behind the cover of the willow. His eyes glanced along the riverbank, then he froze.\n\n'My _SILVER_ ,' he screamed, eyes bulging.\n\nEvnis followed his gaze, saw a flat-bottomed boat quite a way down the river, a large chest sat within it. Another boat drifted between them, a handful of warriors rowing frantically. One was kneeling, bow drawn. An arrow leaped from the bow, thudded into the chest of one of Evnis' men.\n\n_Camlin._\n\nBehind him Vonn stood, staring back at him. Evnis scanned the riverbank, chose a route and stepped out from the  willow  tree, began to zigzag across the marshy ground. He  reached  a  firmer patch and began to run, heard footsteps behind him, but his eyes were fixed upon Vonn. His son returned the gaze.\n\nEvnis reached the riverbank, leaped over fallen bodies, swerved past two men locked in a knife-fight and then the way was clear, but the bank was blocked by a snarl of osier and sedge. His face twisted in frustration,  staring at  the last  boat in the  convoy rapidly  disappearing around a bend in the river.\n\nCamlin, Halion and Vonn were in it, as well as a couple of other warriors, one of them the biggest man Evnis had seen since Tull. But he only had eyes for Vonn. He stood and watched him, eyes pleading. Vonn gazed flatly back. Dully he saw Camlin nock another arrow and draw its feathers to his ear, aiming straight at Evnis. He just stood there, exhausted, heartbroken, for a moment not caring if he lived or died.\n\n'Do it,' he whispered.\n\nThen Vonn reached down and put a restraining hand on Camlin's arm.\n\nThey shared another few heartbeats, then Vonn disappeared around the bend in the river. Evnis just stood there, staring, the world numb around him. Distantly he heard Morcant screaming in something close to apoplexy.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin slipped over the wall and climbed down the rope. Muscles in his stomach clenched and he felt a dull ache begin to pulse from the wound in his belly, knotted and scarred now. _A reminder of the Otherworld._ He wasn't concerned as he felt well now, had sparred in the weapons court and resumed something of his old training as a pit-fighter, and although he knew that he wasn't back to pit health, he was close. He knew his body, knew his limitations. His feet touched the ground and he crouched, adjusted the kit bag strapped across his back, gave the rope a shake to tell the warrior behind him that it was safe to follow, then padded across the road to an abandoned building. Alben and three other warriors were already there, waiting.\n\nIt was a dark night, no moon, clouds a thick veil before the stars.\n\n_A perfect night for sneaking about._\n\nAnother warrior crept across the deserted road towards them.\n\nIt was a ten-night since Fidele had told him about the suggested night raids. He'd volunteered at once. Alben had been chosen to lead them. At first Maquin had been uncertain about that choice; Alben seemed old and frail, but a few moments together in the weapons court had disabused Maquin of that notion. Old he was. Frail he was not. He'd touched a blade to Maquin's throat more than once, and yesterday put him on his back. Of course, Maquin had returned the favour triple-fold, apart from the throwing. He liked the old warrior and so held back for the most part. He suspected Alben knew, just by the occasional raised eyebrow. But it was training,  no  more,  and  he  was  well  past  having  to  prove  himself  to anyone. Unless Fidele was watching, then he found himself behaving like a warrior just come fresh from his Long Night.\n\n_What has happened to me?_\n\nHe had never felt like this, never felt so many things as a result of just one person. Calm, even serene when he was with her, as if the world stopped when she entered the room, an ache in his chest when they were apart, excited when he knew he was close to seeing her. Anxious when he thought of the future.\n\n_Out of control. That is how I feel. Unable to control my feelings, and from when I could first walk my da taught me to take command of my emotions. Taught me that is the way of the warrior._ He'd seen forty-two summers come and go, and this was the first time he'd ever experienced this. He grinned in the darkness. _I like it, though it scares me._\n\nThey waited in silence, another warrior joining them, then one more. The last one.\n\nThey huddled close together.\n\n'We go now, a long road. Silence until we reach the forest. Any questions?' Alben whispered.\n\nThey set off in single file, Alben leading the way, Maquin taking rearguard, eight men slipping through the abandoned town of Ripa, giving wide berth to the bonfires that marked Vin Thalun guard posts. If the fires had not been burning Maquin would still have been able to find and avoid most of them by the drunken singing.\n\n_We are under siege, but these Vin Thalun are not  made  for  such things. They are too savage, bred to strike hard and fast, win or retreat. A siege requires patience, planning, organization. Lykos is up to this task, maybe, but the rest?_\n\nSoon they were out of the town and into the long grass that undulated all the way to the Sarva forest. A breeze off the bay soughed through the grass. Maquin was sweating when they reached the first trees of the forest. They paused here, drank from water skins and rested a few moments. Maquin looked back, the lights from Ripa's walls and tower twinkling like starlight in the distance. He thought of Fidele in that tower, remembered their parting, could still taste her lips.\n\n_I feel alive again, as if I 've woken from a long sleep. From a nightmare._ He grinned again. He found he'd been doing that a lot since he'd woken from his fever. _Although in this new world some of the monsters from my nightmare have followed me._ He thought of Lykos, a dark rage bubbling up from the place where it always simmered deep within him, growing as he thought of the pain the Vin Thalun had brought Fidele.\n\nAlben put a hand on his shoulder and he had to stop himself reaching for a knife.\n\n'You'll see her again,' Alben whispered to him, too quiet for anyone else to overhear.\n\n'How far to Balara?' Maquin asked.\n\n'Half a day's ride. So for us a day and a half of hard walking.'\n\n'We'd best be off, then,' Maquin said.\n\n'Aye. Fidele tells me you're accustomed to forests.'\n\n'You could say that. I served with the Gadrai in Forn.'\n\n'Well then, join me at the front, and let's see if we can make Balara in a day.'\n\nWith that they set off into the forest, the trees engulfing them like a dark cloak.\n\n'There it is,' Alben said, pointing. Balara was visible through a gap in the trees, a crumbling stone ruin built upon a tree-shrouded hilltop by ancient giants.\n\n_In another lifetime, when the world was a different place._\n\nIt was a little past dawn, sunrise gleaming upon the eastern wall of the ancient fortress. All eight of them stood and  stared  for  a while. Maquin saw a wain slowly roll up a track to the east, pulled by auroch, six Vin Thalun riding with it. They were not good horsemen. No one said a word as the wain and riders disappeared within the broken archway of what had once been the grand entrance to the fortress.\n\n'We didn't come all this way for nothing, then,' Alben murmured.\n\nThey'd near enough run the whole way, taking them just over a day. Maquin's body ached in a thousand places, but it felt good to be out in the wide open, no walls, only trees and sky. 'Get some sleep,' Alben said to them all. 'I'll take first watch. We'll move at sunset.'\n\nMaquin dipped his fingers into black mud beside a stream, wiped streaks across his cheeks, rubbed the rest across the pommel and cross-guards of his sword and knives. The others were performing similar acts, going through their own rituals that reassured them before the prospect of battle. Maquin reached inside his  leather jerkin and pulled out a piece of red velvet. Fidele had given it to him when they parted, cut from the hem of her dress.\n\n'Ready to move,' Alben said close by. 'We are to investigate the ruins. Our orders are to find out why the Vin Thalun are here. No killing.' He shrugged. 'Not until I say so.' Men grinned around him.\n\n_They hate the Vin Thalun almost as much as I do._\n\nAlben drew a circle in the mud with a stick. 'This is Balara.' He drew a smaller circle at its centre. 'This is the heart of the fortress, a tower and foundations where we found the Vin Thalun fighting-pits.'\n\nThat made Maquin snarl, an involuntary reaction.\n\nAnother line from the outer wall to the tower. 'This is the main route in, most likely the bulk of the Vin Thalun will be contained within this area.' He drew a line circling the area between the gates and the central tower.\n\n'That's all we know about the fortress.' He shrugged. 'We will search first. Perhaps that is all we'll do. We may leave without drawing blood. That decision will be made later, and by me alone. Do you understand me?'\n\nAlben looked around the half-circle of men, held each one's gaze a few moments.\n\n'Good. Then let's move.'\n\nThey followed Alben up the slope. The trees thinned and the men broke out into open meadow, the weak light of a new moon and stars gilding the hillside and ruin towering above them in silver.\n\nThe main gateway, where they had seen the wain enter, lay to the east. Alben led them in a wide loop, eventually ending up beneath the western stretch of crumbled and ruined wall.\n\nAs they climbed across huge boulder-sized blocks, a scattering of rock dislodged and fell, rattling loud in the dark. They paused - ready for an alarm to be raised - when none came, they went on.\n\nThey entered the ruins, slipping from building to building, the flicker of firelight ahead. They edged closer, fires burning in iron-wrought bowls edging a wide flagstoned street. At the end of it a broken tower loomed, an orange glow pulsing from a wide-open doorway at its base. Vin Thalun stood guard about the tower, four that Maquin could see. The wain they had seen arrive earlier was sitting in the shadows, the auroch nowhere to be seen.\n\nAlben moved towards the tower, Maquin and the others following. They circled wide again, approaching the tower from the north side. Creeping up to one of the windows, Alben beckoned Maquin to join him.\n\nInside, the tower consisted of one huge circular room, a broken stairwell spiralling upwards about its edge. A fire-pit burned in its centre, the remains of a spitted carcass crusting black. Vin Thalun were scattered about the room, eating, singing quietly, drinking. A score maybe, no more. Alben pointed. Maquin squinted, not seeing anything at first, then he noticed the iron spike hammered into the ground. Two thick chains were  attached  to  it,  trailing  off  into the shadows beneath  the  stairwell.  Two  hulking  figures  crouched in the darkness, barely visible, but Maquin knew them in an instant.\n\n_Lykos ' giants._\n\nAlben tapped his shoulder and they stole away from the window, back to  the  others  grouped  in  the  darkness. Alben  whispered  an explanation of what he and Maquin had just seen.\n\n'Are they the giants that Fidele spoke of?' Alben asked Maquin.\n\n'Aye. A female and a bairn. They are Lykos' giants.'\n\n'Why are they here?'\n\n'Why does he have them?'\n\nThe questions started to snowball.\n\n'It does not matter,' Maquin interrupted. 'All that matters is that they are precious to Lykos and that they are within our grasp.'\n\n'What are you suggesting?' Alben asked him.\n\n'That we take them from him.'\n\n'Eight of us against thirty, near enough,' Alben said. He was looking at Maquin with his head cocked to one side.\n\n'It can be done,' Maquin said, returning his gaze. 'The guards, by stealth - that's six, evens the odds a little.'\n\n'And the score in that tower?' Alben said.\n\n'I'm thinking you have a plan for that already.'\n\nAlben stared at him a moment longer, lips twitching.\n\n'How would we get the giants back to Ripa?' someone asked.\n\n'The same way they were brought here - under guard,' Maquin said. 'We would need to  kill every  man here. Word cannot reach Lykos. It would be a difficult journey back to Ripa, but there are enough of us to guard them, and you know the forest paths. We would slip back into Ripa as planned, under cover of darkness.'\n\n'And if the giants do not cooperate.'\n\n'They are mother and child. I saw with my own eyes that she will do anything to protect her bairn.' Maquin shrugged, a ripple in the dark. 'All we must do is convince her that it is better for her bairn's health that she cooperate rather than fight us.'\n\nAlben stared at him long moments, then he nodded.\n\nMaquin crouched below the tower window. Alben had left one warrior with Maquin - Valent, one of Krelis' men, a veteran of many sea battles with the Vin Thalun before the peace of Aquilus - and taken the others into the darkness.\n\n'I will deal with the guards. Wait for my signal,' Alben had said as the shadows claimed him. Maquin had not bothered to ask what the signal would be.\n\n_I 'll know it when it happens._\n\nSo Maquin and Valent waited, listening to the murmur of conversation filtering out of the window. Someone was complaining of the plunder that they were going to miss out on when Ripa fell.\n\nA loud shout, the signal Maquin had been waiting for, followed closely by the clash of iron. Inside the tower twenty Vin Thalun leaped to their feet, drawing swords and rushing to the tower's wide doorway.\n\nMaquin shared a look with Valent, who reached for his sword hilt. Maquin shook his head. 'It'll be knife-work first, close and bloody.' Valent nodded and then Maquin was climbing through the window into the tower.\n\nNo one saw them, all eyes were fixed upon the main door where shadowy figures fought. No one except the giantess. Her eyes met Maquin's, small and dark in a shadow-haunted face. She made no sound, no movement, just watched him as he slipped behind a Vin Thalun warrior. Maquin ripped his eyes away from her, though he felt her gaze still upon him as he grabbed the Vin Thalun, one hand clamping across a mouth, the other sawing his knife across the warrior's throat.\n\nClose by Valent slipped his knife between a Vin Thalun's ribs.\n\nMaquin slew another before they were heard. Men peeled away from the doorway, where bodies crammed the entrance, already corpses snaring feet.\n\n_Alben is holding them in the doorway, confining them where their numbers will be useless._\n\nHalf a dozen men at least came at him  and  Valent.  Maquin strode forwards  to meet the attack, leaving Valent  to protect the giants.\n\nHe kicked at the blackened carcass spitted above the fire-pit, sending it crashing into a Vin Thalun, knocking him to the ground, saw one of the others hesitate.\n\n'It . . . it's the Old Wolf,' the Vin Thalun cried, a flash of doubt sweeping his face, his cry loud enough for others to hear. There was a pause amongst them and Maquin took advantage, hurling a knife which buried itself with a dull crack up to the hilt in another Vin Thalun's forehead.\n\nMaquin drew his sword.\n\nThe Vin Thalun circled around the fire-pit, slowly.\n\n_Mistake. Should have rushed me._\n\nHe moved to the right, sidestepped a hesitant blow, and hacked at the man's ribs, felt bones break, ducked the sword-swing of another warrior,  kicked  the  first  into  the  fire-pit  in  an  explosion of flame, pivoted, took the next sword blow overhead with his own blade, stepped in close, iron grating sparks, and punched his knife through leather into a belly, ripped it sideways as he pulled away, intestines spilling into a steaming heap in his wake. The  recent wound in his belly began to throb, an ache deep within.\n\nA quick glance saw Valent standing before the giants, giving ground to three Vin Thalun. Maquin saw the warrior he had kicked the spitted carcass onto push it away and begin to rise from the ground. The main doorway was empty, bodies piled across it, the clash of iron telling of battle in the road outside. There were no others left within the tower. In two long strides Maquin was upon the man trying to rise, kicked him back to the ground and stabbed his sword into the soft flesh of his throat.\n\nValent went down, a gaping wound between his neck and shoulder. His attacker stood above him, sword-arm rising and falling into Valent's skull, an explosion of blood and bone. Another Vin Thalun stood close by, one arm hanging limp at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips. The third one was approaching the two giants, their bulk still huddled beneath the spiral staircase.\n\nMaquin ran at them.\n\nHe hamstrung the one with the injured arm, heard him drop to the ground with a thud as he threw himself into the warrior that had slain Valent, buried his knife to the hilt in the man's armpit, left it there, spun away and staggered on towards the man now attacking the two unarmed giants. He was hacking at the giantess, who was crouching before the bairn, her teeth bared in a snarl, using the chain she was shackled with to block his sword blows. Maquin saw she had not been entirely successful, blood running from a gash in her forearm, another from her calf.\n\nThe Vin Thalun heard Maquin's approach and turned, swinging his sword, sending Maquin's stabbing thrust wide, and they crunched together, wrestling, Maquin trying to break free, make room to swing his blade. They tripped over the giant chain and crashed to the ground, rolling on the stone floor. Pain spiked in Maquin's body, his old wound screaming a complaint.\n\n_No time for pain._ He ground his teeth.\n\nMaquin lost the grip on his sword, butted his head forwards, felt something crunch. The grip about him loosened and he reached for the last knife in his boot. A punch in the kidneys took his breath away, pain exploding in his back, then an arm was around his throat. He bucked, writhed, threw his head backwards but nothing changed the iron grip around his neck. He clawed at the arm, feeling his strength fading, a dark nimbus seeping into the fringes of his vision, white dots exploding in his head. Something gripped one of his boots and he saw the warrior he'd hamstrung dragging himself across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. _I will not die._\n\nPanic swept him and gave a last burst of adrenalin. His body spasmed, every muscle and sinew straining, his face purple, tendons thick as rope bulging in his neck, but still the grip about his throat held.\n\nHe slumped, feeling the strength flowing out of him, somewhere distantly realized with mild surprise that this was the end.\n\n_Fidele . . ._\n\nHis body jerked suddenly, shook like a straw doll, then the grip around his throat was gone and he was choking, sucking in great, ragged breaths. Behind him a man screamed.\n\nThe warrior gripping his ankles stared up at him, then let go and reached for a sword.\n\n_Too late_.\n\nMaquin kicked him in the face, pulled his last knife from his boot and stabbed the man through the eye. He spasmed, legs kicking, then went slack.\n\nMaquin rolled over, saw the warrior who had almost killed him caught by the giantess. She'd wrapped the length of her chain about his throat and was pulling tight. The man's face was a grey-purple explosion of veins, bulging eyes and swelling tongue. There was a popping sound, vertebrae in his neck snapping, and his head suddenly lolled, eyes glazing. The giantess continued to pull, muscles bulging, rippling along her forearms like snakes in a sack. With a tearing sound Maquin saw the flesh about the chain begin to fray, then tear, blood seeping, then exploding in a violent jet as the giantess gave one last savage wrench and the man's head ripped free.\n\nShe stepped away, her eyes fixed on Maquin, letting the Vin Thalun's corpse flop to the ground, and sitting beside her son, who gripped her hand tightly.\n\nMaquin backed away, picked up his sword, still watching the giants, then headed for the tower doorway, stopping to retrieve his knives on the way.\n\nAlben stepped into the room. Blood sheeted his forehead and his sword was red to the hilt. 'The giants?'\n\n'Still alive.' Maquin pointed to the shadows beneath the stairwell.\n\nThey stood and stared a long while at the giants, who returned their gaze with wariness.\n\n_She saved my life._ The thought left Maquin feeling uncomfortable. _But then, I saved hers._ She was still bleeding from her wounds.\n\nAlben offered her a flask of water.\n\n'Drink, and clean your wounds,' Alben said. The giantess stared unblinking back at him. Alben tried again. _' Deach agus glan do gortuithe._'\n\n_Giantish._\n\nThe giantess frowned, then reached out and took the water skin. She sniffed it, took a tentative sip, then gave it to her bairn. He took a deep drink, then poured water over his mother's wounds, washing the blood away.\n\n'I can tend your wounds, bind them for you,' Alben said.\n\n' _Cad ba mhaite leat?_ ' the giantess said. Her lips twisted in a sneer.\n\n' _Me   troid  ar  son  an  realta  geal.  Sbhilt  anois.  Ach  ni  feidir  liom  a leagtar t' saor in aisce - mo namhaid stor. Ni mor duit teacht liom_,' Alben replied.\n\n' _Ni feidir liom_ ,' the giantess growled, her voice a basal rumble. ' _Bhaineann me go dti an aingeal dorcha._ '\n\n' _Sin deireadh leis. Ar m 'anam tar liom go s\u00ccoch-nta agus beidh t' sln. N\u00cc dh\u00c8anfar aon dochar duit_,' Alben replied.\n\nMaquin did not know what they were saying, but he saw Alben's gaze shift to the giant bairn, then back to the giantess.\n\nShe stood suddenly, her body hard and ridged as a slab of granite. Men behind Alben reached for their swords, but Alben did not flinch.\n\n' _Tiocfaimid, ach is eagal dom go bhfuil gealltanas tugtha agat nach f \u00c8idir leat a chomhl\u00cconadh_,' the giantess said _._\n\nHer voice resonated in Maquin's chest.\n\n'Time  will  be  the  judge,'  Alben  said.  He  drew  his  sword  and struck the chains on the post, shattering them.\n\n'We are moving out, now.' Alben turned and strode away. The giantess and her bairn followed.\n\n'What did you say to them?' Maquin asked.\n\nAlben did not look at him as he marched from the tower.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE\n\n#### CORALEN\n\nCoralen pulled on the oar, feeling muscles contract in her back and shoulders, her torso swaying forwards and back with the motion. It had been like learning to ride all over again, the rhythm of it at first strangely alien, the dip and lift of the oar, pulling against the resistance of the Afren's dark waters, using the sway of her body to help not hinder, and on top of that, to do it in perfect time so as not to snare her oar in another rower's.\n\n_I 've got it now, though._\n\nThe first night after their escape from Uthandun Corban gathered all of the oarsmen from the eleven ships they had stolen, over three hundred men. He had repeated the offer he'd made during the raid - told them that they were free. He suggested that they row both for Corban and for themselves now, away from the pirates who had made them slaves, and be put ashore at a safer location.\n\nSome had demanded their freedom then and there. Corban had let them go, no more than a score of  them,  staggering  into  the gloom of the Darkwood. The rest had stayed.\n\nMany were close to death, weak and emaciated, but Coralen had been surprised to see the effect a mouthful of brot had upon most of them.\n\nCorban had asked one other thing from them and, more than anything else, that seemed to convince them of his sincerity.\n\nHe asked them to train his own warband up as oarsmen.\n\nShe'd received a lot of strange looks when she'd volunteered. She'd ignored them. Her body could cope with it, strong and supple after year upon year of sparring, though in truth after the first shift she'd spent at an oar her hands were blistered and weeping, and her back and shoulders were in agony. When she woke the next morning it was worse. By the third day she was getting used to it.\n\nThe veteran rowers had accepted her presence quickly,  especially when the Jehar started filling benches as well, at least half of them women. They had attacked rowing as if it was an enemy, with stony faces and determined stoicism. Harder to get used to, though, were giants sitting on the oar-benches. Balur had been the first to try. The bench had creaked when he sat upon it, and the first time he and a few of his kin pulled at their oars the ship had listed so heavily the decks had taken water. It had taken some careful rearrangement of seating to balance the ship out.\n\n'We're leaving the forest behind us.' It was the small, dark-skinned man named Javed sitting on the bench across from her. His head was shaved clean, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and he had more scars on his body than Coralen had ever seen. He was small framed, but his musculature had a wiry strength that Coralen recognized and respected, and he moved with a grace reminiscent of the Jehar that spoke of explosive power.\n\n'Aye,' Coralen grunted. She'd not really mastered the art of talking and rowing yet.\n\n'Where exactly are you all going?' Javed asked her.\n\n'Forwards,' Coralen grunted. Everyone within the warband knew that they were travelling to Drassil, the city of tales, until recently something she'd thought of as exactly that: a tale. Now, though, it was just accepted. Coralen was aware that other people would not view it in the same way.\n\n'Strange company you keep,' Javed observed.\n\n_I suppose it is._ Coralen didn't think of it that way any more, much as she no longer viewed Drassil as a strange destination.\n\nA bell rang behind her, signalling the end of her shift on the bench. Smoothly she raised her oar, pulled it through its hole and shelved it. Javed gave her a mock-bow as she stood and filed along the aisle to the stairs that led to the top deck. She blinked in the sunlight and nodded to Farrell as he passed her to take his place at an oar. The deck was narrow, dominated by a single mast and furled sail, beyond it a raised deck where Dath stood helming the steering oar. Coralen walked to the ship's rail and leaned out, looking downriver. More ships followed them, their small fleet.\n\nFour nights they'd been rowing up the Afren, away from Uthandun, each morning expecting to see ships appear on the river behind them, or hear the pounding of hooves as a warband swept along the riverbank.\n\n_That wouldn 't be so easy, though; most of the time I haven't even been able to see beyond the riverbank._ It had been choked thick with coppiced woods and undergrowth, trailing willow and  black  alder. Although now the banks were mostly clear, trees and undergrowth thinning, flat meadows visible through  them.   _Why have our enemy not come after us? We were outnumbered, within their grasp._ Whatever the reason, Coralen was starting to think that they were not being followed, that they had escaped.\n\n_It was a good plan, I can 't deny._ Corban's leadership skills had gone up in her estimation, coming up with the plan, and keeping a cool head to see it through. It had been well done, she had to admit, and she felt a swell of pride at her own contribution to it - the straw men and fires to draw the enemy's eye.\n\n_Aye, it had worked a treat._\n\nAnd now, to all appearances, they were free of pursuit and on the borders of Narvon and Isiltir, almost out of enemy territory. It was a strange feeling. Relief. It still didn't stop her looking over her shoulder, though.\n\n_And now we are sailing to Drassil, instead of travelling south to Ardan. To Edana._ She wasn't sure how she felt about that.\n\nA hand touched her on the shoulder.\n\n'You ready?'\n\nIt was Cywen, twirling a throwing-knife between her fingers and grinning.\n\nDuring the first day upon the ship, after the heat of battle had left her veins and general tasks had been finished - clearing the ship of the dead, tending the wounded and mourning fallen comrades - Coralen had found herself in an unusual situation. Every day for as long as she could remember she had been in her saddle before dawn, riding out with her growing band of scouts, always active and contributing. But as the ships had rowed further and further away from Uthandun she had started to feel useless, obsolete.\n\nCywen had saved her, requesting that she teach her blade-work. Coralen had been more than happy to oblige, and asked for a lesson in knife-throwing in return. She wasn't sure that learning to throw a blade whilst standing upon a moving, swaying ship was the best way to begin, but it was too late by the time she thought of that.\n\nSince then Dath had filled the inactivity gap, giving orders to anyone whom he saw standing around - any small task to ensure the smooth running of the ship. Even now if Coralen stood still long enough she knew that she'd hear him calling her name.\n\n'Of course,' Coralen said.\n\nThey stood and faced the raised deck at the rear of the ship. Upon its timber wall Cywen had painted a human outline,  arm raised and brandishing a sword. Someone had, humorously, given it small horns and titled it a Kadoshim. Cywen handed her a knife.\n\nHaving been witness to previous sessions, Jehar, giants and off-duty oarsmen scattered from the rear half of the deck. Coralen had not taken to knife-throwing like the natural she'd expected to be. From the corner of her eye she saw Javed lean against the ship's rail to watch them.\n\nShe took aim, setting her feet as Cywen had taught her, bringing the blade back to her ear, then--\n\nA sword slammed into the wooden outline, almost exactly where Coralen had been aiming.\n\n'Hah, Laith is getting better,' a voice laughed from just behind her, deep and almost deafening her.\n\n'Stop boasting,' Cywen said, smiling up at the giantling. Laith's head was bandaged from the wound she'd received during the battle. It didn't seem to dampen her enthusiasm, though.\n\n'I'm speaking truth,' Laith said with a frown. 'Look.' She pointed at her handiwork. 'And it's not stuck, see,' Laith said, bounding over to the sword and tugging it free. 'Laith has been thinking,' she said, puffing her chest out. 'I listen to Cywen - skill not strength.' She tapped the side of her head. 'And a bigger blade.'\n\nDespite herself, Coralen laughed, then shook her head. _Laughing with a Benothi giantling; me, who rode with Rath and his giantkillers. How things change._\n\n'Where'd you get that sword?' Cywen asked Laith.\n\n'From the dead,' Laith replied. 'They do not need them now.'\n\nCoralen looked closer, saw that it was one of the short swords that the Vin Thalun favoured. The giantling lifted a leather coat to reveal another half-dozen of them secreted about her body.\n\nCywen shook her head, still smiling. She grasped it, testing its balance.\n\n'It's weighted wrong,' she said. 'When we get to Drassil I'll ask Farrell to make you something this size and weight, but balanced and weighted for throwing.'\n\nLaith grinned. 'I am a smith, too,' she said, 'but I've only made bigger things - wheels, axles for wains.' She shrugged. 'Will Farrell do it?'\n\n'If he says no to me, we can always get Coralen to ask him,' Cywen said.\n\nCoralen scowled at that, well aware of and unimpressed by the smith's feelings for her.\n\n'Drassil?' Javed said loudly. He sauntered closer. 'Did you say Drassil?'\n\nCywen looked at him, frowning. They'd all forgotten he was there. She ignored him and turned away.\n\n'Hey,' Javed said, reaching out and grabbing Cywen's shoulder.\n\nA huge hand clamped around Javed's wrist and wrenched him off of Cywen.\n\n'You do not touch her,' Laith said. Her playful, cheerful expression was gone, replaced by jutting brows and flat eyes. Javed's face twitched and he exploded into movement, faster than Coralen could see. Javed's free hand lashed out, his feet shifting, a flurry of movement, and then Laith was falling like a felled oak. She crashed to the timber deck, Javed crouched above her, a knife in his hand, hovering over the giant's throat.\n\n_How did he do that?_\n\n'Bigger they are, harder they fall,' Javed muttered.\n\nEverything froze for a moment, Coralen dimly aware that all on the ship's deck were staring at them. Something warred across Javed's face, emotions fighting for supremacy. His jaw spasmed, like a spark setting something in motion, followed by a contraction in the striated muscles of his shoulder, a drawing back of his wrist, and then Coralen was lunging forwards. She kicked out, caught Javed's wrist as the knife began its descent, sending it spinning out of his hand. With a snarl Javed was turning, launching himself at her. A dozen blows flew between them, some blocked, some landing, then they were crushed together, spinning, still punching. Coralen's back slammed into the wall of the cabin.\n\nBlood dripped from Javed's nose.\n\nThey froze, staring at each other, both breathing heavily.\n\nThen another sound filtered through the fog of Coralen's focus.\n\nGrowling.  Deep,  vibrating  through  the  timber  deck  into Coralen's boots.\n\n'You should let her go and step away,' a voice said, cold, angry but controlled.\n\nJaved stared a moment longer at Coralen, his face twisted with anger - no, something deeper than that, a berserk, consuming fury. Then, slowly, muscles shifted, loosened. He blinked, let go of her, stepped away.\n\nCorban stood behind them, a look on his face that was a far cry from his usual amicable smile.\n\n'I'll not see a hand raised against my friends, or tolerate them being hurt,' he said to Javed. 'So do we have a problem  here?' Corban did not move, had no weapon in his hands, but Javed took a step away from him. Storm's growl shifted, became deeper somehow. Saliva dripped from her bared fangs.\n\n'I - I am . . . sorry,' Javed said. And actually looked as if he was. He wiped a hand across his face, then turned and staggered away.\n\nAs the sun sank into the west it bathed the flat land of glistening marsh spread before them in its orange glow, myriad waterways and stagnant pools glistening like liquid amber. Behind them the bastion of the Darkwood stood stark and silhouetted, fading into the distance, and along with it the realm of Narvon.\n\n_Ahead is Isiltir, and beyond it Forn Forest and Drassil._ Coralen stood with Farrell by the gap in the rail where the boarding ramp would be lowered, waiting for Dath to yell his orders. He was on the riverbank, telling Laith where to secure a mooring rope. Her lip throbbed, a reminder of her earlier encounter. The fight sat heavy in her mind, the look in Javed's eyes as he fought her. It had been as if he'd become another person. _We all do that when we fight for real, to some degree._ But still, what she had seen in his eyes . . .\n\nAnd how he had reacted to Corban. There had been something new about Corban, in his voice and also in his eyes, something commanding. She hated that he had come to her rescue, that he had felt the need to step in. She scowled. _I can look after myself. A few moments more and I would have had him._ She thought about that a while, in all truth not sure if she would have. Javed was so fast, so committed to each move, with nothing held back, as if life and death were of no consequence.\n\n'Come on, then,' Dath yelled up to them, 'we've not got all day.'\n\nCoralen made to shout something abusive but then grimaced as her lip pulled.\n\nFarrell caught her wince. 'I will call him out,' he snarled from the other side of the boarding-ramp as they lowered it to the bank, their end hooking onto a timber lip.\n\n'What?' Coralen said, having no idea what Farrell was talking about.\n\n'That oarsman,' he said. 'If only I'd been there.'\n\n'Good job you weren't,' Coralen said. 'He  put  a  giant  bigger than you on her back.'\n\n'It's not about size,' Farrell said, looking offended.  'I've  seen more combat than Laith.'\n\n'Don't be an idiot,' Coralen snapped at him. 'It was nothing.' _And he might have killed you, you big oaf. Much as you get on my nerves, I 'd rather you alive than dead._\n\n'And besides, I can look after myself. Don't need anyone to fight my battles for me.'\n\nFarrell looked as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.\n\n_Not as much of an idiot as I thought._\n\n'Everyone  off,'  Dath  yelled,  cupping  his  hands  to  his  mouth. Laith copied him, her voice booming across the river.\n\nThey were sitting along the riverbank and spread in a half-circle around a row of fire-pits. Real meat was turning on spits - auroch, boar, deer - all found salted and hanging in one of the large transporters they'd stolen. Close to seven hundred souls sat curving around the fire-pits, stomachs growling and mouths watering at the smells, a murmur of anticipatory conversation thrumming amongst them.\n\nCoralen sat with Farrell, Cywen and Dath. Also Kulla the Jehar, who seemed to have become Dath's shadow in recent days. A few oarsmen that Farrell had befriended from his shift joined them, a father and son.\n\n'Atilius and Pax,' Farrell introduced the two men.\n\nConversations with the oarsmen had been hesitant at first, so many of them on the verge of death, emaciated, withdrawn and insular. More of them were beginning to mix with Corban's warband now, though, probably helped by the fact that they were sharing shifts on the oar-benches.\n\n'Where are you from?' Dath asked them.\n\n'Tenebral,' Atilius, the older man, said. He had the look of a warrior about him, close-cropped hair and beard,  darkly  tanned skin, solid and stocky, not an ounce of excess fat on his frame. There was something about him that looked familiar to Coralen.\n\n'How did you end up . . .' Dath said, glancing back at the ships moored along the river's edge.\n\n_Always tactful, Dath._\n\nThe two men exchanged a glance, a look of fear flitting across the younger one's face.\n\n'Prisoners of war,' Atilius said with a shrug.\n\n'War against who?' This time it was Farrell asking the question.\n\n'The Vin Thalun,' Atilius said. 'The pirates you stole those ships from.'\n\n'Damn them to hell,' Pax murmured. 'Damn them to hell.' He had a furtive, jumpy look to him.\n\nAtilius patted his son's leg, pain washing his features.\n\n'You're warriors, then,' Cywen said.\n\n'He is,' Kulla said, nodding at Atilius.\n\n'We both were,' Atilius said. His son looked away.\n\n'The warriors of Tenebral are our enemy,' Farrell said, frowning. 'Nathair is your king?'\n\n'Aye,' Atilius said slowly, looking about at them. Cywen and Dath were sitting straighter, and Coralen was remembering the warriors she had fought and killed during the night raid on Rhin's forces back in Domhain Pass. They had been men of Tenebral.\n\n'Eagle-guard,' Cywen said.\n\n'Aye. That is what they called the best of us,' Atilius said. His son was looking nervously between them.\n\n'Veradis. Do you know him?' Cywen asked.\n\n'He is Nathair's first-sword. A good man, or so I hear.'\n\n'Yes,  I  thought  that,  too,'  Cywen  said,  a  distant  look  in  her eye.\n\n'Are we your enemy, then?' Atilius asked them.\n\n_A straight talker, at least. I like that._\n\n'To my mind, no,' Cywen said. 'But it is for Corban to decide. Should I consider you my enemy?'\n\n'No,' snorted Atilius. 'Nathair gave Tenebral's rule to a madman - Lykos of the Vin Thalun - and then walked away on some mad quest. He abandoned his people to a lunatic. I want no part of such a king. If I were to fight, it would be against the Vin Thalun, whether they are allied to Nathair or not.' He looked at his son. 'But I don't want to fight.' He said it almost reassuringly. 'I just want to find us some peace.'\n\n_Good luck with that. We 're marching knee-deep into the God-War._\n\nJust then Javed walked past their group. He saw Coralen, his steps faltering for a moment as she met his gaze, then he walked on.\n\n'Heard about earlier,' Atilius said.\n\n'Do you know him?' Farrell asked, his voice dangerous.\n\n'Aye. He was a pit-fighter.'\n\n'What's that?'\n\n'A form of entertainment for the Vin Thalun. Slaves they capture - they break them in on the oars; if they survive that then they throw them in the pit, a dozen, more. Last one alive gets to come out. Gets to fight another day. Some fight all the way to their freedom. He was one of them - almost.' He looked at Coralen. 'Heard you held your own with him. You'd have won a fortune in silver if you'd have done that back in Tenebral.'\n\n'He's fast,' Coralen said wryly, touching her lip.\n\n'He's an animal,' Pax said. 'And touched.' He tapped a finger against his temple. 'They all are.'\n\n'Are there more like him on the oars - pit-fighters?'\n\n'Pit-fighters,  aye,'  Atilius  grunted.  'Many.  Like  him,  though? None. Not here, anyway.'\n\nCoralen noticed a change around them, the murmur of conversation dying down. She looked up to see Corban vault onto a wide, low branch of an old elm. Storm lay at his feet, Meical, Gar, Tukul and Brina arrayed about him.\n\n'Looks like your brother has something to say,' Dath said, slapping Cywen's arm.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-SIX\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban stood on the branch of an old elm, looking out at the sea of faces staring back at him.\n\nFor a moment his mind went absolutely blank. He took a breath. 'I'm not much for speech-making,' he said, his voice falling into the silence like a stone in a deep pool. 'But there are some things that need saying.' He looked around again, his mouth dry, feeling a little overwhelmed.\n\n'Get on with it,' Brina muttered under her breath. Corban scowled at her. Speech-making was all well and good for those used to it - but he wasn't one for rhetoric and flowery talk. All he could do was speak from the heart and hope it was enough.\n\n'When I took these ships I promised you freedom,' Corban shouted. 'I also asked you to row us all to safety. Well, you have. Narvon lies behind us, Isiltir ahead, so I say to you again, you are free.'\n\nSomeone cheered, more voices adding to it, rippling through the crowd, surprising him, and also making him feel less self-conscious.\n\n_Maybe I 'm not making a huge fool out of myself after all._\n\nWhen it quietened he carried on.\n\n'But where is _safe_ in this land of ours now? I'd like you to think on that. Of Rhin's armies conquering nation after nation. Of the Vin Thalun enslaving our people.' There were hisses at the mention of the hated pirates. 'And of the Kadoshim, slaughtering men, women, bairns - innocents.' A mass of faces gazed at him in silence. Corban sighed wearily, for a moment lost in a blur of memories - the Kadoshim in Murias, afterwards in the woodland of Narvon, one of them biting into the flesh of a terrified captive. He shook his head, forced himself to concentrate on those in front of him. 'Tonight is for feasting, for celebrating our escape.' He gestured to the fire-pits and the spitted meat. 'And tonight is for making a choice. To join us or go your own way.'\n\n'Where are you going?' someone shouted.\n\nCorban frowned. _How many will flee at the mere mention of our destination? They will think us mad. But I 'll not start our journey with a lie._\n\n'We are going to Drassil in Forn Forest.'\n\nMore silence.\n\nCorban rubbed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. 'Some of you will believe. Others will think we talk of myth and legend. But we have seen things - things that can leave us in no doubt. The God-War has begun. Sides are being chosen . . .' He paused.\n\n'You must tell them,' Meical had said to him earlier. Corban had looked pleadingly at Brina.\n\n'Might as well.' She had shrugged. 'Get it all over with in one go. Besides,' she added. 'It's true.'\n\nHe sighed now and searched the faces in front of him. 'I am the Bright Star spoken of in prophecy. I fight for Elyon, against Asroth and his Black Sun.' He paused, the words sounding strange even to him.\n\n_Fighting a god - how can I do that?_\n\n'I don't want to fight,' he said. 'But what choice do I have? What choice do any of us have? I will fight to protect those I love. My kin. My friends - I fight for my realm. For our people. And for myself. Rhin, Nathair, the Vin Thalun - they will not stop until every one of us is dead or enslaved.'\n\nAnother silence, somehow deeper and denser than any that had preceded it.\n\n'So we get to fight the Vin Thalun if we stay with you?'\n\n'Definitely,' Meical said quietly beside him.\n\n'Yes,' Corban said loudly.\n\n'Good enough for me,' someone yelled. There was a smattering of quiet laughter at that.\n\n'I cannot guarantee victory.' Corban's voice was rising now, echoing back from the ships moored along the river. 'We may lose. We may all die.'\n\n_How can I ask this of them? Is this what leaders do - ask their followers for everything and offer them nothing in return?_\n\nHe looked at the gathering spread before him and knew that if they  had  any  chance  against  the  armies  that  were  coming  they needed to unite. And it was on his shoulders to make them see that.\n\n'I have _seen_ the evil that comes against us, and it is terrifying. If we do not stand against it, who will? There is only one promise that I can make to you . . .' He felt a lump in his throat as he saw familiar faces staring back at him - Cywen, Dath, Farrell, Coralen, Balur One-Eye, Gar - people he cared for. People he may lose.\n\n_What choice do we have?_\n\nHe put his hand upon his sword hilt.\n\n'I will be beside you every step of the way and I will _fight_ until my last breath.'\n\nHe shouted those last words, feeling passion swell in him like a dark wave. As he stepped down from the branch he was battered by a deafening roar from the crowd. Jehar and giants were brandishing their weapons in the air, cheering at the top of their lungs. And so were most of the others. The faces of oarsmen that had looked close to death only a few days ago, empty and listless, were now alive with passion.\n\n_And so it begins._\n\nThe marshlands were a flat, stinking, mosquito-infested wasteland. The river curled through it like a lethargic serpent, taking  their eleven ships slowly eastwards. The oarsmen that remained all set to their shifts, and the ships moved ever closer to Drassil. Tukul and Meical had spoken to him, warned that such broken men could not be trusted and would need watching. But Corban disagreed.\n\n_They were men - warriors - once. It was not their fault that they were enslaved. I believe there must be honour left among them. And while I may only offer an uncertain future - it's at least better than the certain death they faced before. Besides, I know what a driving force hatred and revenge can be . . ._\n\nCorban stood upon the raised rear deck of the lead ship, Dath at his side with one arm hooked around the steering oar. Kulla his shadow was loitering nearby.\n\n'We couldn't have done this without you,' Corban said to his friend.\n\n'I know.' Dath grinned. 'And I may remind you of those words.'\n\n'Dath is gifted in many ways,' Kulla said. Dath blushed at that; Corban suppressed a smile.\n\n'But what would you expect,' Kulla continued, 'from one of the Bright Star's closest friends?'\n\nCorban blushed this time, and Kulla beamed with pride at Dath.\n\n'We  will  have  to  leave  this  river  soon,'  Meical  said.  'It  flows through the south of Isiltir, almost to the doors of Mikil, Isiltir's seat of power. Jael holds Isiltir, now, and Mikil is his. We cannot go that way. To reach Gramm's hold we need to join one of the rivers that flows north, to the sea.'\n\n'And how exactly are we going to do that?' Corban asked. 'Pick up the ships and carry them across land?'\n\nMeical and Dath just smiled at him.\n\nWith a huge splash and a spray of water that soaked him and a few hundred others, the first ship slid into the river. Corban didn't mind; he was already soaked through with sweat. He stood on the bank, bent over with his hands on his knees and sucking in deep breaths. And he was grinning. They had managed to haul the first four ships out of the river and into the marshes. The horses had been unloaded from the three transporters and roped into teams, used to help pull the ships onto land. Then they'd begun the long portage across the spongy ground towards another river, rolling the ships across three or four masts like giant rollers, running them from back to front. The oarsmen taught them the most efficient technique for this, as they had been forced to do it many times by their Vin Thalun masters. Every man had helped, taking it in turns, a bizarre convoy of four ships rolling across the flat landscape. Benothi muscle had added considerably to their teams and the ships rolled across land surprisingly well.\n\nIt was a journey of about two leagues.\n\n_Not so far to walk, normally, but when you 're pulling a ship . . ._\n\nThey made their way back to the remaining ships and began the process all over again.\n\n'We've got a problem,' Dath said to Corban. 'Those transporters aren't coming out of the river.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'Their hulls are too deep. These galleys like  the  one  we've been sailing upon, they're shallow draughted - not much sits below the water. Those transporters, well, a third of the ship sits below the water. That's fine in a wide, deep river, but we'll never get them out. And even if we do, we won't be able to roll them two leagues across land.'\n\nCorban put his head in his hands.\n\nThey were sitting in a big circle, Corban surrounded by his growing council: Meical, Tukul, Brina and Gar, Balur One-Eye and Ethlinn, Dath, Cywen and Coralen - who seemed to be in each other's company whenever Corban saw them - and two others had joined them, representatives of their new recruits. Javed and Atilius. Storm and Buddai were lying in the shade of a willow. Corban watched Javed, remembering the way he had fought Coralen. That had set a rage burning in Corban and it had taken all his will not to draw his sword and cut him down.\n\n_Can I trust him? Someone so close to rage and violence?_\n\nThe honest answer was that he didn't know, but the oarsmen had chosen Javed and Atilius as their representatives, so for now Corban chose to trust their choice.\n\n_And I shall keep a close eye upon Javed._\n\nThey had been discussing options. Corban was listening to Gar as he suggested dismantling the transporters and rebuilding them beside the new river.\n\n'Have you ever built a ship before? Sailed one?' Javed asked Gar.\n\n'No. I was born in a desert,' Gar said.\n\n'Hah,' Javed barked a laugh, throwing his arms in the air.\n\n'It will not work,' Dath told Gar glumly. 'Apart from not having the tools to do the job without punching holes in the hull, the timbers would have to be caulked - sealed - or the ship would sink as soon as it sat in the water.'\n\nVoices spoke out at the same time, offering equally impossible solutions.\n\n'There is only one solution,' Tukul spoke out, loud and commanding. 'We must split up. One group takes the horses and rides through Isiltir to Gramm's. The other group sails round the coast.'\n\nCorban frowned. That was the one answer that his mind kept on returning to, but he did not like it.\n\n'It would be dangerous,' Cywen said.\n\n'What isn't in these Banished Lands?' Tukul snorted. 'Besides, we did it before. We rode from Gramm's, through Isiltir into Ardan to Dun Carreg. Then all the way to Dun Vaner. We rode like the wind, and the Jehar are hard to stop once they are in the saddle.'\n\n'The ships would reach Gramm's a long time before the riders,' Meical said. He sounded as if he was thinking out loud, rather than posing problems.\n\n'Maybe, maybe not,' Tukul said with a proud grin.\n\n'Two horses a rider,' Coralen said. 'Ride one horse, rest the other.'\n\n'That would speed things up.'\n\nThe conversation went on for a while, but eventually a silence fell and all heads turned to Corban.\n\n'It is the only workable answer,' he said. 'Though I don't like the thought of us splitting up. All that is left is to decide who rides and who sails.'\n\n'The Jehar are the best riders,' Brina said.\n\n'I will not leave Corban,' Gar said automatically.\n\n'I will not ask you to,' Tukul said, resting a hand upon his son's shoulder. 'But it should be mostly Jehar. Brina is right. We are the best riders, best equipped to get to Gramm's quickly. I would ask that Coralen ride with us,' Tukul said.\n\n'Why?' Corban asked, not really liking that idea. Coralen frowned.\n\n'Because she is the best scout I've ever seen, and you won't need that skill while you sail upon the northern sea.'\n\nCorban could not fault the logic, and he also knew that it was an immense compliment to Coralen. But still, it would be dangerous . . .\n\nHe looked at Coralen. She was staring at him.\n\n'It makes sense,' he said.\n\n'I shall go, then,' Coralen snapped.\n\n'Only if you want to,' Corban said.\n\n'I do. Why would I not?'\n\n_Because I want you to stay._\n\nCorban shrugged and looked away.\n\n'Best  get  the  last  galleys  shifted  across  this  marshland  then,' Dath said, looking up at the sun.\n\nThe next morning saw one hundred and fifty Jehar mounted and ready, horses stamping and restless, happy to be on solid ground and full of energy. Balur had taken a handful of Benothi and holed the hulls of the three pot-bellied transporters, sinking them into the depths of the river.\n\n_Better that than the Vin Thalun reclaim them_ , thought Corban.\n\nCorban stood on the riverbank with Storm and Shield. He stamped his feet and blew warm breath into his hands. It was cold, a new chill to the air.\n\n_Summer is waning. We need to reach Drassil before winter finds us._\n\nShield nudged him and snorted.\n\n'Sorry, lad,' Corban said, rubbing the stallion's nose and patting his muscular neck. 'I'll miss you. Behave for Tukul. And enjoy your run.' Shield had pranced off of the transporter like a coiled spring, full of life and energy, eager to gallop. Corban felt jealous that he would not be riding him across Isiltir to Gramm's hold.\n\nTukul was embracing Gar. He stepped back and held Gar's face in his hands.\n\n'Look after our Bright Star while I'm gone.'\n\n'I have done so for close to eighteen years,' Gar said indignantly. 'I'll not be stopping now.'\n\nTukul flashed a grin. 'My beloved son,' he said and kissed Gar's cheek.\n\nCorban turned away, memories stirring of his da. He came face to face with Coralen, who was checking her mount's saddle girth.\n\n'Be careful,' Corban said to her.\n\n'Huh,' Coralen grunted.\n\nThey regarded each other, Corban noticing the emerald of her eyes, the pink flush of her freckled cheeks in the chill dawn air.\n\nFootsteps thudded and Farrell appeared, Cywen and Dath with them.\n\n'I could come with you,' Farrell said.\n\n'And why would you do that?' Coralen snapped.\n\n'You might need me?'\n\nCoralen just sighed and shook her head. She swung gracefully up into her saddle.\n\n_That 's remarkably reserved for her. She must be going soft._\n\n'Here, this is for you,' Cywen said, grinning as she held out a throwing-knife in a fine sheath and wrapped in a belt.\n\nCoralen drew the knife and smiled, pale sunlight glinting on the iron.\n\n'I'll practise every day,' Coralen said.\n\n'See that you do.'\n\n'And make sure no one's standing close by,' Corban added.\n\nCoralen scowled at him.\n\n'Time to go,' Tukul called out. He leaned in his saddle and he and Corban gripped arms.\n\n'Ride fast, and I'll see you after,' Corban said.\n\n'Aye. This side or the other.'\n\n'No,' Corban said. 'At Gramm's. That's my first order to you.\n\nStay alive. All of you.'\n\n'We'll do our best,' Tukul said with his wide grin. 'And see that you all return the favour.' His eyes lingered over Gar.  'We'll  be sitting in Gramm's feast-hall warming our toes long before you get there,' he said, then he was turning his mount and cantering along the riverbank, the host of Jehar flowing out behind him.\n\nCoralen nodded to Corban and then she was gone, cantering to the head of the column, riding ahead to pick their route through the marshlands.\n\n'You going to miss her?' Dath said.\n\nCorban had opened his mouth to answer when he realized that Dath was talking to Farrell, not him.\n\n'I will,' Farrell said.\n\nCorban just watched them ride away. Finally in silence he strode back up the boarding-plank and onto his ship.\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele walked up the wooden steps of Ripa's outer wall, her doeskin boots hardly making a sound. When she reached the walkway that edged the high wall she stopped, making sure that she stayed out of reach of the torchlight that crackled in an iron sconce close by, spreading a circular glow across the wall. Further along she saw the dark shadow of two guards, but they were both facing outward and had not heard her.\n\nBelow her the town of Ripa was a dark shadow, here and there fires and torches marking the tiers of its flow down the hill that Ripa's tower was built upon. Occasionally voices lifted in drunken song drifted up, borne on the sea breeze. Vin Thalun voices.\n\nFurther out, she gazed at the wide meadows that surrounded Ripa, a huge black shadow, like a sable cloak spread across the land. And beyond that, the forest Sarva, and somewhere within it, to the north, lay Balara, that ancient giant ruin.\n\n_And Maquin. Where is he?_\n\nIt was the eleventh night since Maquin had left with Alben and six others, heading to Balara to investigate the reports of Vin Thalun activity there.\n\n_Eleven nights. They were supposed to be gone no more  than  four. Maybe five._ A trickle of ice dripped into her heart, taking her breath away.\n\n_Is he dead?_\n\nOthers were saying so, or thinking it at least.\n\n_No. He has survived too much._ But she knew that was ridiculous, as if life held a weighing scale to balance fair with unfair, right with wrong. _But he came back from the bridge of swords . . ._\n\nShe gripped the timber wall, knuckles white.\n\n_Nought but a fever dream, though I believed him, at the time. Wanted to believe him. And it doesn 't matter if it was a dream or truth. It does not change how I feel._\n\nFootsteps sounded on the stairs behind her, the creak of timber, and she turned to see Peritus approaching. He came and  stood beside her, looking out into the empty street beyond.\n\n'It is dangerous out here,' he said quietly.\n\nShe lifted her cloak and tapped the hilt of a knife. She'd taken to the habit of being armed at all times. It had been Maquin's idea.\n\nPeritus grunted, no doubt thinking her knife would make little difference against a Vin Thalun. _Maybe he is right, but I feel better for it. And I am not afraid to use it._\n\n'You have come here every night.'\n\nShe didn't answer.\n\n'They are long overdue,' he said.\n\n'That means nothing.'\n\n'It means something. Maybe not the worst.' He looked at her. 'You were Queen of Tenebral . . .'\n\nThere was a question in there, hesitant, voiceless. It said: _What are you doing? How can you consort with a pit-fighter?_\n\n_Because I love him._ 'Do not worry,' she said coldly, 'I know my duty.' _Duty has taken so much from me. My pride, my dignity, almost my life. I will not let it take Maquin from me as well. Just a little longer - I will do what I must for Tenebral, for my people. And then . . ._\n\nShe reined her thoughts in, the possibility that Maquin could be lying out there dead returning to her.\n\nA long silence grew between them, like a wide space. She felt Peritus shake his head, a ripple in the air.\n\n'You should not be alone,' he said eventually.\n\nShe didn't answer. A silence fell between them.\n\n'Marcellin will be here soon,' Peritus said into the quiet.\n\n'Has there been any word of him?'\n\n'None. But he cannot be far away. We shall have justice.' He looked at her. 'And our revenge.'\n\nPeritus had suffered much, seen Armatus, his oldest friend, beheaded by Lykos. And he had seen Fidele in Jerolin, with Lykos at her side. She had condemned him to death, her friend, because of Lykos' spell. Peritus knew why.\n\n'I am sorry,' she whispered.\n\nHe reached out a hand and squeezed hers. 'You were not yourself,' he said.\n\nA Vin Thalun voice raised in song drifted on the breeze from the town.\n\n'Why are they not attacking?' Fidele said.\n\nPeritus shrugged. 'They have tried to storm the walls, and they have tried stealth. Easier to starve us out.'\n\n'But what of Marcellin? They must know he is coming.'\n\n'Aye.' Peritus' face creased in a frown, moonlight picking out ridges and making deep valleys of shadow on his lined face. 'That troubles me, too.'\n\nA shout suddenly went up from the darkness beyond the wall. A clash of iron, a scream.\n\nFeet drummed on the stairwell as more  warriors  took  to  the wall. Peritus had his sword drawn. Krelis suddenly loomed  over them, a dozen warriors filling the stairs behind him.\n\n'What's going on, then?' he asked them. 'An attack?' He sounded hopeful.\n\n'Don't think so,' Peritus murmured, eyes scanning the shadows. 'Hard to tell, too dark.'\n\n'We'll see about that,' Krelis said. He grabbed a torch from a warrior behind him and hurled it over the wall. It spiralled through the air, trailing a tail like a shooting star and thumped to the ground, sputtered but stayed lit. Darkness retreated around it, an orange glow illuminating the road and first buildings. Shadows appeared at its edge, figures lurching into the light, the first one silver-haired.\n\n'It's Alben,' Krelis boomed. 'Ropes,' he cried.\n\nMen spread along the wall, Fidele pushing her  way  through them to see.\n\nAlben stopped, pulling the man behind him on - a big man, tall, gangly, his limbs looking oddly stretched and out of proportion, somehow. Alben shoved him on, then turned and faced the darkness. The man he'd helped staggered out of the light, across the street and slammed into the wall, Fidele feeling the vibration of it. A handful of Alben's men appeared running to the wall, shouting up at the onlookers.\n\nKrelis unfurled a rope over the side and tied it off. It creaked as someone began to climb.\n\nOther figures spilt from the alley, Fidele searching desperately for Maquin. One man staggered and fell to his knees, was grabbed and pulled up and on. Two men, three. A dark shadow blotted out the torch for a moment and Fidele blinked.\n\n_What was that?_ Then it was gone.\n\nHands appeared over the wall, Krelis grabbing an arm and pulling one of Alben's warriors up. He was soaked with sweat, breathing hard, clothing torn, blood welling from many cuts, but he did not pause, instead leaned back over the wall, calling to the figure behind him.\n\nA head appeared, a shock of jet hair upon a pale face, all sharp angles, flat planes and small black eyes. Wisps of a straggly beard grew from his chin.\n\n_It is a giant._\n\nMen swore around her, swords grating, spearpoints lunging.\n\n'No!' Alben's warrior yelled, stepping before the emerging giant with his arms wide, protective.\n\n'He is our prisoner. Alben ordered that he is not to be harmed.' He helped the giant over the wall. _I recognize him._ Then she remembered where from. _The riverbank; Lykos ' prisoner._\n\n'Where is his mother?' Fidele said into the shocked silence.\n\n'Down there,' the warrior said.\n\nFidele stared back into the street, then she saw Maquin. He was standing with his back to her, though she recognized his form, the way he moved. He had stopped with Alben on the far side of the street, both of them trading blows with enemies in the shadows. Sparks grated, then Maquin and Alben were retreating, moving deeper into the street, Vin Thalun spilling out of the alley about them. Three, four, five of the enemy, more voices yelling beyond the torchlight. Fidele's heart lurched in her chest.\n\nAlben's men were starting to reach the top of the wall, one flopping over, another close behind.\n\n'Spears,' Peritus called.\n\nMaquin  and  Alben  were  standing  before  the  torch  now,  legs bent, a weapon in each hand. Vin Thalun were circling them, at least half a dozen, hanging back. Bodies littered the floor. Then Maquin did the unthinkable. He charged them. Fidele heard herself shout his name, saw him wade into the warriors, who were instinctively flinching away from him. He spun amongst them, leaving in his wake trailing arcs of black blood. For a moment Alben stood frozen, then he followed Maquin and hurled himself at the enemy.\n\nFor a few heartbeats she thought they  were  going  to  do  it. Men were falling or staggering away, Maquin and Alben in constant movement, death-dealing wraiths, but then more Vin Thalun appeared from the alleys. The sound of marching feet sounded in the street, yet more running up from their fires by the main gates. Maquin took a blow on the shoulder, staggering him. Alben was hit in the back and he dropped to one knee, another blow sending him sprawling to the ground. Maquin stood over his  fallen  comrade, sword and knife black with blood, for a few moments holding back the enemy.\n\nFidele watched, praying to Elyon, her fist tight around the hilt of her knife. Peritus sighted with his spear and threw, his aim true. His spear struck a Vin Thalun through the chest, sending him crashing back. It did little good, though, more Vin Thalun crowding in upon Maquin and Alben.\n\nThen another figure appeared from the darkness, broad and hulking.\n\n_The giantess._\n\nShe swung something in her hands, long and sinuous. A chain. It smashed into the figures crowding  around  Maquin  and  Alben, sent them flying like straw targets on the weapons court. Then the giantess was throwing Alben over  her  shoulder  and  running  for the wall, Maquin retreating behind her.\n\nVin Thalun swarmed after them, but as soon as they were in range a hail of spears from the guards on the walls lacerated them. Those that didn't die scurried back to the shadows. Maquin was shouting from below and then Krelis and a dozen men were tugging on the rope. The giantling loaned his strength and weight, pulling with all his might. The rope creaked, strained and moved.\n\nAlben appeared first, still slumped across the giantess' shoulder. Hands pulled him onto the walkway, then the giantess was over, Maquin behind her. Fidele pushed her way through the milling warriors to Maquin. He was close to Alben, shouting for help. At her voice his eyes snapped onto her. His hand reached out and squeezed her tight.\n\n'Told you . . . I'd come back,' he said, still breathing hard.\n\nMore Vin Thalun were in the street, but they kept a healthy distance. Then a face appeared amongst them that she would never forget.\n\n_Lykos._\n\nHe stood there as still as stone, looking at the wall. His eyes fixed on the giantess, a combination of rage and fear twisting his features. Then he saw her.\n\nHer blood felt as if it turned to ice as terror struck her, her freedom, the escape, all she had endured and conquered during her flight to Ripa suddenly forgotten. A hundred memories flooded back, jumbling her mind, all of Lykos, his voice, his eyes, his breath, his touch. Then a hot rage swept through her. They stood there staring at one another, then he stepped back into the shadows and was gone.\n\nFidele marched through the corridors of Ripa's tower, Maquin at her side.\n\nHe had told her of Balara, of finding the Vin Thalun and giants. Of the decision to take them. And of their flight through Sarva.\n\n'I don't know how the Vin Thalun found us so quickly. Perhaps someone escaped Balara, or they visited there soon after we'd left. Whatever it was, we knew we were being tracked by sunset of the next day. Alben led us deeper into the forest. We tried to lose them,' Maquin had said.\n\n'How did you manage to do that with two captive giants?'\n\n'They cooperated,' Maquin said, something in the tone of his voice shifting.\n\n'I saw that. The giantess helped you save Alben - fought beside you and carried Alben to safety.'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'That's unusual.' She looked at him.\n\n'Aye, it is.' He shrugged. 'Alben spoke to them in giantish. He would not tell me what he said. Whatever it was, he must have been very convincing.'\n\n'Indeed. Giantish? That doesn't sound like the Alben I know.'\n\n'There's more to him than herbs and poultices.'\n\n'Yes, clearly. I think I'm going to pay these giant prisoners a visit.'\n\n'I'll come with you.'\n\n'You should be resting,' Fidele had said.\n\n'If you think I'm letting you walk alone into a room with two giants in it then you're mistaken.'\n\n'I have guards,' she had said, adding, 'when I request them.'\n\nHe had just ignored her and finished slipping his knives into their various homes about his body.\n\nTwo guards stood outside Alben's chamber in the belly of the tower, only a floor or two above Ektor's rooms. They did not try to deny Fidele entry to the giants' chamber, one of them dragging a huge deadbolt open and unlatching the door. They nodded respectfully to Maquin as he walked behind Fidele.\n\n_He is gaining a reputation amongst the warriors of Ripa._\n\nThe chamber was large, a row of shuttered windows high along one wall, chiselled through the rock to allow sunlight and fresh air in. Candles flickered in the salty breeze, the cry of gulls was loud and mournful.\n\nAlben was there, sitting in a chair before a wide table. The two giants were with him, the giantess sitting on the far side, her son lying upon a thick-mattressed cot. They all looked at Fidele and Maquin as they entered the room.\n\n'I am Fidele,' she said to the giants, ignoring Alben, 'once Queen to Tenebral's King, and now regent in my son Nathair's stead.'\n\nThe giantess regarded her impassively with small dark eyes. Her face was pale with a sharp nose and high angular cheekbones. She was muscular beyond belief, wearing a mixture of leather and animal skins. Her wrist was red and scabbed, and Fidele remembered the iron chain that the giantess had wielded in the dark, bound at her wrist with an iron collar. _Gone now._ Tattooed thorns spiralled about her right wrist, curling around her forearm and disappearing into a sleeve.\n\n'Can you speak the common tongue?' Fidele asked.\n\n'I speak a little of your tongue. Enough.' Her voice  was  like gravel sliding across granite.\n\n'You are mother and son?' Fidele asked, looking at the giantling, who was still lying upon his cot, but he had propped himself up on one elbow and was watching with interest.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'What are your names?'\n\nThe giantess' eyes flickered to her son, then back to Fidele.\n\n'I am Raina. My son is Tain.'\n\n'And what clan are you?'\n\n'We are of the Kurgan.' As she said it, something crossed her face. _Longing?_ It was hard to read. Her son tugged at his wispy moustache. It was a surprisingly old gesture on his young features, like an infant copying his grandfather.\n\n'Why did Lykos hold you prisoner?'\n\nAt the mention of the Vin Thalun's name Raina snarled, fists bunching, and for a moment she was savagely feral, more animal than human. She did not answer, just glared at Fidele.\n\nFidele sighed, recognizing some of that pain and rage. 'How long have you been his prisoner?'\n\nThe fire dimmed in Raina's eyes. She shook her head. 'I do not know. A long time. I tried to count the moons, but they faded, blurred into one another.'\n\n'Eight years,' another voice said. Tain, from his cot. His voice was flat, emotionless, a rasp to its edges.\n\n'Alben tells me that you are our prisoners. Yet I see no chains of iron, no collars or bonds. And last night, you seemed willingly to climb our wall and enter this fortress. You _fought_ beside our warriors.'\n\n'For which I thank you,' Maquin said, nodding to Raina. He was leaning against a wall where he could see both Raina and Tain.\n\n'You are welcome, little man,' Raina said with a twitch of her lips. 'Ones that fight so fearlessly should not be left to die in the street.'\n\n'I thank you for that, too,' Fidele said. 'But my question still stands. How is it that you are not bound? That you did not take advantage of the flight to Ripa and flee your new captors? How is it that you fought with us?'\n\n'Your healer is persuasive,' Raina said.\n\nFidele turned her stern eyes upon Alben. 'You speak giantish, then. How is that?'\n\n'I am a healer, which required that I also became scholar. There is much to learn, and more is written in the scrolls I have read than how to make a poultice or boil a herb.' He shrugged.\n\n'So what did you say to them, that so convinced them to become such willing prisoners?'\n\nAlben looked from Raina to Tain.\n\n'I told her that if she did not cooperate I would kill her son.'\n\nFidele blinked at that, then looked at him long and hard. He returned her gaze flatly, displaying no emotion.\n\n_I don 't believe you._ She did not think the Alben she knew would resort to threats, but more than that, there appeared to be something between Alben and the giantess, not quite a familiarity, but they both seemed . . . comfortable with each other.\n\nThe door  suddenly  slammed  open,  Krelis  bursting  in,  Ektor in his shadow. Raina and Tain leaped to their feet, Raina stepping in front of Tain.\n\nKrelis looked from face to face, paused with his mouth open.\n\n'We've been looking for you,' Ektor said to Fidele. 'Marcellin is come.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nThe feast-hall of Dun-Kellen rang out with the clack of wooden swords. Ulfilas sat at a long table beside King Jael, who was leaning forward in his chair, head propped upon a fist. They were watching a pair of men swinging hard blows at one another. They were good: fast, strong, both veterans and evenly matched.\n\n'Are they better than you?' Jael asked him.\n\nUlfilas shrugged.  'Maybe. They  are skilled, no doubt.  Sword-crossing in practice is different from a real fight, though.' _In the sword-crossing ring not only do you have to win, but you have to make it look good. You can 't bite a nose off, or twist someone's stones. In a real fight, though, all that counts is walking away alive._\n\nIt had been Maquin who had told him that, shieldman to Kastell, Jael's cousin. He'd liked both of them, Maquin a little more than Kastell. They'd both been good men to  share  a  cup  of  ale  with. That hadn't stopped him from standing by and doing nothing as Jael had put a sword through Kastell's belly, though. Or made him feel bad about it.\n\n_We all choose the life we lead. We all know it 'll likely end in blood. Don't see so many grey-haired warriors as you do smiths or tanners or fishermen._\n\n'Aye, that's true. Perhaps I should take away their wooden toys and let them fight with iron.'\n\n'You'd end up with dead shieldmen, my King, and in these days good shieldmen that are sworn to you are better alive than dead.'\n\n'Huh,' Jael grudgingly agreed. 'I need a first-sword. Are you not tempted to enter?'\n\nUlfilas shrugged again. 'If you wish me to, my King. I am happy as your shieldman and captain of your honour guard.'\n\n'That would not change, if you were to win this little tournament,' Jael said. 'You'd just be busier.' He flashed a grin. 'But I need the best sword in Isiltir at my side. I have enemies, and they will try to bring me down.'\n\n'Most of your enemies are dead, my lord.' Ulfilas glanced out of the open doors of the feast-hall. Late summer's heat was lingering. He could just make out the iron spikes that decorated the courtyard, a series of heads in various degrees of decomposition  adorning them.\n\n'I wish that were so,' Jael said. 'My enemies fill the shadows, biding their time.' He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes closed. 'I dream of them,' he said quietly. He shook his head. 'Enemies are like rats, Jael: leave them alone too long and they will breed and multiply. Enemies don't need culling, they need exterminating, to the last bairn of their bloodlines.'\n\n_A philosophy you have committed yourself to wholeheartedly._\n\n'Which is why I need the best sword in Isiltir at my side, not hired by my enemies and coming for me. So, if you are the best sword in the realm, I would like to know.'\n\n'Then I shall enter your tournament, my King.'\n\nJael nodded, eyes fixed on the two  men  duelling  in  front  of him. One was retreating before an onslaught of looping blows. The one retreating stumbled; his opponent, sensing victory, stepped in quickly.\n\n_Too soon_ , Ulfilas thought.\n\nThe warrior who had stumbled dropped to one knee, straightened his arm and drove the wooden sword beneath the raised weapon of his opponent letting the man run onto his blade.\n\n_Even the most skilled can be defeated by a well-timed ruse._\n\n'Hah, nicely done,' Jael cried out, clapping.\n\nBeyond the open doors hooves clattered on the flagstones of the courtyard. A few moments later Ulfilas and Jael were approached by a messenger from King Nathair.\n\nThe rider appeared travel stained and weary, the eagle of Tenebral upon his leather cuirass dusty and faded. He presented Jael with a scroll and stood quietly by as Jael opened it and read.\n\n'We will have to finish my tournament in Mikil,' Jael said. 'Tell your King I shall be honoured to host the meeting there. A moon from this day.'\n\nThe messenger nodded.\n\n'Tell me, to whom else has this request gone out?'\n\n'Gundul of Carnutan and Lothar of Helveth, my lord.'\n\n'Very good. You are welcome to eat and drink with us, stay and rest.'\n\n'My orders are to return to King Nathair with your response, my lord, but some food and a fresh horse would be welcomed.'\n\n'Of course,' Jael said with a wave of his hand and watched as the man was led away.\n\n'Mikil?' Ulfilas asked.\n\n'It appears that our high king wishes to hold a council of war with his allies. He has asked that we meet him at Mikil.'\n\n'High king,' Ulfilas grumbled. 'There has been no high king in the Banished Lands since Sokar and the fleet of Exiles set foot upon these shores.'\n\n'I must go,' Jael snapped.\n\nUlfilas frowned. _What hold does Nathair have over him?_\n\n'High king  is  a  tradition  more  than  a reality, true,' Jael said, calmer. 'But Nathair is an ally. Without him I doubt that  Isiltir would be mine, or in fact that I'd still be breathing. Or you, for that matter. It was a close thing, that day on the bridge. Nearly ended with our heads out there, not Gerda's and her cronies.'\n\nUlfilas remembered. They had been hard pressed, close to breaking, and then he had seen the black ships on the river.\n\n'Aye. But still. We need him no longer. Best he keep his nose out of Isiltir's affairs.'\n\nJael laughed. 'Hah, you are a true patriot, Ulfilas. But I will not make more enemies when there are already so many of them to choose from. No, we will go to Mikil, and see what our high king has to say.'\n\nA hand touched Ulfilas' shoulder and he jumped, half-standing from his chair and reaching for his sword.\n\nIt was Dag, Jael's huntsman, and rapidly becoming Jael's spymaster, as well. He was clearly good at creeping.\n\n'Don't do that,' Ulfilas muttered.\n\n'You must come,' Dag said to them both. 'It is urgent.'\n\n'What is it?' Ulfilas asked.\n\n'A messenger has come.'\n\n'It is the season for them, it would seem,' Jael remarked. 'What messenger?'\n\n'A giant. One of the Jotun. He has news.'\n\nJael stood without another word and followed Dag to the rear of the hall, Ulfilas following and gathering a dozen shieldmen along the way. He knew Jael's talk of enemies was more than just paranoia.\n\nThey wound down a wide spiral staircase into a twilight world of flickering torches and damp, dripping walls. Dag led them through the  bowels  of  Dun  Kellen.  Ulfilas  glanced  down  a  side  corridor, recognized it as the one that led to the cell where Gramm's grandchildren were kept under guard.\n\nDag led them on until they stood before the thick iron-banded door  that  opened  into  the  escape  tunnel,  the  one  that  Haelan had fled through, leaving Maquin and Orgull to hold it. He remembered that sight, the two of them gore-spattered, a mound of the dead clogging the corridor. Dark stains still patched the cold stone. Dag pulled a huge key from his belt and unlocked the door, opening  it  with  a  rusty  creak.  Jael  and  the  others  filed  through, lighting torches from a burning sconce, only the echo of their feet and the sound of their breathing magnified in this ancient tunnel.\n\nThey walked a long time, the silence about them suffocating.\n\n'How did you come by those scars?' Ulfilas asked Dag, more to break the oppressively monotonous silence than out of any real desire to know.\n\n'Wife,' Dag grunted. 'She came off worse.'\n\nUlfilas  couldn't  imagine  much  worse  than  Dag's  disfigured features.\n\n'I wouldn't want to meet her in the dark, then.'\n\n'Not much chance of that,' Dag said. 'I killed her.'\n\nUlfilas stopped asking questions after that. His mouth was dry and his belly rumbling by the time they came to a set of stone steps. Night had fallen when they emerged into a ruined room, crumbling stone all about them, apparently held together by a thick tapestry of cobwebs.\n\nDag led them through an archway and into woodland, the treetops swaying and rustling in a breeze, making shadows dance. Then something moved in the darkness, an impenetrable shadow, huge, like a tree come to life. It growled, and Ulfilas reached for his sword, stepping in front of Jael as the other warriors spread protectively around their King.\n\n'Peace,' Jael said, resting a hand upon Ulfilas' arm, then Ulfilas realized what it was.\n\nA bear, a giant sitting upon it in a high-backed saddle.\n\n'Well met, Ildaer,' Jael said.\n\nThe giant swung a leg and slipped to the ground, his  blond braided hair and thick moustache appearing like silver in the starlight. He gripped a long spear in one hand, a double-bladed axe was strapped to his saddle. Two other forms shambled out of the darkness - more bear-riders, one of them female, her chin and lip hairless, appearing strangely fine-boned amidst all the lumps of muscle and bone. The three giants repulsed Ulfilas. He tried to keep his face impassive as he looked at them.\n\n'We have found your runaway bairn,' Ildaer grated. He glowered down at Jael.\n\n'Where?'\n\n'What is this information worth to you?'\n\n'All that I promised. Every Jotun artefact found within Isiltir.'\n\n'That is not enough.'\n\nJael tensed at that. Ulfilas doubted that anyone else could tell, but he had known him so long. An inflection crept into his voice, a shift in his posture.\n\n'What else do you want?'\n\n'Land. South of the river.'\n\nJael looked up at Ildaer, the giant taller than any man there.\n\n'How much land?'\n\n'Enough for three hundred of my kin, and our bears.'\n\n'That's a lot of land.'\n\n'Your Isiltir has a lot to spare.'\n\n'Agreed,' Jael said. 'Though I will choose the land.'\n\n'We must both agree,' Ildaer said.\n\nJael looked between the three giants, then slowly nodded.\n\n'Where is Haelan?' he asked.\n\nIldaer looked over his shoulder, at the female giant.\n\n'Ilska and her bear found him. He is at Gramm's hold.'\n\nJael stood silent a moment.\n\n_Gramm 's! And we have his grandchildren. How did he not give the child up? He will regret that more than ever, now._\n\n'You are sure?' Jael asked, his mouth a straight line.\n\n_He  is  angry  now.  If  true  then  Gramm  has  played  him  for  a  fool. Gramm will not die quickly._\n\nThe giantess whispered something and her bear lumbered forwards. Ulfilas resisted the sudden urge to take an equal number of steps backwards.\n\n'I saw him,' the giantess said. 'Creach smelt him.'\n\n'Creach?'\n\nShe patted the thick neck of the bear she was sitting upon. It raised its head, making a deep rumbling sound. 'Creach,' she repeated.\n\nJael shook his head. 'Old fool,' he muttered. 'Gramm's time is over. Help me take the boy from him, and his hold is yours, if you want it.'\n\nIldaer made a strange noise, like two boulders grinding, his shoulders shaking. Ulfilas realized he was laughing. 'Agreed, little King.' He grunted something in giantish to the giants behind him and their laughter joined his. It was unsettling.\n\n'Wait here one day for me. I will make arrangements.'\n\nIldaer grunted and Jael turned and walked away. Ulfilas took one last look at the giants and then followed his King.\n\nThey walked in silence back to the ruined building in the wood. As they passed into the embrace of the crumbling stone Ulfilas voiced the question that had been on his mind since they'd left the giants.\n\n'Why do they want it?'\n\n'Want what?' Jael asked.\n\n'Land.'\n\n'Fertile land, perhaps. The chance to grow, to sow and reap. You've seen the Desolation. It's . . . desolate.' Men laughed at that. 'In truth, Ulfilas, it doesn't matter. I get Haelan, and in return they get something that is no hardship to give. And better. The Jotun will now be gathered where I can see them. Keep your friends close . . .'\n\n_And your enemies closer._\n\nDag paused at the trapdoor to the tunnel. He was frowning.\n\n'What's wrong?' Jael asked him impatiently.\n\nDag knelt and studied the ground before the trapdoor. 'Someone's been here.'\n\nThey drew their swords and stepped into the corridor cautiously. The torch was still burning. Dag took it from its sconce and studied the ground again.\n\n'Men have passed this way - see, footprints overlying ours.'\n\n'How many?' Jael asked him.\n\n'Hard to tell. Not many. Maybe only one. No more than three.'\n\nThey sped along the corridor, buckles and shirts of mail clanking, Ulfilas' breath loud in his own head. Finally they reached the doorway into Dun Kellen and slowed, Dag still leading.\n\nFurther along they found blood trailing into a side corridor. Ulfilas had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and knew what they were going to find before they saw two dead guards and the door open to the cell of Gramm's grandchildren. The guards were stripped of their livery - cuirasses with Jael's sigil and red cloaks.\n\nJael's face whitened, first with fear, then a cold rage.\n\n'Dag, take a score of men and find them,' he said, fury lurking in the depths of his voice. 'Ulfilas, take two hundred swords and ride to Gramm's. Take Ildaer with you.'\n\n'What of you, my King?'\n\n'I cannot come. I have to be in Mikil in less than a moon. It would take almost that to ride to Gramm's hold. You will have to do this work for me.'\n\nUlfilas went to hurry away but Jael reached out and grabbed his arm.\n\n'You understand the import of this?'\n\n'I do,' Ulfilas said.\n\n'My crown rests upon finding that child.'\n\n'I will find him, my King. What would you have me do with him - bring him in chains before you?'\n\n'The only part of Haelan that I am interested in seeing is his head. Bring that to me so that I can display it beside his mother's; leave the rest of him at Gramm's, the crows are welcome to him.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FORTY-NINE\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin smiled at the reunion between Edana and Halion. They hugged as tightly as kin, Edana laughing, then crying, and then laughing some more. Halion's grin was so wide it looked as if his face would split. Camlin left them to it. _I need to talk to someone._ He took himself for a walk around the perimeter of the encampment, though calling it that was over-generous. Disorganized and sprawling was closer to the truth.\n\n_Won 't be good if Braith leads a few score warriors in here._ Pendathran had guards spread around the camp and deeper into the marshes, but the encampment was becoming unguardable. Shacks had been made out of anything handy - walls latticed out of willow and alder, packed with mud. But they were everywhere, along the lake's shore, amongst stands of trees, spreading up the banks of streams. And there were dozens of those feeding into the lake. Any one of them could become a line of entry for Braith. He looked around with a growing tension filling his chest. _It 'd be a bloodbath._\n\nBraith. The time at the tower had been a day of shocks, and no denying. _Didn 't think  I'd  be  seeing  him  again.  Last  time  I  saw  him he was poisoned, had a hole in him and was falling into the sea. How did he survive?_ He felt a worm of fear wriggling deep in his belly. Braith was a formidable enemy, a fine woodsman and a man who made it his business to resolve all grudges. _Those qualities combined do not make the future that attractive._\n\n_You could leave. Run. As far away and as fast as you can. You know he 's going to be coming for you._ He sighed at the voice in his head. _I 'm long past running from this crew. But we found our way back easy enough, and that was rowing blind, and like madmen._\n\nThey'd rowed and poled and rowed like Asroth was snapping at their heels when they'd fled Evnis and Morcant,  roping  their boats together and carrying on well after dark. Meg said she knew the general direction of Dun Crin if not the exact waterways, and Camlin trusted her enough, while Drust was too exhausted to care. Five days later they'd rowed into the lake that covered most of Dun Crin, and Camlin noted that Drust had not bothered to insist on blindfolds.\n\n_Probably  because  none  of  us  knew  where  we  were,  but  there  it  is. Maybe there is some trust growing after all._\n\nHe heard a rustling in the undergrowth.\n\n'Might as well come on out, Meg.'\n\nThere was a silence for a moment, while Meg thought about it, most likely. Then her red hair appeared and she skipped up to him.\n\n_Can 't say that I'm too fond of bairns, but this one's been handy. And she's not such bad company. Doesn't talk a lot, at least, which I'll count as a blessing._\n\n'What's going t'happen?' Meg asked him.\n\nHe thought about lying to her, but then he remembered where he'd found her, and what she'd already seen.\n\n'They're going to kill us, or we're going to kill them. Can't see any other answer to it than that.' _And there 's a lot more of them than us. Maybe I won't tell her that bit._\n\n'Morcant's going to find us.'\n\n'If we stay here he will.'\n\nShe chewed her lip and shuffled her feet.\n\n'He'd have killed me already, if it wasn't for your help, girlie. Think I owe you one.'\n\nShe grinned at that and he ruffled her hair. Then he saw who he'd been looking for.\n\n'Be a darling and go and get me something to eat,' he asked her. As she scampered off he called after her. 'Nothing too slimy - grilled fish'll do me fine.' Then he turned and strode after Vonn.\n\nThey'd shared a boat for two days but it had been too cramped to talk. _Too many ears for what I 've got to say._\n\nVonn was standing in the shadows of a draping willow, looking at the lake.\n\n_Looks as if he 's thinking about the same things as I am._\n\nVonn heard Camlin coming and turned to wait for him.\n\n'Why'd you do it?' Camlin asked him. _No point beating about the bush._\n\n'Do what?' Vonn said after a long, indrawn breath.\n\n'You know what. Evnis. I had a clear shot. Could've ended a world of trouble; could've ended him, and bought some well-deserved vengeance for Edana. He killed her da, remember? We all saw it.'\n\nVonn stared at him angrily, Camlin almost hearing a host of different answers lining up and being tried out in the young warrior's head. In the end Vonn's shoulders slumped and he dropped his eyes.\n\n'I don't know,' he whispered.\n\n_Honest? Maybe._\n\n'I don't believe you,' Camlin said, making sure his voice was cold, hard.\n\nVonn's head snapped up at that. A tear streaked his cheek.\n\n'Believe  what  you  wish,'  Vonn  hissed.  'As  I  looked  at  him  I wanted to leap out of the boat and put my sword through his heart . . .' His face twisted between anger and pain, another tear rolling down his cheek. 'He betrayed everything I loved and valued. He's the reason my Bethan's dead. I _hate_ him.'\n\nCamlin stared at him a long time, willow branches stirring about them. _You don 't sound as convincing as you did in Domhain. In fact, you sound as if you're trying to convince yourself._\n\n'That so?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'Then I'll ask you again. Why'd you stop me?'\n\n'I don't know,' Vonn whispered. 'Maybe  I  want  to  be  the  one that does it. Maybe I had a weak moment - he is my da. Maybe . . .' He shook his head. 'I just don't know.'\n\nAnother silence stretched between them.\n\n_I 'm inclined t'believe him. Either way, I'd not want him at my shoulder in a fight against Evnis. He doesn't know his own heart. How can I trust him when he doesn't trust himself?_\n\nMeg pushed her way through the trailing branches of the willow and offered a wrapped leaf to Camlin. He took it and sniffed. Then smiled. Grilled trout. He took a bite and realized how hungry he was.\n\nA voice hailed them from the lakeshore - Baird, helping Edana into a boat.\n\n_Time for another meeting._\n\nCamlin gave Vonn one last look.\n\n'Are you going to tell Edana?' Vonn asked.\n\n_Don 't know yet._\n\nCamlin said nothing and walked away.\n\nCamlin assumed his customary place in what he'd come to think of as their council chambers, though it was decorated with creeping vines and birds' nests in the broken rafters. Halion now stood behind Edana, back in his position as her first-sword. Baird and Vonn stood beside him and Camlin eyed Vonn suspiciously.\n\nDrust and Pendathran were there, as well as Roisin and Lorcan, whose eyes kept drifting to Edana. Roisin sat beside Pendathran and, as Camlin watched them, Roisin leaned close to the battlechief and whispered in his ear. He laughed.\n\n'Congratulations on a successful mission,' Edana said. 'And I am overjoyed to have my first-sword back at my side.'\n\nHalion dipped his head at that. Camlin had been surprised at the depth of emotion he'd felt at seeing Halion alive. It felt good to have a friend back, and also it was nice to have something good happen, a balance for the trail of the dead they seemed to leave along the way.\n\nHaving Halion back filled Camlin with a new sense of hope, but the other edge to that blade was the knowledge that Braith was alive and had tracked Halion almost all the way to Dun Crin.\n\n_Probably would have, if Evnis hadn 't stood up and started shouting. Won't stop Braith finding us, though, will only slow him down a little. And give me a chance to prepare a welcome for him._\n\n'It's good to have you with us,' Pendathran said. 'I for one would like to hear your tale.'\n\nHalion spoke of all that had happened to him since the beach in Domhain. Of Rhin's questioning and Conall setting him free.\n\nRoisin snorted at that. _Doesn 't like the thought of Conall on her lad's throne._\n\nThe rest was one long journey from Domhain to Ardan.\n\n'You were followed,' Camlin said.\n\n'I know that now,' Halion said with a shake of his head. 'I am ashamed to have led the enemy here. I don't know how they managed it - I am no stranger to the huntsman's arts, and did much to avoid pursuit.'\n\n'Nothing you could do about it. It was Braith, and he could track a bird. He'll be here soon enough, with Evnis at his side.' Camlin looked at Vonn as he said the last part.\n\nThat set things off, like throwing fish oil on a fire. Voices all talking at once, some panicked, some planning. In the end Pendathran thumped a fist onto the table, making it jump.\n\n'Let's talk this through right, or we'll still be clamouring when Rhin's warriors start shoving swords up our arses.'\n\n'Let's have the facts,' Roisin said.\n\n_Good place to start._\n\nCamlin stepped forward. 'The facts are that Evnis and Braith, who happens to be the best huntsman that draws breath, are out there, along with Morcant and a warband. They've built towers and beacons around  this  marsh.  Put  it  all together, looks like they're going about ending this resistance sooner rather than later.'\n\nMore raised voices. Eventually Edana stood.\n\n'There's only one chance for us,' she said. 'We have to leave.'\n\n'And what? Just keep running?' That was Drust.\n\n'No. It's time to gather allies. There are more loyal warriors in Ardan, Narvon and Domhain than are here with us right now. We must give them somewhere to rally to.'\n\n'Aye, and how are we going to do that?' Pendathran asked in his gruff voice.\n\n'We're not as strong as our enemy, don't have their strength of numbers, so we have to be cleverer than them.'\n\n'Pendathran,' Roisin said, 'your experience of battle is greater than any other here. What do you say?'\n\n'Makes sense,' Pendathran said. 'This war won't get won by sitting on our arses. Options are few, as they're going to be coming in here and stabbing us.' He nodded thoughtfully. 'Time to move out.'\n\n'We don't have to make things easy for them, though.' Edana looked at Camlin as she said that.\n\n_I 'm liking this girl more'n more._\n\nThere was a fluttering from above and a big black bird crashed onto their table.\n\n' _Edana_ ,' it squawked. ' _Edana, Edana_.'\n\nThere was a moment's silence, all of them looking on in shock and surprise.\n\n'Craf!' Edana cried.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY\n\n#### CYWEN\n\n'Drink this,' Cywen said to the man sitting before her. His name was Gorsedd and he was on the ship's deck, back to a rail, pale-faced and gritting his teeth against the pain. His arm was purpling already, a shard of bone poking through flesh a handspan above his wrist. With his good hand he sipped at Cywen's flask. Buddai lay against the rail, snoring through the whole thing.\n\nHe was one of the villagers who had joined them during their flight through Narvon; he'd been stacking barrels below decks, unused to the pitching of a ship at sea. There'd been an accident. Pax the oarsman - Atilius' son - had heard him  screaming  and helped him onto the top deck.\n\n_Where 's Brina?_ The old healer had told Cywen to prepare Gorsedd for resetting his broken bone, which mostly meant filling him up with seed of the poppy.\n\n'Another sip,' she said to Gorsedd, and with a wince he complied.\n\nPax was standing to one side, watching. He looked almost as pale as the man with the broken arm. Cywen swayed as the ship rode another swell, the one huge sail tight and snapping in the wind. They'd been at sea for two days now, early the first day leaving the sluggish marsh river behind and entering a wide bay that they'd continued to row through, the sea tame and relatively docile. The second day they had rowed into open sea, skirting the  coast.  A strong wind had almost immediately caught them and Dath  had yelled for their sail to be unfurled. The wind had freed them all from the oar-benches, at first everyone relieved and thankful, but after half a day on the open sea over a score of people had lined the ship's rails, vomiting into the slate-grey and foam-speckled waves. Cywen had been one of them. She'd sailed across the straits between Ardan and Domhain with no problem, but this sea was another beast entirely, as different as a wild horse from one broken to ride. She'd hardly seen Dath as he hadn't left his post on deck since they'd left the wide-mouthed river estuary and entered the sea. Fortunately a good dozen of the oarsmen had worked on a ship's crew before, and so Cywen was vaguely confident that they had the skill required to avoid sinking by incompetence. That was something.\n\n'Come on, then,' Brina said, appearing suddenly and squatting down beside Gorsedd, one hand on his shoulder, the other about his elbow. She looked into Cywen's eyes.\n\n'You ready for this?'\n\n_More than he is_ , Cywen thought. She took a deep breath and nodded, then wound a leather cord around Gorsedd's wrist. She gritted her teeth and pulled.\n\nGorsedd screamed.\n\n_No amount of poppy milk can dull that pain._\n\nThe bone sank back into flesh, like a shattered ship sinking into the sea. _Why am I thinking of ships sinking._ Cywen tugged harder, waiting for the click that Brina had told her would signal that it had settled back into its proper place. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She glanced up at Brina, willing her to say that it was done.\n\nBrina didn't, just held on to Gorsedd's elbow.\n\nThe leather cord slipped in Cywen's hand, the bone poking through flesh again.\n\n'Rest a moment,' Brina said. 'Dry your hands. Try again.'\n\nCywen released the cord as gently as she could, Gorsedd howling, eyes rolling.\n\n'You could lend a hand, as you've time to stand around watching,' Brina snapped at Pax. He winced but nodded, looking more scared of Brina than the blood and bone oozing from the injured man's arm.\n\n'Can I help?' a grating voice said above and behind. The giantling Laith looked  curiously over her shoulder at the wound. Buddai wagged his tail at Laith's voice, though he seemed to otherwise still be asleep.\n\nCywen smiled and Pax looked relieved. Brina explained to Laith what she had to do.\n\nLaith gripped the cord and looked to Brina for the nod.\n\n'Don't pull his arm off,' Brina said. 'Slow and steady.'\n\n'Slow and steady,' Laith repeated. Then she pulled.\n\nThe  bone  disappeared,  sliding  smoothly  back  into  the  wound. Laith made it look as easy as stretching dough for bread.\n\n'You have to go further than the break,' Brina said, 'then it should slot into place. You'll feel it.'\n\nLaith's face was knotted with concentration. She continued to pull, then she smiled.\n\n'I felt it,' she said and let go of the cord.\n\nGorsedd sagged in their arms.\n\n'You know what to do,' Brina said, then stood and walked away. Her hand was pressed tightly to her side, the outline of the giant book clear under her cloak.\n\nCywen frowned as she watched Brina leave, then groaning from Gorsedd drew her attention. She washed out the wound, drizzled it with honey, gave him some more poppy milk, then pulled out her fish-hook and thread ready to stitch the wound. She couldn't hold his arm still for the rocking of the ship. She looked to Laith but she was playing with Buddai, completely oblivious to Cywen now.\n\n_She has a short attention span._\n\n'Here,' said Pax, and he took Gorsedd's arm.\n\nCywen began her work, stitching it loose to allow it to drain, then bandaging it. As she did, her eyes wandered to Pax. He was fine featured, high cheekbones on a tanned face, close-cropped hair and stubble for a beard. And bright blue eyes. There was something in them, a haunted look that seeped from them. Something niggled at Cywen about him. Something missing.\n\n'Where's your warrior braid?' Cywen asked him.\n\nHis eyes touched hers and then looked away.\n\n'Lykos cut it off.' His hand rose to a ragged tail of hair.\n\n'Why?' Cywen was horrified at the thought.\n\n'Did it to all of us on our first day at the oar-bench. Said we were less than men, let alone warriors. He gave me this, as well.' He pulled up his linen sleeve and twisted to show her a circular lump of sliver flesh, a burn-scar. Part of it was scabbed and weeping a mixture of blood and pus. 'His mark, to show me as his property.'\n\n'Why's it bleeding?'\n\nHis face twisted, part shame, part embarrassment. 'I tried to cut it off. I couldn't; it hurt too much.'\n\nLaith laughed at that from over with Buddai. 'I am not surprised,' she said, laughing some more.\n\n_This giant lacks any sense of sympathy._\n\nPax scowled.\n\n'Here, let me clean it for you.' Cywen asked Laith to take Gorsedd to his cot.\n\n'After,' she said. 'I like your puppy.'\n\n_Puppy! Buddai 's big as a pony._ The hound did look smaller, though, beside Laith. The giantling was on her hands and knees, hiding her face in her arms. Buddai was slapping at Laith's arms with a paw, then digging to reveal Laith's face. The giant laughed and rolled onto her back, Buddai licking her face.\n\nCywen dabbed at Pax's wound with salt water. He winced but he did not pull away.\n\n'You're sister to Corban, aren't you?' Pax said.\n\n'Aye,' Cywen muttered, scrubbing the scab away, applying pressure to squeeze all of the pus out of the wound, and then bathing it in a salve that Brina had prepared. 'What of it?' She glanced up at Pax and saw a new look creeping over his face. Awe.\n\n'He's going to kill Lykos.'\n\n'Is he?' Cywen asked.\n\n'Aye. Lykos is evil, sure as the sky is blue. If there is an Asroth then Lykos serves him. And Corban's the Bright Star - everyone says it. And look around: giants - Balur One-Eye stepping out of the faery tales. Jehar - they are the greatest warriors  that  have  ever lived. A wolven as his guardian.' He shook his head. 'And he set us free.' Something like adoration was in his eyes now. 'Lykos tried to break me, made me less than a man.'\n\n_Are you old enough to be a man?_\n\n'At first I did not believe we were free, thought it some twisted ruse for Lykos' pleasure. Then, when I knew we _were_ free, all  I wanted to do was find somewhere to be alone, to live in peace, away from it all. To hide. But now, after listening to what your brother said, who he is. He will kill Lykos, he will win this war, and I will follow him.' He was grinning at Cywen now, nodding fervently.\n\n'Well, I'm glad to hear that,' Cywen said, not really knowing what to say.\n\n_He 's talking about my brother. Ban, whom I used to push into puddles._ 'You're done,' she said, standing. 'Keep it clean. And don't try to cut it off again.'\n\nLaith laughed at that, then she hoisted Gorsedd to his feet and carried the injured man to his cot. Pax nodded his thanks to Cywen and stood, hovering.\n\n'Tell your brother . . .' he mumbled. 'Tell him us oarsmen, we owe him. And love him. He set us free.'\n\n'Tell him yourself,' Cywen said. 'Here he is now.'\n\nCorban was walking along the deck, his wolven pelt  pulled across his shoulders.\n\n_It is colder, suddenly, and this wind finds every gap there is._\n\nStorm padded at Corban's side. Her coat was slick  with  sea-spray, the markings that streaked her torso darker now they were wet. Thick muscle rippled along her chest and flanks as she walked beside Corban, her head almost as high as his chest.\n\n_She 's still growing._\n\nStorm padded over and nuzzled Cywen, almost  pushing  her over. Pax took an involuntary step back. Cywen stroked the coarse fur of the wolven's muzzle. As she looked closer she noticed a host of scars latticing Storm's head and body, silvery stripes where fur no longer grew, one ear ragged and frayed. _The last few years have given us all scars, of one nature or another._\n\nStorm saw Buddai and bounded over to him, a cub again.\n\n'Cy,' said Corban, smiling. He looked to Pax. The young man mumbled something unintelligible and left.\n\n'He thinks you a hero,' Cywen said.\n\n'Then he's wrong,' Corban replied. 'I'm sure you told him.'\n\nCywen grinned. 'I'm starting to think of you as a bit of a hero, myself. Even if it wasn't so long ago that I used to tell Mam on you for wiping your nose on my cloak.'\n\n'I can always count on you.' He smiled. 'Walk with me.'\n\nThe two of them picked their way along the deck, a companionable silence settling between them.\n\n'I'm sorry - I've wanted to see more of you,' Corban said.\n\nCywen shrugged. 'There's a lot to be done, I imagine.'\n\n'Huh.' Corban snorted.\n\n'You have to learn to delegate. Learn from Brina.'\n\nHe laughed at that, something that he'd done rarely of late, she realized, seeing him.\n\n'I've done better, I've asked her to delegate for me.'\n\n'I know.' She paused, wondering whether to speak her mind. Then she did. 'I'm worried about Brina,' she said.\n\n'What?'\n\n'She's different.'\n\n'What, you mean grumpier?'\n\n'No, not really. If anything, less grumpy, less sarcastic.'\n\n'And that's something to worry about?'\n\n'Aye. She seems less _interested_.'\n\n'That doesn't sound like her. If anything she's too interested in everyone else's business.' He said it with an affectionate smile.\n\n'Exactly. It's out of character. At first I thought she was ill, but it's not that. She just has no interest in anything. Except her book.'\n\n'The giant book?' Corban asked.\n\n'Aye. She doesn't know I've seen her, but she sneaks away to read it. And she won't let me look at it any more.'\n\nCorban frowned. 'I don't like the sound of that. After Heb . . .' He fell silent, lost in a memory. 'She grieved hard. But I thought she came through it, in the end. As much as any of us do.' He glanced at Cywen. 'I'll try and do something . . .'\n\nLaughter rang out from above and they both looked up. Figures were climbing in the rigging about the sail. After a moment Cywen realized it was Dath and Kulla.\n\n'I think she likes Dath,' Cywen said.\n\n'I think so too. The only person that doesn't seem to have noticed is Dath.'\n\n_Ha._ Cywen laughed to herself. _I could say the same about you, brother._\n\nThey   watched   Dath   climb   through   the   rigging,   swinging between ropes, moving like a monkey through the treetops.\n\n'For a coward he can be ridiculously brave,' Cywen observed.\n\n'Dath's no coward,' Corban said. 'He just screams louder than the rest of us, that's all.'\n\nAnother silence settled between them.\n\n'Where are we sailing to, Corban?'\n\n'Drassil.'\n\n'And then what?'\n\n'War. An end to all of this.'\n\n_Aye. But whose end?_\n\n'It seems to me a great deal is being asked of you, little brother.'\n\n'Asked of us all,' Corban said. 'And I agree. If ever I meet Elyon the All-Father face to face, I'll have a few things to say to him.'\n\n_Me too._\n\nThey stared out over the ocean. The sea stretched into the horizon, a foam-flecked world of grey and green, shimmering beneath a hard blue sky.\n\n'We're leaving summer behind us,' Corban observed.\n\n'Aye. And sailing into winter.'\n\n'It feels like that.'\n\nCorban, I'm scared,' Cywen said.\n\nHe gripped her hand and squeezed. 'So am I,' he replied.\n\nCywen crept through undergrowth, looking back at the rows of sleeping forms along the riverbank, framed by the dying embers of a dozen fires. Further off in the darkness their moored ships creaked in current and breeze.\n\n_Can 't go too far, or I'll walk into someone on first watch._\n\nShe eventually sat with her back to a wind-twisted tree, sharp-thorned bushes shielding her from the eyes of anyone not sleeping at this late hour. She concentrated on  becoming  completely  still, even trying to slow her breathing, and listened. When she was convinced that no one had followed her she opened her cloak and pulled out Brina's book, opening the pages to the  bright  moon above.\n\n_What is Brina so obsessed with?_\n\nFor a ten-night they had sailed east and north, while the weather turned colder and sullen black clouds hid the sun. Dath made sure they never lost sight of the coast, a line of dark cliffs and shattered coves, each night searching for an inlet or bay, sometimes just a strip of beach to shelter. They had moored in a cove for two days while a storm lashed the coast, the eight ships bucking and rearing on the waves like wild stallions. On the thirteenth day, soon after sunset, Dath had sighted the estuary of a great river flowing into the sea that Meical confirmed would take them to Gramm's hold. Another two days they'd rowed against the current, the wind still helping them, and earlier this day, as the sun was setting, they'd turned a bend in the wide river and Meical had pointed out Gramm's hold, a pinprick upon a distant hill. Behind it had been a dark stain on the land, as far as Cywen's eyes could see.\n\nForn Forest. Cywen had felt a dread settle upon her looking at it.\n\nDath said it was half a day's rowing, at least, so the decision was made to make camp and approach the hold in daylight.\n\nAnd so here she was, sneaking off in the dark to take a look at the book that seemed to be leaching Brina's enthusiasm for life.\n\nCarefully she turned pages, knowing how fragile it was, moving steadily to the back of the book. The part that Brina had forbidden her from looking at. In the moonlight the pages took a silvery hue, the writing like black shadows crawling across the pages. Things began to change, as she'd seen before, more diagrams and runes. Occasionally words she recognized.\n\nShe paused, mouth working, brain aching as she tried to translate what she was seeing.\n\n' _An dorcha sli_ ,' she breathed. She blinked and stared harder, the words seeming to be clawing out of the page at her, the flesh on her arms and neck goose-bumping as the words appeared in her mind.\n\n'The dark way.'\n\nSuddenly she felt scared, a creeping terror filling her, as if eyes were watching her, crawling over her. The darkness around her abruptly felt ominous, the silence malefic.\n\nAlmost against her will she turned more pages, eyes glued to the runes scrawled before her.\n\n' _Ghloigh gheasa,_ ' she murmured. 'The spell of summoning. _Fuil de namhaid,_ blood of an enemy.'\n\n_This is not Elyon 's way of faith. What is this? And why has Brina been spending so much time poring over this?_\n\nA twig cracked behind her and as Cywen was turning she felt her ear gripped and pulled, hard enough that she either had the choice of following the ear or having it ripped off.\n\nShe staggered upright and came face to face with Brina, angrier than she had ever seen her before. Her lips were twisted, noises spluttering from her mouth, but rage seemed to have taken her beyond the use of speech.\n\nCywen felt truly terrified.\n\n'I'm sorry,' she blurted.\n\n'Not as sorry as you're going to be, you thieving, back-stabbing, soft-footed, plotting little witch,' Brina hissed. Cywen tried to take a step back, but found that unfortunately in her anger Brina hadn't loosened her grip on Cywen's ear.\n\nEscape was out of the question, so Cywen resorted to the next option.\n\nShe screamed.\n\nImmediately footsteps were thumping and voices calling.\n\nBrina grabbed the book from Cywen's hands and tugged it out of her grip, slipping it into her cloak just as the first people reached them. Two guards from the first watch - Cywen recognized one of them as Akar, the Jehar captain.\n\nClose behind them but from the other direction Meical and Corban appeared, Balur striding out of the darkness from another direction.\n\n'What is going on?' Meical asked.\n\nCywen looked at Brina, then Meical. She wanted to tell Corban about the book, ask Brina what it was that she'd just read, and what exactly Brina was doing, but something stopped her. Deep down she felt something horribly wrong was going on, like an infection in a wound that ends in gangrene, but Meical and Balur's looming faces served only to keep her mouth closed.\n\n'She was sleepwalking,' Brina said. 'I woke and saw that she was gone - found her and woke her. She screamed.'\n\n_Sleepwalking! Is that the best you can do?_\n\nShe looked to Corban, saw the question in his eyes and on the tip of his tongue, but for once he kept it firmly behind his lips.\n\n_If Corban can keep his mouth shut, then so can I. Besides, Brina may not wish to remove my intestines with her bare hands if I keep her secret_ - _is it a secret?_ - _a little longer. I 'll talk to Corban alone._\n\n'You were sleepwalking?' Meical asked her, one long finger prodding Cywen.\n\n'I - I don't know,' Cywen said. 'I was asleep, and then . . .' She gestured around her. She stopped her eyes from flickering to Brina.\n\nIf anything, Meical's frown bunched deeper.\n\n'Is this a regular occurrence with you?'\n\n_No._\n\n'What's that?' Akar the Jehar said, pointing away from Cywen, into the darkness.\n\nThey all stopped and stared. A flicker of light appeared in the distance, like a distant candle. As they watched it grew and spread a little, blazing brighter in the darkness.\n\n'What is that?' Corban repeated.\n\n'Elyon, no,' Meical gasped. 'We need to rouse the camp  and move. That is Gramm's hold, and it is burning.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE\n\n#### HAELAN\n\nHaelan crouched in the darkness and cuddled Pots.\n\nHe was sitting on a barrel of apples in the cellars beneath Gramm's hold, a single candle burning, Pots at his side with ears pricking at every strange sound that filtered down from above. And there were a lot of those.\n\n_Why did I send Tahir away? I wish Tahir and Wulf were here._ They had left a few days after the bear-hunt, riding away one cold morning towards Dun Kellen. Wulf had given Haelan a note to pass to Gramm. _When the time is right_ , Wulf had told him.\n\nGramm had read the letter, stared at it a long time, then crumpled it in his fist. His gaze had shifted to Haelan, who'd stared back at him, or tried to.\n\n'They'll be back,' Haelan had whispered weakly.\n\n'I hope so,' Gramm had said and walked away. Haelan had not heard him mention Wulf or Tahir since that day, but he saw him each evening standing on the wall staring into the south as the sun faded into the horizon.\n\nShouting drifted through the cracks in the boards above  his head, sometimes a distant scream, making him jump and sending fear jolting through him. His hand searched out the shaft of the hatchet Trigg had given him and he pulled it from his belt, gripping it tight, imagined becoming a grown warrior and standing on the wall besides Gramm, the man who was risking all to help him.\n\nThe warband had been sighted in the pale blush of sunset, approaching from the south-west. It hadn't taken long to see Jael's banner held above them. Gramm had ordered the gates barred; everyone from the houses beyond the hold's wall was herded inside, and every warrior in the hold dressed in his war gear and manned the walls. Eighty men in all. Haelan had climbed the wall and hidden in the shadows by the gate tower, waiting along with Gramm and his men.\n\nThe warband had reached the gates soon after sunset, three hundred strong at least. A tall warrior approached the gates in gleaming mail and a horsehair plume trailing from his helmet.\n\n'I am Ulfilas ben Arik, come in the name of Jael, King of Isiltir,' the warrior cried out, his warband gathering like a storm cloud behind him, bristling with iron and malice.\n\n'Give up the child. I know he is in there. Give him up, and be rewarded by your King with more silver than you could spend in a lifetime. Continue to protect him and every last one of you will be dead by this time on the morrow.' His horse had fidgeted, stamping and dancing on the spot. He'd turned it in a tight circle. 'Talk on it; I will return soon.'\n\n'You can have my answer now,' Gramm yelled, looking more like a giant than a man in his war gear of leather and mail, a great axe clenched in his fists. 'Jael's no king of _mine_ , and you can tell him from me to shove his silver up his arse.'\n\nChaos had erupted then, spears flying, Jael's men attacking the gates with an iron-shod ram. Gramm's men on the wall had hurled spears and rocks down upon them, a great cauldron of oil heating over a fire-pit above the gates. Gramm had been yelling orders and suddenly spied Haelan crouching in the shadows.\n\n'To the cellars with you,' he'd growled at Haelan. 'One stray spear and you make all this worthless.' The look on his face had both scared Haelan and made him feel ashamed and so he'd gone running for the cellars, an old healer giving him a candle, opening the trapdoor for him and shutting him in.\n\nAnd here he was still, what seemed like days later. It was full dark, Haelan knew that, as there was a grate at the back of the cellar that opened onto the world  above.  Moonlight  shone  through the bars, and wisps of smoke occasionally drifted down, bringing the smell of burning timber. Other noises filtered down to him through the gaps about the trapdoor. From the feast-hall came the sounds of injured men being tended to, or comforted as they died. _Or not comforted. Just watched. Maybe holding their hands._ He remembered his mam telling him sometimes that was all you could do.\n\nFootsteps sounded above, dust shaken loose from the cracks in the floorboards, then the trapdoor opened. Light flooded in, making Haelan blink. Gramm stood there, silhouetted. He strode down the steps, ducking his head. Haelan saw blood on his axe, caught the smell of woodsmoke and the sharp tang of metal. _No, that 's blood. I remember it from Dun Kellen._ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the flood of memories that surged up.\n\nGramm sat on the bottom steps and rested his chin on his fist.\n\n'I can't get you out,' he said.\n\nHaelan frowned at him, not understanding.\n\n'They've surrounded the hold, lit a ring of torches. I was thinking to sneak you over the wall and into Forn while it is dark, but . . .' He  shrugged.\n\n'They're not attacking, then?' Haelan asked.\n\n'Not any more.' Gramm chuckled. 'They tried that and it didn't go so well for them. We've given them reason to stay back, at least.' He patted the head of his axe. A waft of smoke curled down the steps.\n\n'What's that smell?'\n\n'They're trying to burn us out. The gate tower's in flames.'\n\n'They did that at Dun Kellen,' Haelan said morosely.\n\nThey sat in silence a while.\n\n'Thank you,' Haelan whispered. He felt tears welling in his eyes at what Gramm had sacrificed to help him. 'For all that you have done for me.'\n\nGramm nodded. 'I'll not lie to you, lad, I've always spoken straight. Things don't look good. There's over three  hundred  of them, all proven swords, eighty of us in here.  Hard  men  and brave, and a wall between us and them, but . . .' He shook his head. 'I expected more. All my years I've been waiting for these days - the God-War. To be taken out of it before it's hardly begun.'\n\n'Life's not fair,' Haelan said.\n\n'No. It's not.' Gramm sighed. 'If they find you . . .' His hand dropped to the hilt of a knife at his belt.\n\n'I know. My head will be on a spike.'\n\n'Aye. And maybe more.'\n\nHaelan swallowed at that. He wasn't sure what Gramm meant, but the edge in his voice and the look in his eye spoke louder than any words.\n\nGramm drew his knife from his belt, turned it in his hand, the candle flame shimmering on the iron.\n\nHaelan felt afraid.\n\n_I 'm used to that_, he told himself. He felt a small flicker of anger in his belly, at Jael, the author of his fear, the man that had hounded and hunted him. In his mind's eye he saw Jael's face, remembered him from court visits, always with a smirk twisting his lips.\n\n'We're not dead yet,' Haelan muttered. 'And, as Tahir is fond of saying, every path has its puddle.'\n\nGramm stared at him, then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.\n\n_I didn 't think it was that funny._\n\nGramm stood, towering over Haelan, wiping his eyes.\n\n'It's as safe down here as anywhere. I'll have the trapdoor covered with something heavy when I leave. Just stay quiet. There's food, drink, more than enough to last you a moon. You never know . . .'\n\n_They might not find me. Can 't see that happening._\n\n'And if they do find you, take this.' He gave Haelan his knife. It was heavy in his hand, the iron cold.\n\n_Is this to use on the enemy that come through that trapdoor, or on myself?_ He was not brave enough to ask.\n\nGramm ruffled his hair and walked up the stairs, the trapdoor thudding closed. Then there was the sound of grating above as something heavy was dragged, men grunting. Then fading footsteps.\n\nHaelan lay down on the floor, shivering, curling around Pots, and closed his eyes.\n\nHe woke with a start, Pots licking his face. He'd been dreaming, about the hunt for the bear  in Forn, the one that had killed the wolven. Tahir had still been here, then, and he had gone on the hunt with Gramm and Wulf and a few score others, leaving Haelan at the hold. They'd not found it, but Tahir told him they'd followed its tracks into Forn and then north to the river. Huge paw prints had led down to the dark waters, and all had concluded that the bear and its rider had swum back across to the river's far side, to the Desolation. Haelan hoped so, though from that night on he'd had the same recurring dream of being lost in the forest, wandering alone and terrified, and then finally becoming aware that he was no longer alone. That he was being followed. Hunted.\n\n_I 've been hunted for as long as I can remember._\n\n_And now they 've found me._\n\nHe realized his candle had gone out but he could still see, faintly. _Dawn has come, then._\n\nIt was quiet, no sounds of battle, or anything, come to that. He remembered his conversation with Gramm, picked over it, looked at the knife Gramm had given him, lying on a flagstone beside his hatchet. The prospect of staying in this cellar for a moon or more made him shiver. Another day was too much.\n\n'Pots, what am I to do?' He stroked the wire hair of the dog, wanting to leave the cellars, too scared to move.\n\n_Even if I wanted to leave, the trapdoor 's been blocked and hidden. I'd never get it open._\n\nA crash echoed from somewhere above, making him jump. Sounds drifted down, men shouting, behind it a dull thud, repeated, like a heartbeat.\n\n_They 're attacking the gates again._\n\nAnother crash, this time much louder, and closer.\n\n_Are they inside the walls? Have they found me?_\n\nHe clutched the hilt of the knife that Gramm had given him. More crashing, and Haelan realized with a start that someone was pounding on a grate high in the cellar. It shook in its foundations, buckling under the pressure as it was repeatedly thumped, then it was falling into the cellar, a face filling the space it had occupied.\n\nHaelan brandished the knife, waiting for the enemy to come slithering through the man-sized hole in the wall. Instead he saw a face staring down at him.\n\nTrigg.\n\nThe half-breed smiled grimly and stuck her arm into the cellar.\n\n'Think you better come with me - they'll be through the gates soon.'\n\n'Gramm said this is the best place to hide,' Haelan said.\n\n'I'm not going to put you somewhere to hide,' Trigg said. 'I'm going to get you out of here.'\n\nHaelan paused a moment and then his feet were moving.\n\nHe dragged a barrel over, found that when he stood on it he could reach Trigg's hand. All of a sudden he jumped down from the barrel, retrieved his hatchet and knife, threading them both through his belt, held Pots under one arm and climbed back onto the barrel. He lifted Pots up and Trigg took him, hoisting him out. The dog turned and poked his head in through the gap beside Trigg's broad face, looking down at Haelan, then Haelan was being heaved through the hole, wriggling out, fingertips digging into the dark soil. Pots growled and pounced on his arm, began tugging on his sleeve as if it was some game. And then Haelan was out.\n\n'Where are we going?'\n\n'This way,' Trigg said.\n\nThey headed towards the main gates, slipping into the deep shadows along the feast-hall, Pots trotting at Haelan's heels.\n\n'Shouldn't we be going the other way, finding somewhere dark and small to sneak through?' he asked, though part of him was glad that Trigg was leading him towards the gates, maybe the knowledge that this was all happening because of him, and the very least he could do was not hide from it.\n\n_Mam never hid from anything._\n\n'It's madness at the gates, easier to slip through,' Trigg hissed down at him. Then they were around the corner of the hall and looking at the gates.\n\nThey stood frozen for a moment, then Trigg gestured and they ducked behind the wheel of a wain, both of them peering through it at the scene before them.\n\nDark silhouettes of warriors strode the walkway on  the  wall, more of them appearing through thick smoke. One of the  gate towers was on fire, flames crackling into the sky, clouds of smoke billowing across the courtyard. People were running,  a  chain  of them passing buckets of water in an attempt to douse the flames. The gates were still closed and barred, though there were cracks in the thick timber and the bar across them was twisted and buckling. They shuddered at another impact. Warriors stood in a line before it, shields and spears ready.\n\nHaelan saw Gramm on the wall, above the gates, bellowing, pointing with his axe-head. As Haelan watched he saw Gramm and a few others lift the cauldron  hanging  suspended  over  the  fire and empty its steaming contents over the wall. Screams rang out. The crashing against the gate stopped.\n\nThere was a loud crack, and part of the flaming tower collapsed, charred wood tumbling into the courtyard,  pinning  someone beneath it. Their shrieks of pain made Haelan cover his ears.\n\nThen something strange happened.\n\nEveryone on the wall stopped moving.\n\nThey were staring, out beyond the wall. Then Gramm turned and bellowed.\n\n'GIANTS!'\n\nThere was a rumbling from beyond the gates, like the pounding of drums, marching, and then an unmistakable sound, one that Haelan had heard before, that day in the meadow  close  to  Forn when he'd been helping to repair the wall. A roar, ear-splittingly loud, the vibration of it reverberating through his chest.\n\nSomething colossal crashed into the gates. The wood cracked, the bar bucking in its rests, hinges screaming protest. Gramm was yelling himself hoarse, throwing another spear over the wall, ordering the cauldron filled and back on its spit, shouting at a few huntsmen with their bows nocked to shoot faster.\n\nAnother impact on the gates. There was another crack as the bar bowed in its rests. In the courtyard before the gates warriors yelled and shuffled closer together, spear-points wavering.\n\nThen the gates shattered, a huge explosion of splintered timber and iron, a cloud of dust and smoke blown into the courtyard, smothering everything, billowing as far as the steps of the feast-hall.\n\nHaelan covered his mouth, blinking. Beside him Pots growled.\n\nThe dust slowly settled, revealing the open gateway, one door hanging from snapped hinges, the other gone entirely.\n\nA huge shape came shambling through, all teeth and claw and fur, eyes glaring, a giant sitting astride it bellowing a war cry, brandishing a war-hammer.\n\nPots whined and tucked his tail between his legs.\n\nTrigg hissed beside Haelan, her whole body tensing.\n\nAll became chaos.\n\nThe warriors lined before the gates spread out in a half-circle, over a dozen of them. Haelan saw them all drop their spears and shields, reaching to their backs for their axes.\n\nThen the axes were spinning through the air, crunching into the giant and his bear. The giant toppled from his saddle, his face a red ruin, axe-blades buried deep in his chest. The bear bellowed, two axes in its skull, staggered on half a dozen steps and crashed to the ground, sending up a fresh cloud of dust.\n\n_The men of Gramm 's hold have fought giants before._\n\nAnother bear appeared in the gateway, surging through it, the giant upon it yelling a battle-cry and brandishing a spear as thick as a small tree.\n\n_A giantess,_ Haelan thought absently, noting the lack of moustache.\n\nShe flung her spear at the warriors gathered before the gates as they scrabbled for their own shields and spears. The giants' spear struck one and sent him crashing backwards in a fountain of blood. The bear powered forwards, as broad as two stallions and taller, and smashed into the clustered warriors, raking one paw through them, leaving a trail of gore. Some still standing stabbed with their spears, piercing the bear's thick coat. Haelan saw blood flow from a handful of wounds, but the bear ignored them, tore the head from a warrior with its powerful jaws, the giant on its back swinging a war-hammer, turning another warrior to bloody pulp. More shapes appeared behind the giant and bear - warriors on horseback surging in upon either side, the unmistakable sound of more bears roaring beyond the wall.\n\nSomething fell from the wall above, hurtling towards the bear and its giant-rider in the courtyard.\n\nGramm. Not falling. Leaping.\n\nHe was yelling, swinging his great axe. With a wet crunch it slammed into the giantess' head, blood, bone and brain erupting.\n\nThe bear roared, standing on its hind legs and flinging Gramm and the dead giant to the dirt, the surviving warriors before it cringing back. With a concussive _boom_ the bear fell back to all-fours and sniffed the giant. It lifted its head and roared again, spittle spraying from its jaws. Gramm staggered to his feet, swaying, and the bear raised a huge paw and swiped him, sending him flying through the air to land and roll to a stop at the feast-hall steps. He did not move.\n\nHaelan ran to Gramm, Trigg trying to grab him and missing. He dropped to his knees beside the big man's head, wiped hair and blood from Gramm's face and the man's eyes flickered open.\n\nGramm looked at Haelan, his lips moving, and Haelan put his ear to Gramm's mouth.\n\n'Run,' the big man whispered.\n\nHaelan hesitated. He looked over at Trigg, still behind the wain, and she pointedly looked from him to the open gates. Then he was off, sprinting to the outer wall, then zigzagging across the courtyard, spinning around fighting warriors, ducking through horses' legs, avoiding bears, until he was at the gates. They were empty now, the enemy warband had passed through, fighting within the courtyard or riding people down beyond the feast-hall. More fires were springing up.\n\nHaelan stepped hesitantly through, looking out at the meadows beyond, huge pastures undulating into the distance.\n\n_Where do I go? Not that way - they'll see me from a dozen leagues away._\n\nHe looked east, to Forn, and shivered, remembering his dreams.\n\n_Hunted._\n\nHorses neighed in the paddocks, Gramm's legacy, a lifetime of breeding. Haelan felt fresh tears spring to his eyes at that.\n\n_I need one of those horses, else I 'll never make it to Forn._\n\nHe was a good rider, had been trained by the best since he could walk, and even the prospect of riding bareback didn't put him off too much. He looked about, then dashed away from the gates. Almost immediately he heard the sound of hooves, behind and to the left, closer with every heartbeat. He dived forwards, rolling away from hooves that thudded about him.\n\nThe horse was reined in, a warrior in chainmail leaning in his saddle to snatch at him.\n\n'Come here, you little brat,' the warrior snarled, 'or I'll put my spear through you and we'll see how you squirm then.'\n\nHaelan rolled away and then Pots was standing over his head, snarling, teeth snapping and fur bristling at the horse and rider. If he had not felt such overwhelming terror Haelan would have laughed.\n\n'Have it your way,' the warrior said, hefting his spear.\n\nThen a sword-point burst through his chest and blood exploded, showering Haelan and Pots.\n\nA hand shoved the dead warrior from his saddle and a man took his place, long arms reaching down for Haelan, a familiar face staring grimly at him.\n\nTahir.\n\nHaelan just stared at him, not sure if he was dreaming.\n\n'Take my hand, Haelan,' Tahir said, and he did, was swung up into the saddle, and Haelan was hugging his shieldman tight, then they were riding, Pots running alongside them. There were other riders about them, warriors from the hold who  had  ridden  with Tahir and Wulf in search of Swain and Sif. Haelan caught a glimpse of Swain and Sif in the saddle of another horse, and Wulf, leaping from his saddle, staring at the shattered gates of his home, tears streaking his cheeks. Wulf looked back at his children as they rode away from the hold, then he turned and strode through the smoke-wreathed gates. Haelan tried to tell Tahir, but all that came out was a sob, then everything became a blur for him, the wind whipping tears of his own from his eyes.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas kicked his horse on, sword arm rising and falling, the man running from him crashing to the ground in a tangle of boneless limbs. All about him his warriors were swarming, the courtyard seething with combat, riders spilling around the sides of the feast-hall where Gramm's men were starting to break and run. Behind him a bear bellowed, making his head rattle inside his helmet.\n\n_Would I stand against such a foe?_ He was glad that he did not have to find out, and respected these men of Gramm's who stood against such overwhelming odds. That didn't stop him killing them, though.\n\nHe saw a knot of them rallying about a bear, the one whose rider Gramm had killed. Six or seven men were forming a crude half-circle, one stepping in to stab with his spear, the bear lunging at him as he jumped away, another moving close on the other side, bloodying the animal again, enraging it.\n\n_That is the way to kill a bear, usually. Wear it down, bleed it until it 's weak. But not bears like this - it would take a moon to weaken that beast._\n\nUlfilas spurred his horse on and rode at the men about the bear, slashed one across the skull, the warrior's iron helm ringing as he dropped, dead or unconscious. They turned on him and Ulfilas dragged on his reins, his horse rearing, hooves lashing, sending men stumbling back into the range of the enraged bear. A paw whistled through the air and a man fell, eviscerated, another caught in its huge jaws, ripping flesh and crushing bone. The survivors broke and scattered. Ulfilas allowed himself a satisfied grin, until he saw the bear lumbering towards him.\n\nHe felt his horse panicking beneath him, shying away, and he had to yank on the reins to bring it under control, the bear looming closer.\n\nThen another bear filled the gap between them, the Jotun warlord Ildaer upon it. He shouted words in giantish at the enraged bear. It seemed to calm, marginally.\n\n'He is mad with grief, his rider slain,' Ildaer said to him.\n\n_Do bears feel grief?_ Ulfilas rode towards the feast-hall, passing another giant who knelt upon the ground, cradling the corpse of the giantess that Gramm had slain.\n\n_Another brave deed. Songs would be sung about that leap, tales told around the campfires this night._\n\nThe courtyard was less frantic now, full of the dying rather than the fighting, combat drifting around the edges of the hall and amongst the outbuildings. More bears and their giant riders disappeared behind the feast-hall, part of the dozen more Jotun who had arrived with Ildaer at dawn.\n\n'No mercy,' Ulfilas cried to his warriors. 'Find the child.'\n\nHe dismounted, warriors falling in behind him, and approached the broken form of Gramm, who lay where he had fallen. Ulfilas stood over him, knew that the man was finished. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose, his skin was ashen and pale. Broken ribs poked through the ruin of his flesh and leather war gear.\n\nThat was where Ulfilas kicked him.\n\nGramm screamed, eyes snapping open.\n\n'Where is he?'\n\nGramm's eyes took a moment to focus. Ulfilas pulled his helmet off, hair sweaty and plastered to his head, but he saw recognition dawn in Gramm's eyes.\n\n'Jael's dog,' Gramm whispered.\n\nUlfilas kicked him again.\n\n'Where is the boy?'\n\nGramm just stared at him.\n\nUlfilas turned to Ildaer, sitting upon his bear.\n\n'Ildaer, this is the man who killed your kin - Ilska was her name, if I remember right.'\n\n'You do,' Ildaer growled, small eyes fixing on Gramm.\n\n'He was lord of this hold, and if anyone knows where the child is, it is him. Would you help me here?'\n\n'I will.' Ildaer swung a leg over his saddle and slipped to the ground, pulled his war-hammer from a leather  sleeve  and  strode over, his blond warrior's braid swinging.\n\n'Inside this hall a giant's war-hammer and the skin of one of your bears are nailed to the wall,' Ulfilas said.\n\nIldaer's eyes narrowed at that. He laid his war-hammer upon the ground, grabbed one of Gramm's hands and heaved him from the ground, slamming his body against one of the broad columns that flanked the feast-hall's steps. A cry of pain whistled from Gramm's lips. Ildaer drew a dagger from his belt, as long as a short sword, and slammed it into Gramm's forearm, halfway between wrist and elbow, impaling him against the column. He left him dangling as he searched the ground for another weapon, lifted a spear and impaled the other arm beside the first, hanging him like a snared hare.\n\n'Feel more inclined to tell me where Haelan is?' Ulfilas asked, climbing steps to look Gramm in the eye. Gramm spat blood in his face.\n\nIldaer punched Gramm in his broken ribs, sending him swinging. Gramm screamed, loud and long.\n\n'Where is he?' Ulfilas asked again.\n\nGramm squeezed his eyes shut.\n\n'Speak, giant-slayer,' Ildaer grated, 'and the hurt will end.' He pulled his arm back for another blow.\n\n'NO!' someone screamed from behind them. At the same time something whistled past Ulfilas' ear and slammed into Ildaer. The giant staggered forwards a step and dropped to one knee, a single-bladed axe buried in his back, high, between his shoulder and spine.\n\nUlfilas turned and saw a man running at them, pulling another axe from a strap on his back. He was wrapped in fur and leather, with dark hair and eyes, body knotted with thick muscle.\n\n_Gramm 's son, Wulf._\n\nWulf threw the second axe as he ran, this one at Ulfilas, but his warriors were moving protectively about him. One stepped in front of Ulfilas, at the same time raising his shield. He was too slow and took the axe in the face, collapsing in a twitching ruin.\n\nUlfilas snarled and drew his sword, beside him Ildaer plucking the axe from his back and calling out in giantish, his bear moving to him.\n\nOther warriors converged on Wulf, two reaching him  at  the same time. Wulf ducked, a sword and another smaller axe in his hand. He hamstrung the first warrior with his axe, slit his throat as he fell, swirled around the next one, burying his sword in the man's belly, ripping it free as his momentum carried him on, eyes fixed on Ulfilas. He was thirty paces away, powered on, blocked a sword blow with his blade, buried his axe in a neck. Fifteen paces away.\n\nUlfilas felt a ripple of fear, welcomed it as an old friend, set his feet and lifted his blade.\n\nThen someone crashed into Wulf, one of Ulfilas' men, wrestling him to the ground, another appearing, clubbing him across the back with a spear-butt. More swarmed upon him.\n\n'Don't kill him,' Ulfilas yelled as Ildaer strode over, blood streaming from the wound in his back, tossing Wulf's axe away as if it were a child's plaything. He grabbed a fistful of Wulf's hair and dragged him to the feast-hall steps, lifting him to look in his eyes.\n\nWulf was semi-conscious, eyes flickering, a cut on his scalp sheeting blood. Ulfilas slapped his face and his eyes snapped open.\n\n'Say hello to your father,' Ulfilas said.\n\nWulf stared at Gramm, impaled to the feast-hall column, blood drenching his arms. He was looking back at his son, tears in his eyes.\n\n'My boy,' he whispered '. . . shouldn't . . . come back.'\n\nWulf kicked and writhed in Ildaer's grip, spat and cursed. The giant held him tight, only laughed.\n\n'Perhaps you should join your father,' Ildaer grunted, pinning both of Wulf's wrists together with one huge fist. He strode up the far side of the steps to its opposite column, bending to pick up a spear as he went, and in one blow pierced both of Wulf's palms, stabbing the spear into the column. Wulf stood with his arms raised overhead, blood running down the column, eyes fixed on his da.\n\n'Now,' Ulfilas said, 'I shall ask you both. Where is Haelan? Hiding in some bolt-hole? Where is he?' He looked between the two men, father and son, could see the defiance in their eyes. He sighed.\n\n_I am a warrior, not a torturer. Where is Dag when he 's needed?_ Nevertheless, Ulfilas knew his duty, and he knew that he could not return to Jael without Haelan's head, or else there was a high chance he'd lose his own, and that was not an option.\n\n'I am going to torture one of you until the other speaks. This will bring me no pleasure. It will be best for you both to speak now and avoid the unnecessary pain.'\n\nNeither answered him. He drew his knife and walked up the steps to stand halfway between them. 'Who shall it be?' he asked.\n\n'I know where he is,' a voice shouted, someone stepping out from behind a wain. A youth, tall, fair-haired and long-limbed.\n\n_A girl?_\n\nThe youth walked towards them, something in her stride seeming wrong, somehow, different. As she drew closer Ulfilas saw that her arms were corded with thick muscle, her face flat planes and sharp angles.\n\n_Like a giant._\n\n'What are you?' he asked, frowning.\n\n'My name's Trigg,' the youth said. 'I'm a half-breed.'\n\nUlfilas noticed Ildaer cocking his head to one side, studying this new arrival with interest.\n\n_I didn 't know such a thing was possible._\n\nTrigg reached the wide steps and stopped.\n\n'Why would you offer up this information?' Ulfilas asked, himself as suspicious as the girl appeared to be, half expecting some kind of trap.\n\n'They have mistreated me all my life,' Trigg said, pointing at both Gramm and Wulf.\n\n_Fair enough._\n\n'We gave you a home, treated you well,' Wulf yelled at her.\n\n'You mocked me, scorned me, beat me,' Trigg said, her face cold, holding Wulf's gaze.\n\n'Where is Haelan, then?' Ulfilas asked.\n\n'Trigg,' Gramm breathed, 'don't.'\n\nIldaer cuffed Gramm across the head.\n\n'He's in the cellars, I saw Gramm go down there, heard them talking.'\n\n'You traitorous half-breed, curse you, I'll kill you,' Wulf yelled.\n\n'Take  me  to  them,'  Ulfilas  said.  Trigg  strode  up  the  steps into  the  feast-hall,  Ulfilas  and  Ildaer  behind  her,  Wulf's  screams following them. They passed through the hall, dead men lying on tables, others between the tables, through a wide door into the kitchen, ovens cold. A pile of barrels were massed in one corner and Trigg pointed at them.\n\n'Trapdoor's under them.'\n\nIldaer tossed them aside in a few heartbeats to reveal a trapdoor. Ulfilas threw the bolt and lifted the door, hefted his sword  and walked down steps into a dark, musty room, pale light leaking in from some kind of grille at the far end of the room.\n\n'There's no one here,' he snarled after searching it thoroughly. Then he saw the open grate and a barrel underneath it and ran back up the steps two at a time. The half-breed girl was nowhere to be seen.\n\n'He must be close,' he snarled at his men as he ran out into the courtyard. 'Tear this place apart.'\n\nHe strode to Gramm. 'Where would he go?'\n\n'He's . . . gone, then,' Gramm breathed. He had the gall to smile. Ulfilas felt a rush of frustrated rage, edged with fear of failing his task.\n\n'Ildaer, your giant-kin's bear - he grieves for his rider?'\n\n'Creach, aye, he does,' Ildaer rumbled. 'We raise our bears from cubs, our bonds are strong.'\n\n'Then have some vengeance for your bear.' He pulled his knife from his belt and punched it into Gramm's gut, ripped it across so that intestines spilt about his boots like writhing snakes. He stepped away to the sound of Wulf and Gramm's screams mingling.\n\nIldaer barked something in his guttural tongue and the riderless bear shambled forwards.\n\n' _Feasta_ ,' Ildaer said and the bear sank its jaws into the pile of intestines, eating them with a disgusting slopping, sucking sound that turned Ulfilas' stomach.\n\nGramm screamed louder, again and again, Wulf weeping and cursing.\n\n'Lord Ulfilas,' a warrior called down from the wall. 'There is something you should see.'\n\n'What? It better be to do with the child,' Ulfilas growled as he strode to the steps. The heat of battle was fading and he felt a chill wind now.\n\nUlfilas reached the walkway and looked where the warrior was pointing.\n\nIt was north-west, beyond the pastures and outbuildings of the hold, towards the river that separated Isiltir from the Desolation. A ship had appeared, sleek-hulled and shallow-draughted, rowing hard, even as he watched a black sail being furled and the mast coming down for the ship to slip beneath the stone bridge that spanned the river. More ships appeared behind it - four, six, until they numbered eight in total.\n\n_I recognize those sails, and those ships from the battle at Dun Kellen. The Vin Thalun, servants of Nathair. Why have they been sent here? Has Jael communicated with Nathair, said that I need help?_ He felt a stab of anger at that, followed by a flush of pleasure that the hold was all but conquered. _They are too late. We need no help._ Distant sounds of battle drifted up from the slopes beyond the feast-hall, edging through the buildings and warehouses that led to the river. _It will take some time to flush all resistance out from this rats ' lair, but their back is broken. Only the child to find._\n\nGramm's screams still rose up from the courtyard, rising now to a hoarse, high-pitched shriek. The bear had worked its way through the piled intestines, had followed their trail up and was sticking its jaws into the wound in Gramm's belly. Wulf hung limp as he watched. Ulfilas winced. I should go down there and put him out of his misery. He regretted his moment of anger.\n\n_The child. Where is he?_\n\n'Ildaer,' he called down from the wall. 'Your bear, could he find Haelan's scent?'\n\nIldaer nodded, climbed back into his saddle, and then his bear moved off, disappearing behind the feast-hall.\n\nUlfilas' thoughts shifted to practical details and he thought of setting up a perimeter around the hold to prevent the chance of Haelan slipping away in any confusion. _Perhaps I could use these Vin Thalun newcomers._ He looked back to the ships, saw the first one docking against a quay, a boarding ramp sliding across. Figures began to disembark, too far away to determine details, but something niggled at his mind. Two hounds leaped from the first ship as the other ships began to thud against other quays. One of the hounds was enormous, white furred and exuding power even from this distance. He stared harder, eyes narrowing.\n\n_Are there giants amongst them? Jael had mentioned to him that Nathair had giants amongst his allies. But why are they here?_ He felt a seed of doubt squirm in his belly.\n\n'Lord Ulfilas,' the warrior beside him said.\n\n'I know,' Ulfilas murmured. 'A strange shipload.'\n\n'Not the ships, lord. To the south-west - there are riders approaching. A lot of them.'\n\nUlfilas turned away from the ships and looked to the south-west. The warrior was right. A cloud of dust hovered above a smudge on the land, and now he could hear the faint rumble of hooves.\n\n_Who are they?_\n\n'Blow your horn; gather the warband,' he said as he tugged his helmet back on.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE\n\n#### TUKUL\n\n'Looks like we're in for a fight,' Tukul said to Coralen and Enkara, the three of them riding at the head of their column. He glanced over at Coralen and saw she was buckling on her wolven gauntlet with her teeth. He grinned.\n\n_I like this girl. She will be a fine match for Corban, and they will have strong children. Well behaved, unlikely; wayward, perhaps; fiery and stubborn, definitely._ He had said as much to her on their journey across Isiltir, but she had blushed as red as her hair and threatened to cut his tongue out with her wolven claws if he said such a thing to her again.\n\n_Fiery._\n\nHe smiled at the memory of it.\n\nAs soon as he'd seen the smoke rising from Gramm's hold he'd known something was wrong. He had a hasty conversation with his sword-kin.\n\n'Do you want me to scout the hold out?' Coralen had asked him.\n\n'That would be sensible,' Enkara said.\n\n'Sensible be damned,' Tukul said. 'Gramm is my friend, and he may need help.' He shrugged. 'We will go and help him.' He'd ordered the spare horses that they'd alternated riding across the length of Isiltir left in the pastures before Gramm's hold, giving Shield a fond rub on the nose.\n\n_You 'd make a good warhorse, my friend, but Daria and me, we know each other, like you and Corban, eh? So I shall ride her into battle, and she can tell you of her glory later._ Shield had snorted at him and stamped a hoof.\n\nAnd then Tukul was leaping into his saddle and kicking Daria into a ground-eating canter. Not a gallop, he didn't want her blown if there was going to be a fight at the end of this last dash to the finish line.\n\nThey crested a rise in the road and saw the hold before them, black smoke billowing from the gate tower. From this  distance Tukul could see figures on the wall, hear the blowing of horns, behind it all the faint din of battle. He thought of the last time he had been here, of Gramm's friendship and hospitality, of learning to throw an axe and being gifted one by Wulf. He thought of Gramm's huge laugh and crushing embrace.\n\n_I hope I am not too late, my friend._\n\nThey rode on, Tukul loosening his sword in its sheath, fingertips brushing the haft of the axe strapped to his saddle, then they were on the road that sloped up to the gates, meadow pastures to either side.\n\n_All-Father, may my sword stay sharp and my body swift._\n\nHe could see the gates had been smashed in.\n\n_Whoever did that  will  be  regretting  it,  now  that  they  cannot  shut us out._\n\nHorns blew from above the wall and riders issued from  the gates, forty, sixty - more all the time. Tukul grunted his respect for whoever had made the decision to meet them in the open.\n\n_Better to keep us out than in, and brave not to hide behind their walls._\n\nTukul raised a fist and a hundred and fifty Jehar spread to either side of the slope, forming dark wings about him.\n\n'Should we be doing this?' Coralen shouted to him.\n\n'Doing what?'\n\n'Charging uphill against a mounted foe.'\n\n'Probably not,' Tukul called back, then laughed with the joy of it. _Strategy be damned, nothing will stop me reaching my friend._\n\nThen something huge strode through the gates. For a moment Tukul did not know what it was, then his eyes focused on the enormous jaws and hammer-like paws, tipped with thick-curved claws. A giant rode upon its back, dark-haired and brandishing spear and battle-axe. Another bear and rider filled the gates behind it.\n\n_Except perhaps that._\n\nTukul grinned. _Now this is a fight worthy of the Jehar._\n\n'We'll  make a  song  out  of  this  one,'  he yelled  to  Coralen, laughing, wind whipping his hair. She grinned back at him, raised an arm and clenched her fist, wolven claws chinking.\n\n_Attacking uphill, against a mounted enemy, giants and the great bears of the north. Madness._\n\nHe drew his sword, all about him the Jehar doing the same, a flash of lightning in the pale sunshine. He whispered to Daria, urging her into a gallop, holding his sword two-handed above his head, using foot, ankle, knee and thigh to guide his mount.\n\n'TRUTH AND COURAGE!' he cried,  the  battle-cry  taken  up and echoed back at him by Coralen, Enkara and the others, a thunder-clap of voices.\n\nThen they were crashing together, two waves of flesh, blood and bone, leather and fur and tooth and iron. Tukul had ridden Daria straight for the great bear and its rider, but warriors had flowed into the space between them.\n\n_I will carve my way to it, then._\n\nWith his first blow Tukul took a head from its owner's shoulders, sending it spinning, blood jetting. He swerved Daria away from a spear lunge, deflected the spear-point, ran his sword down its shaft and severed the fingers that clutched it, then he was riding past, back-swinging his blade into the warrior's neck. Daria slammed shoulders with the next horse; a roll of Tukul's wrists, and he opened the rider's throat, Daria stretching her neck and biting chunks of flesh from horse and rider.\n\nThen he was through the line, blinking at the speed of  it,  a stretch of turf and dirt road before the gates to the hold. Behind him battle raged, and even at a glance he could tell the Jehar were cutting more of the enemy down with every stroke. To his right loomed one of the giants. As he watched, the bear it was riding crushed a horse's skull with a swing of one huge paw, the giant lunging with his spear and skewering one of his Jehar, lifting the man from his saddle and flinging him through the air.\n\nTukul kicked Daria at them, raising his sword, yelling a war cry.\n\nA horse and rider crunched into them, Daria staggering, almost falling,  the  warrior  swinging  at  Tukul's  head.  Tukul  blocked  the blow,  irritated  at  being  delayed  from  reaching  his  intended  foe. Rotating his shoulders, he turned his block into a downward chop, but he was parried, the enemy swaying in his saddle and turning his own defence into a stab at Tukul's throat.\n\nTukul flicked the sword-point away, nodded and smiled, acknowledging the skill of his opponent. He took a  heartbeat  to study him - an ornately etched helmet with horsehair plume and mail tail protecting the back of the neck, shirt of mail, single-handed sword and an iron-rimmed shield - fine, solid equipment, better than most around him.\n\n_A leader of men, then. A captain, perhaps even lord._ Because of the man's skill Tukul gave him the respect of his full attention.\n\nHe touched his heels to Daria's ribs, urged her to the left and forwards, sending a combination of blows at his enemy as he rode at him, a series of swooping chops and short lunges, splinters  and sparks flying from the warrior's shield and blade. His opponent blocked most of them, though ever more wildly, each time pulling him more and more out of position, blood welling from a cut to his thigh and another on his forearm. Daria bit his mount's neck, causing it to pull away, for a heartbeat spoiling the rider's balance. Tukul struck again, opened a cut across the warrior's bicep, slicing deep into muscle just below his mail sleeve, slashed at the reins, severing them, a short backswing, sword crunching into the man's mail shirt, bruising if not breaking bones, then pulled back and chopped down once, twice, three times, the third blow glancing off of his opponent's helmet and slicing into the gap between mail shirt and the helmet's mail tail. Blood spurted, though Tukul knew instinctively that the wound was not deep.\n\nNevertheless the combination of blows sent the man reeling in his saddle and, without his reins to balance himself, he toppled from his mount, crashing to the ground, where he lay, winded and bleeding.\n\nTukul hovered over him, looking for a space to lean down and finish the man, then he heard a scream from his right, saw a Jehar sent flying from his mount by a bear-swipe.\n\n_That beast needs to stop killing my sword-kin._ He whispered in Daria's ear and she leaped away, found some open ground and launched herself at the bear and its rider.\n\nThere was a pile of corpses about the bear and giant, horses and Jehar massed like a tide-line of the dead. Tukul mastered his anger, guiding Daria along the bear's flank, and he sliced into the animal's rear leg, pulling away, knowing it had been a good blow, cutting through muscle and chipping bone.\n\nThe bear bellowed in pain and stumbled back, its leg giving out, the giant lurching in his saddle, seeing Tukul and lunging at him with his spear. Tukul swayed back, hacked and splintered the spear-shaft. He guided Daria away from the bear's front claws, felt the wind of their passing as he rode out in front of the bear, turning Daria in a tight circle. Tukul sheathed his sword in  its  scabbard across his back.\n\nThe bear was twenty paces away, stationary now, wounded, enraged and savage. It roared at Tukul and Daria, spittle spraying from its great jaws, the giant lending his voice, bellowing at them and brandishing its battle-axe. Tukul snarled back at them and kicked Daria straight at it, unclipping his axe and hefting it. He slipped his feet from his stirrups, in one  smooth  move  bringing them up to the saddle, and then he launched himself into the air, flying over one swiping claw, bringing his axe down two-handed with all his strength to crunch into the bear's skull. Bone and brain splattered his face, and he heard a horse screaming. The bear collapsed in a spasm of fur and muscle, Tukul losing his grip on the axe-shaft, spinning through the air to land with a bone-jarring crunch. He tried to get up but couldn't draw a breath, his lungs burning, his back screaming at him to lie still.\n\nDimly he was aware of a hulking form rising out of the ruin of the bear's slumped carcass, heard the grief-edged bellow of  the giant.\n\n_Get up and live, stay here and die,_ he told himself, jolts of agony stabbing through him as he rolled onto his front, pushed himself onto one knee. The giant towered above him, his axe pulling back, and Tukul reached for his sword, drew it, stood on unsteady feet, face raised in defiance.\n\nThen the giant staggered and roared in pain, arms flailing. It turned away and Tukul saw a figure clinging to its back, legs wrapped around the giant's waist, punching one fist into its side, time and time again, the fist coming away red, sharp claws splattering blood.\n\n_Claws?_\n\nTukul blinked, still dazed from the fall. Then he realized.\n\n_Coralen._\n\nThe giant sank to its knees, arms reaching for Coralen. She grabbed a fist full of its hair, yanked its head back and raked her wolven claws across its throat. Then she dropped from its back and kicked it face down into the dirt.\n\n'This battle's growing into a fine song,' she said as she put a steadying arm on his shoulder.\n\n'That it is, lass,' he said, looking at the dead giant and bear, doubting the song would mention his aching back. He turned to look for his horse, thinking he'd feel more stable back in a saddle, then saw Daria a dozen paces away, lying on her side. Half her flank was ripped open to the bone, and Tukul remembered the claw swipe that he'd leaped over.\n\nHe ran to her, staggering, and she raised her head at his voice, whinnied at him, pink foam frothing from her mouth and nostrils as she tried to stand, legs kicking. She got her front legs under her, then toppled back on her side, eyes rolling white with pain.\n\n'Easy, my brave girl,' he soothed, tears welling in his eyes. He patted her neck, the battle about him dimming to a dull roar.\n\n_You 'll not be getting back up to run again, my faithful friend._\n\nFor a moment his voice alone seemed to soothe her pain and she lifted her head and looked at him with dark, liquid eyes.\n\nResting his head on her muscular neck, he breathed a prayer, kissed her and then put his sword through her throat, the last act of a faithful friend. He crouched beside her as the battle passed him by, only a few footsteps away, stroked and whispered to her until her eyes glazed and her legs stopped kicking.\n\nHe stood, a dark rage swelling in his chest, and looked about. Coralen was gone. Out here on the slope the battle was almost done, the enemy retreating back into the hold. His Jehar were pressing after them, sounds of battle ringing out from the courtyard beyond.\n\nHe  stalked  through  the  gates,  the  courtyard  he  remembered transformed, full now with heaving battle, the stench of blood and death, billowing smoke. He looked to the feast-hall, saw a great bear standing guard on the steps, two men behind it spiked to two thick columns.\n\n_Gramm. Wulf._\n\nThe bear swatted at anyone that came close, but did not move from the steps, a beast defending its kill.\n\nTukul ran across the courtyard, ignoring the pain in his back, past Coralen and Enkara fighting back to back, swerving around another dozen acts of combat, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. The bear saw him coming and roared, fur bristling, swung at him with one great paw. Tukul skidded under the blow and hit the ground, his body rolling before coming up underneath the bear's snapping jaws and ramming his sword up, through fur and flesh, the blade going deeper still, through the lower jaw and on, blade almost to the hilt now, into the bear's brain.\n\nIt spasmed, a mountain of muscle and fur, blood gushing from its mouth as its head jerked, a convulsion that tore through its body, one last violent paroxysm and then it was collapsing, Tukul taking the weight of the beast's head upon his shoulders. He stood there, chest heaving, covered in blood, then ripped his blade free and shrugged the head to the ground.\n\nHe pounded up the stairs. One look at Gramm and he knew the man was gone. His belly was one great wound, looking as if the flesh had been chewed, not cut. Tukul grimaced and looked away, saw Wulf, unconscious, pale from loss of blood, his chest rising and falling weakly.\n\nTukul grabbed the spear that pierced Wulf's wrists, jerked it free and Wulf sank into his arms, eyes fluttering open.\n\n'My da . . .' Wulf whispered.\n\nA sound filled the courtyard, overwhelming the din of battle. A pounding roar. Tukul looked up to see bears with giants upon their backs come lumbering around the side of the feast-hall. Two, three, four of them. Upon the first bear sat a blond-haired giant, war-hammer in his fist dripping gore. He looked at the steps, saw the dead bear; his face twisted in rage.\n\nThen he saw Tukul.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban ran up a gentle slope, weaving amongst half-repaired boats suspended on timber scaffolding as he followed Meical deeper into a maze of grain barns and boatyards, tanners and smokehouses.\n\nThey had rowed through the night until Corban felt that his heart and lungs would burst. With the coming of day he'd heard the sounds of battle echo down from the hold upon its hill, seen the fires spreading. Meical had urged them on, until they had turned a bend in the river and seen a row of jetties and boathouses lining the bank. At a glance it was clear that the battle was not over, but also that it wasn't going well for Gramm, great columns of black smoke punctuating the pale blue sky, figures fighting on the hold's walls.\n\nCorban had ordered all armed for war, he'd arrayed himself in his wolven pelt and claws, as had Farrell and Gar. The ship had barely scraped against the jetty before the boarding-plank was lowered and Meical was leaping to shore, Corban and the rest of them surging after him.\n\nBriefly they paused on the riverbank, waiting for numbers to gather, and then they were off, Meical leading the way, Corban following  close  behind.\n\nHe heard the thumping rhythm of Storm running at his side, behind that Balur One-Eye's thunderous gait and the sound of other ships grounding, his warriors pouring from their decks. The plan was simple: to gather on the riverbank and follow Meical to the top of the hill where Gramm's feast-hall stood, where the fighting had seemed fiercest. He'd ordered Cywen to stay on the ship with Brina, Buddai and a handful of others, though that hadn't gone down too well. Giving Cywen orders never went well.\n\nMeical slowed before him and they spilt out of the lanes between buildings into an open space, a high wall looming above them. A bonfire crackled close by, red-cloaked warriors with black cuirasses, a white lightning bolt and coiled serpent upon their leather breastplates were gathered around it - Jael's men. Open gates stood to the left, bodies strewn about. Gramm's folk. Meical saw them and charged for the gate, seemingly in a berserker rage.\n\nCorban followed without thinking, blocked a hurried blow from a rider, Storm leaping and tearing the attacker from his saddle, ripping his throat out before they'd hit the ground.\n\nBalur roared a battle-cry, a handful of his Benothi kin surging forwards swinging their black axes, and suddenly blood was fountaining. In heartbeats the enemy before the wall were dead or fleeing and Corban was following Meical through the open gates.\n\nAhead of them towered the rear of a long timber feast-hall, an open space before it of hard-packed earth. To either side of the hall were wide lanes,  edged  with  long  stable-blocks  and  all  manner of outbuildings, and amongst them battle raged. Here and there clusters of what must have been Gramm's warriors were holding against overwhelming odds. At the slope's crest, before the feast-hall, Corban caught a glimpse of riders in black mail with curved swords.\n\n_Jehar._\n\n'Tukul is here,' Corban cried, turning to Gar, then he was raising his sword and charging into the fray, the thought of his comrades on the far side of this feast-hall fighting alone filling him with a cold fear.\n\n_Where is Coralen?_\n\nHe chopped into the leg of a rider, dragged him from his saddle and let Storm finish him, ran on, slammed into a knot of warriors that had more of Gramm's men backed into the gates of a stable-block. He didn't stop moving - sword and wolven claws raking, stabbing, chopping. The _battle mind_ , as Gar often referred to it, settled upon him, when everything about him seemed slow, as if his foes were moving through water and he could see every blow before it began. A man on foot with sword and shield came at him cautiously and Corban stepped in close, swept a stabbing sword aside and punched his wolven claws over the shield's rim. They came back bloody, the warrior collapsing. He moved on, deflected a spear lunge, stabbed his sword up into an armpit, pivoted away from another horseman who had moved in to attack, Storm leaping at the horse, making it rear and throw its rider to the ground. Corban stabbed him through the throat before he could rise. To his right Corban glimpsed Farrell crush a skull with his war-hammer, to his left Gar took someone's head off. In front of him a rider toppled from his saddle, an arrow through his throat.\n\n_Dath._ A quick glance showed Kulla with him, the young Jehar protecting Dath's flank.\n\nA deafening roar reverberated around the hold. From the corner of his eye he saw something disappear around the far side of the feast-hall, something huge. He glanced at Gar, but he was concentrating on pulling his sword from someone's chest. Corban continued forwards.\n\nHe'd moved closer to the feast-hall, the slope levelling, but still the way was blocked by a heaving mass of combat. He snarled in frustration, desperate to reach Tukul, Coralen and the others. Glancing about, he saw stairs running up the hold's wall and without thinking ran towards them, bounding up two at a time, footsteps following him - Storm and Gar, Farrell, Dath and Kulla.\n\nThe walkway was empty of the living. He paused at the top a moment to look about.\n\nThe hold was full with seething battle, horses rising and plunging, men screaming. There were more of his warriors pouring through the open gates, numerous Benothi giants amongst them. Further back, he saw Javed leading scores of oarsmen - many of them veterans from the Vin Thalun fighting-pits. Down below him Meical was carving his way through the enemy, behind him Balur and a handful of Benothi moving forwards like a floating island.\n\nA faint sound caught his ear, drifting from the far side of the feast-hall. A battle-cry. Words he'd first heard from his da's lips. He whispered it now.\n\n'Truth and courage.' _Tukul. It is Tukul._\n\nHe ran on, leaping over dead men, the timber planks of the walkway drumming. As he drew closer to the front the gate tower came into view. It was burning, waves of heat and smoke rippling outwards, beyond the wall corpses littering the meadow and entrance.\n\nThen he was above the courtyard before the feast-hall's entrance.\n\nCombat still raged here just as fierce, but not as dense and close-packed as elsewhere. Corban caught a flash of red hair and felt a rush of relief, but before he could shout or even think, his eyes were drawn to the feast-hall steps.\n\nTukul stood upon them, his sword drawn and held high. Before him a blond-haired giant was sitting astride a monstrously huge bear. Other bears with giants upon their backs roamed the far side of the courtyard - three more of them - killing anything that stood in their way.\n\nEven as Corban and the others stared, frozen for a few moments in shock and disbelief, the bear rumbled forwards, jaws snapping at Tukul, the giant leaning in his saddle to swing a war-hammer. Tukul slipped to the far side, the giant's left, hindering his reach, at the same time slicing at the bear, leaving a red line across the beast's snout. It roared in pain and rage, half-reared and leaped forwards, catching Tukul with a paw, sending him flying up the stairs.\n\nThen Dath was nocking an arrow and drawing, sending it thumping into the great bear's flank. The arrow sank deep but the bear only gave a twitch, as if shrugging off a mosquito. Dath drew and released, and then again, each arrow finding its mark.  The fourth one he aimed at the giant, but it skittered off of leather armour as the giant swung his hammer again at Tukul.\n\n'Truth and courage,' Gar bellowed as he leaped from the walkway, landing with a thud on  the  stable-roof  below,  then  rolling and jumping into the courtyard. Corban echoed the war cry and followed him, Storm leaping after him gracefully. Warriors in the courtyard turned at the sound of their voices, and distantly Corban heard a wild neighing.\n\n_Shield?_\n\nAn arrow hissed over Corban's head, thumping into the bear's belly. This time the bear paused and looked at the feathered shaft protruding from its side.\n\nTukul took advantage of the lull and darted in, chopping into the creature's shoulder, darting out again, backing up the stairs.\n\nCorban sprinted across the courtyard, swerving amongst mounted Jehar locked in combat with red-cloaked warriors, then he glimpsed Coralen's red hair, fighting back to back with Enkara, four or five enemy closing on them. Corban changed direction, barking a command at Storm. She sprang forwards, smashing one of the red-cloaks to the ground, a scream cut short, and then Corban was there, chopping into a neck, yanking his blade free as that man collapsed, gurgling, Corban spinning and punching his claws into another's thigh. The warrior stumbled back and toppled, his leg giving way, Coralen finishing him. There was no time for words. Corban's eyes met Coralen's for a heartbeat, and then he was running again, towards Tukul. Tukul was at the top of the steps now, standing before two injured men. The bear was wounded, favouring one leg, blood dripping from sword cuts and arrow wounds. The giant upon it was yelling guttural commands. Behind them the other bear riders had formed a half-circle, protecting the blond giant, who was clearly their lord, while he made his kill.\n\nCorban increased his pace as he saw Gar and Farrell ahead of him, a blur of wolven pelt and dark mail. Gar ran straight for the feast-hall steps, a giant seeing him and shouting warning. The giant threw a spear, Gar swerving, the spear-blade slamming quivering into the hard-packed dirt, then Gar was between two of the bears, rolling beneath a paw, leaping onto the steps, trying to reach his da.\n\nAt the same time Corban saw the bear on the steps lumber closer to Tukul, who it was clear would retreat no more, standing guard before the injured men. The bear swung a huge paw, Tukul ducking underneath, then standing, fluid as silk, sword rising and falling in a mighty blow, severing the bear's paw.\n\nThe bear's roar of pain was deafening, staggering Tukul, and the blond giant took advantage, hurling his war-hammer into Tukul's chest, knocking him backwards, slamming him into the feast-hall doors. He slid to the floor.\n\nGar screamed, reached the top of the stairs, hurdled the injured men and ran to his da.\n\nStorm was next to reach the steps, leaping onto the bear's neck, sinking her fangs deep into  its  flesh.  The  bear  reared,  throwing the giant on its back from his saddle to crash down the steps into the courtyard. The bear swiped its maimed leg at Storm; with a ripping sound the wolven was torn free, sent flying into one of the pillars with a crack.\n\nCorban and the others reached the steps, swerving around the maimed bear's thrashing limbs. It swiped at Coralen but she ducked and Corban leaped in and buried his wolven claws in the bear's soft belly, raking them and ripping them free, blood gouting from the wound. Then the others were there: Coralen, Enkara and Kulla stabbing and chopping, Farrell swinging his hammer. It crunched into the bear's skull and it spasmed, went rigid, reared up and toppled back down the stairs.\n\nThe other giant bears lumbered into motion, closing on  the stairs, the fallen giant rising and glowering up at them, reaching for his war-hammer.\n\nCorban ran to Storm.\n\nShe rose groggily, whined when he touched her ribs, then growled at the approaching bears.\n\nThe others had formed a half-circle about him, bristling with iron. The blond giant knelt down beside his bear, now a bloody ruin of fur.\n\n'I nursed her from a cub,' he said, his voice harsh, grating. He gripped his war-hammer, with a roll of his shoulder twirled it in his hand like Cywen could twirl a knife. Two of the giant bears closed in behind him, the other one clashing with Jehar in the courtyard, holding them back.\n\nCorban braced himself. _Never fought a giant before. Can 't be as bad as the Kadoshim._ He gritted his teeth.\n\n'I am Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun,' the giant said. 'You should know the name of your killer.'\n\n'You're welcome to come and try,' Coralen snarled.\n\nAn arrow hissed and punched into the giant's shoulder, staggering him.\n\nA  strangled  cry  rang  out  behind  them  and  Gar  pushed  past Corban,  leaping  down  the  stairs,  sword  raised,  Ildaer  raising  his war-hammer and catching Gar's blow on the iron-banded hammer-shaft. Gar crashed into him and they tumbled back down the stairs, fell apart, Gar rolling to his feet, surging forwards, the giant rising almost as quickly. Gar's blade sang as it flashed through the air, the giant  gripping  his  war-hammer  two-handed,  iron  sparking  and screeching as he blocked a barrage of blows, retreating step by step.\n\nThe  giant  towered  over  Gar,  but  he  pressed  on,  unrelenting, striking  too  fast  for  Corban  to  follow,  high  and  low,  loops  and straight lunges, feints and combinations, a savagery and power in Gar's blows that Corban had never seen before.\n\nThe giant was fast, faster than something of that size had the right to be, blocking each sword strike, jabbing with the hammer-shaft, a step back, another jab, but as fast as he was, he could not contain the storm that Gar had become. As Corban watched, a red line opened up on the giant's thigh, another across his forearm, a razor cut across his cheek.\n\nThe giant took another step back, Gar pressing on, and Corban frowned. Something was wrong, a repeat in the pattern of blows, something Gar had always told him never to do.\n\nHe remembered Gar's advice to him, so long ago, it seemed.\n\n_Anger is the enemy._\n\nAbruptly Ildaer stopped retreating, blocked Gar's next blow, sweeping his blade wide, and kicked Gar in the chest. Corban heard bones crack and Gar tumbled head over heels backwards. The giant strode after him.\n\nCorban ran down the stairs, leaped and stood over Gar.\n\n'Where is your honour?' Ildaer sneered. Blood sheeted the giant's cheek, ran down one arm, slicking the spiralling tattoos, soaked the wool of his breeches.\n\n'Honour be damned, he is my friend,' Corban snarled,  'and you'll have to kill me before you touch him again.' He heard Storm growl behind him.\n\nIldaer looked at him, at his friends on the steps behind him. The giants and their bears stood like stone, tension thick as storm clouds.\n\nA voice rang out from the left and Corban looked to see Balur standing with Meical at the far end of the courtyard, scores of the Benothi and Jehar at their back.\n\n'Ildaer, you whelp,' Balur growled, raising his black axe.\n\n'Balur One-Eye - it cannot  be,' Corban heard Ildaer whisper, suddenly going as pale as alabaster.\n\nThen Ildaer was turning and running to the closest bear-rider behind him, swinging up onto the bear's back and fleeing through the gates. Balur charged after them, the Benothi following and screaming insults. Corban knelt beside Gar. He was conscious, breathing in short, controlled breaths.\n\n'Help me, to my father,' he whispered.\n\nFarrell was beside him and between them they carried Gar up the steps, past the two injured men that Tukul had been protecting - one alive but unconscious, one very obviously dead - and then they were beside Tukul, his body twisted where he'd fallen.\n\nTukul was still alive, his breaths coming in ragged wheezes.\n\nGar grimaced in pain, took his father's hand.\n\nTukul opened his eyes, for a moment unfocused. Then he saw his son.\n\n'My Gar,' Tukul wheezed. Blood speckled his lips.\n\n'Corban, where is Brina?' Gar said, voice cracking. 'Get Brina.'\n\n'Peace, Gar, it is . . . too late for that,' Tukul said. He looked past Gar and saw Corban, other faces pressing in.\n\n'I told you . . . I would be here . . . first,' he said to Corban.\n\n'Aye, you did,' Corban said with a lump in his throat.\n\n'And we made a fair song of it, eh, Cora?'\n\n'We did,' Coralen said, a tremor in her voice. 'You did. You weren't content with one bear. You had to kill two.'\n\nA smile fluttered at the edges of Tukul's mouth. 'Remember what I said to you.'\n\nShe smiled softly at him.\n\nTukul coughed, went rigid with pain, blood dribbling down his chin.\n\n'My sword,' he whispered, voice faint and thin.\n\nCorban put the hilt in Tukul's hand, closed his fingers around it - he looked away to hide his sorrow. He was Tukul's Bright Star and he would stay strong for him in his last moments. No matter what it cost him.\n\nFootsteps sounded on the steps behind. Meical was standing silent, looking down upon them.\n\n'Gar, my beloved son,' Tukul whispered, 'you are my _joy_.' Tears dripped from Gar's nose. 'Never forget that. I'll see you again, on the other side,' Tukul breathed, then with a sigh he was gone.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE\n\n#### VERADIS\n\nVeradis stood at the prow of the ship and watched the coast of Tenebral pass him by.\n\n_I grew up on this coastline._ He closed his eyes and thought of sailing with Krelis, dolphins chasing their ship as it cut through the water. Krelis laughing. _Krelis is always laughing when I remember him._ Of swimming in the bay of Ripa, sunning on rocks, drinking wine, sparring on the beaches that ringed the bay. _Krelis always laughed at that, too. How I 'd not give up until I was on my back, him a giant and me little  more  than  a  bairn._\n\nHe opened his eyes as the ship shifted beneath him. Alazon was yelling commands; ropes on the sail tightened and loosened, and then the dip and bite of oars. Before them a bay opened up in the coastline, deep and wide, high cliffs dipping towards sandy beaches.\n\nThe Bay of Ripa.\n\n_Home._\n\nThey passed from the open sea into the bay's sheltered embrace, behind them fourteen black sails following their course.\n\nThere was already a host of black ships in the bay, clustered about the port of Ripa, more spread throughout its waters. Veradis spied other ships amongst them. _More like the corpses of ships._ They were ruined and fire-blackened, hulls upturned and wallowing. _Ripa 's ships._ He frowned at that. Beyond them, rising high upon gleaming limestone cliffs Veradis saw the tower of Ripa, built by giants, conquered and claimed by men, now the home and symbol of the Lord of the Bay.\n\n_My father._\n\n_What am I doing here?_ The weight of his task came crushing down upon him, the sun-tinged, halcyon glow that had filled him turning to iron-grey clouds, heavy with impending doom. His mind returned to Calidus pulling him to one side on the banks of the Afren in Narvon, just before he had set sail.\n\n_Bring me Fidele, in chains if needs be._\n\nVeradis had not believed it, or that she had wed Lykos, and he had said as much, had questioned Calidus' information, but the silver-haired counsellor - _and  Ben-Elim  -  _had been adamant.\n\nI was as shocked as you,' Calidus had said. 'But it is true. By all accounts Lykos is infatuated with her. But that is not the end of it. She arrested Peritus and Armatus, sentenced them both to death. That seems to have been the touchstone of this rebellion. There was rioting, Lykos and the Vin Thalun attacked by an angry mob. And now, moons later, Fidele has reappeared, in Ripa where the rebellion is centred. Now she is denouncing Lykos and the Vin Thalun, and inciting the whole of Tenebral to rise up against them.'\n\nVeradis shook his head, eyes fixed on the tower. Fidele, my father and brothers. How can I fix this? I am a warrior, not a diplomat.\n\n'What do you want me to do?' he had asked Calidus.\n\n'Try to reason with them. Peace is what we need, with Lykos in control. If that is not possible.' He shrugged. 'A decisive victory, show them the strength of your shield wall.'\n\n'All warbands in Tenebral have been learning the shield wall. It would be a bloodbath, and a waste of men.'\n\n'Aye, but your father and Krelis - they are not progressive. I doubt they would fight with it, and even  if  they  did,  you  have faced giants, draigs, warbands numbering thousands. You are battle-hardened, veterans of a score of battles. You will not lose.'\n\n'How can I fight my kin?' Veradis asked the waves now.\n\n'Whoever leads this rebellion must be put down. Fidele, Peritus, your father or brother, without sentiment. Whoever they are, they must be cowed, that is all. Taught that opposing Nathair is pointless. You can teach that lesson. Fidele you bring to me, the rest, deal with at your discretion. Bring them to me, execute them, exile them, do as you will,' Calidus had said.\n\n'Deal with them at your discretion,' Veradis murmured.\n\nThe port of Ripa was empty and silent. Veradis' fifteen ships docked and his men disembarked, near a thousand men in iron helms and coats of mail, black cuirasses polished, silver eagles gleaming upon their chests. They were dressed in the modifications Veradis had implemented over the last two years: iron-banded boots instead of sandals, breeches of charcoal wool instead of leather kilts, longer, oval shields instead of round ones. They all wore two swords at their hips - short and long, and held spears in their hands, lighter and longer than the traditional hunting spears.\n\nLykos was waiting to greet him, a few  hundred  Vin  Thalun about him, looking more like a rabble than a warband beside Veradis' disciplined ranks.\n\n_They look dangerous enough, though. Especially him._ Veradis was looking at a warrior beside Lykos, of average height, lean and scarred, but his eyes were cold and hard, grey and bleak  like  a stormy sea. They stared flatly back at him. _Dead eyes._\n\n'Well met,' Lykos said, grinning at Veradis. They greeted one another with the warrior grip. Things had not gone well for Lykos in Tenebral, and not so long ago Veradis might have taken a little pleasure in that, probably because of his own deep-rooted prejudices against the Vin Thalun, but since Veradis' failure to catch or kill Corban he felt mostly empathy for Lykos rather than anything else.\n\n'Nathair sends his greetings,' Veradis said, 'and he sends you this.' Veradis reached inside his cloak and pulled out two scrolls, checked the seals on them, gave one to Lykos and put the other back in his cloak.\n\nLykos took it and slipped it into his belt.\n\n'Not going to open it?' Veradis raised an eyebrow.\n\n'Later,' Lykos said, linking his arm with Veradis'. 'Right now we need to go and join a battle.'\n\n'What?'\n\n'Your timing is excellent, my old friend,' Lykos said, his breath smelling of wine, 'but any tarrying here and we'll miss the fun.'\n\n_Old friend?_\n\n'Three warbands are arrayed on the fields beyond Ripa, all of them eyeing each other with bad intentions.'\n\n'With all haste then,' Veradis said and he led his warband through the streets of Ripa.\n\nVeradis stood and surveyed the field. He was standing to the southwest, at the foot of the slope that Ripa was built upon. To his left, filling the meadows right up to the eaves of the forest Sarva, were the Vin Thalun, numbering well over three thousand men, at a glance. Upon the slope to the east stood the warband of Ripa, fewer men but appearing more formidable, all wearing the black and silver of Tenebral, though without Nathair's eagle.\n\nAnd to the north another warband, again men of Tenebral, the banner of Marcellin of Baran rippling above their formed lines. From this distance it was hard to reckon their numbers, but easily in the thousands.\n\n_Lykos wasn 't joking; he is fortunate I have arrived._\n\n'Lykos, I need a horse,' Veradis said, 'saddled and ready.' The Vin Thalun frowned but barked at a warrior and sent him off running.\n\n'Caesus, you know what to do.' Veradis' young captain nodded to him and marched off with two dozen eagle-guard in tow.\n\nIt was not long before a white mare was presented to him, dancing with energy. Veradis adjusted the harness for himself and swung into the saddle, patting the mare's neck. He reached out and an eagle-guard handed him a banner.\n\nHe cantered first up the hill towards his father's warband, holding the banner high. It was white linen, the black branch and red berries of a rowan stark upon it, symbol of truce. As he drew closer he began to see faces he recognized - these were by and large men whom he'd grown up around for the first eighteen years of his life.\n\nA murmur spread along their ranks, rippling ahead of him as he rode along their front line, nodding to those he knew. When he reached the centre of the line he reined in before a man a head taller than any other gathered upon the slope. His brother Krelis.\n\nThey just stared at each other, silence settling about them, between them.\n\n'Didn't expect to see you here,' Krelis said in the end.\n\n'We need to talk,' Veradis said. 'Bring Father, down there.' He nodded into the centre of the field, where a white tent was being erected by Caesus and two dozen eagle-guard.\n\n'This has gone past talking,' Krelis said.\n\n'If we don't talk lives will be lost for no good reason.'\n\nBehind the tent being raised Veradis' eagle-guard were marching in shield-wall formation. For a moment Veradis just sat and admired them, pride washing over him. The crash of their shields as they turned and stood behind the tent echoed about the field.\n\nKrelis watched too.\n\n'It's a trap - I don't trust that bastard Lykos.'\n\n'Trust me. It is a rowan-meet. My men will guard all who set foot there.'\n\nHe looked at Krelis again, noticing lines around his eyes and across his forehead that had not been there the last time Veradis had seen him.\n\n'You've changed,' Krelis said to him.\n\nVeradis smiled. Krelis had always made him smile.\n\n'You've changed too, big brother. You look old.'\n\n'Cheeky pup.' Krelis grinned.\n\nVeradis kicked his horse into motion. 'Down there, bring Father, and anyone else who you think should have a say.'\n\nHe rode away from the warband, towards the north of the plain, where Marcellin was camped.\n\n_More than four thousand_ , Veradis thought as he approached Marcellin, _closer to five._\n\nMarcellin hailed from Baran, a fortress carved out of, and into, the Agullas Mountains. He was a big, gruff man of somewhere between fifty and sixty summers, and he had a pair of bushy eyebrows that dominated his craggy face.\n\n_Bos came from Baran, grew up there, I remember._ He felt a stab of sadness at the memory of his friend. Good friends were hard to find.\n\n'Who are you?' Marcellin asked him as he reined in before him.\n\n'Veradis ben Lamar, first-sword and general of King Nathair, and I speak with his voice.'\n\n'Oh, do you now?' Marcellin asked, eyebrows bunching as he stared up at Veradis.\n\n'I do, my lord.'\n\n'Well, don't think to try and persuade me against kicking that arse Lykos out of my country. He is a disease, and I mean to cut him out. There's nothing you can say to sway me.'\n\n'I am not going to try,' Veradis said. He reached inside his cloak and suddenly Marcellin's shieldmen were pointing a lot of sharp iron his way.\n\n'I am no assassin,' Veradis said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, and not entirely sure he was successful.\n\n'Go slowly, then,' Marcellin said. 'My lads are fond of this old man.'\n\nVeradis pulled out a rolled scroll, sealed with red wax.\n\n'From Nathair,' Veradis said.\n\nMarcellin took it, frowning bad-temperedly at it.\n\n'Read it, and if it is to your liking, join me for a rowan-meet with Lamar and Lykos in that tent.' Without waiting for an answer, he rode away.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen wrapped bandages around Gar's chest; it had started to bruise already but he didn't so much as wince as she pulled the cloth straps tightly to bind his ribs. He sat upon a bench in the feast-hall of Gramm's hold, eyes downcast. Once she'd tied off the bandage she squeezed his hand and he looked at her, eyes red-rimmed and hollow.\n\n_I remember that pain, can feel it still, though it is buried deeper now than it was. Da, Mam, Heb, Tukul - how many more people we care about will we lose before this is over?_ She wished she could do something to ease his pain.\n\n'You've some cracked ribs,' she said. 'The bandages will give some support, help them heal, but the fact is anything you do is going to hurt, and that includes breathing.' He nodded and she helped him back into his coat of dark mail. 'Take this with you,' she said, offering him a vial.\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'Poppy milk, it will dull the pain.'\n\n'I do not want it dulled. I deserve it,' he muttered. He picked up his scabbarded sword and walked away.\n\nThe feast-hall had been turned into an impromptu hospice, and bodies were everywhere, filling long tables, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. Cywen had stayed on the ship during the battle, ordered by Corban to help in the organization of unloading the provisions they'd need from ship to shore. She'd been annoyed at first but had seen the sense of it. She was not Corban with a blade, or Gar, or even Farrell for that matter. And the ships needed unloading by someone with more than half a brain, so she'd set to it, with Brina snapping orders at her and Cywen delegating the heavy lifting to Laith and a dozen other giantlings - who had also been forbidden by Balur and Ethlinn to join in the fight.\n\nAdded to the giantlings there were over two score of the villagers who had joined them during the journey through Narvon, as well as a few score oarsmen who had rowed the last sprint to the hold and had been too exhausted to move, let alone fight, so Cywen and Brina had quite the workforce at their disposal. All eight ships were close to unloaded when Cywen heard a great rumbling and ran to the raised deck at the back of the ship to get a view of what was happening. The hold on the top of the hill was wreathed in smoke, but the din of battle had faded, only the occasional muted rumble. Now, though, that rumble grew, a cloud of dust rising beyond the hold and swirling eastwards. Brina and Laith had come to stand beside her, then other giantlings.\n\nThe dust cloud had veered north, down the hill, then Cywen had seen what looked to be animals, running, small from this distance, but still clearly bigger than horses, three or four of them, with figures riding upon their backs.\n\n'Are they auroch?' Cywen mused.\n\n'They are the war-bears of the Jotun,' Laith said beside her, something in her voice hovering somewhere between awe and loathing.\n\nThen Cywen saw what the bears were running from: a mass of horses, Jehar, and giants. Amazingly the gap between the bears and those chasing them widened. The bears ran with surprising speed once their momentum was up, straight to the river and without a pause leaping in, sinking beneath the surface for a moment before reappearing and swimming steadily to the far bank. Cywen watched them cross the river and climb out upon the far side, bears shaking themselves dry. A giant had dismounted and walked back to the river's edge, stood there staring across at his pursuers, who had reached the riverbank now and stood ranged along it, Cywen seeing the silver of Balur One-Eye's hair. The giant across the river had raised his arm, holding an axe or war-hammer - Cywen could not tell from this distance - and shouted. No one gave a response and the giant turned, climbed onto a bear's back and the three bears had shambled away.\n\nAfter that, word had come down to them that the battle was over and Brina and Cywen were needed at the hold.\n\nAnd here she was still. She watched Gar walk from the feast-hall, the bright light of highsun beaming through the open doors about him. There were many working on the injured: Cywen and Brina, Ethlinn and Laith, as well as healers from the hold itself, chief of them a woman named Hild, the wife of Gramm's son, Wulf.\n\nThe far end of the hall was being filled with the dead, Jehar, Benothi giants, men of the hold laid out upon tables. Cywen looked back at Tukul's corpse, wrapped in his cloak now and lying alongside Gramm's body.\n\n_So many dead._ She felt a hot flush of rage, aimed mostly at Calidus and Nathair. _All of this goes back to them, eventually. Calidus most of all, by whatever webs he has woven and pulled the threads; he is the author of this ill._\n\nShe turned and walked for the doors, suddenly feeling suffocated by the cloying stink of blood.\n\n_Fresh air, I need fresh air._\n\nShe walked out onto a balcony before wide steps; Buddai uncurled from the spot he'd been lying in, tail thumping on wood. Cywen made her way to one of the columns bracing the overhanging roof and leaned against it, taking long, deep breaths. There was a cold wind blowing through the hold, but right now it was refreshing, setting her skin tingling and easing the taint of death that was thick in the feast-hall. She looked at the bloodstains on her hands, under her fingernails, saw stains on the column she was leaning upon, pooled about her feet.\n\n_Blood, everywhere._\n\nShe forced herself to look away and saw that she was not the only one who had been busy.\n\nThe courtyard was clear of the dead, instead filled with a score of wains and a herd of horses, all being laden with goods - barrels, chests, clothing, weapons tied in bundles - harvested from the dead, no doubt. At the edges of the courtyard long stable-blocks rang with life, familiar sounds of saddling up, horses neighing, harness jangling that reminded her with sudden and sharp clarity of Dun Carreg, so much so that it almost took her breath away. Closer she saw Corban at the bottom of the steps. He was standing with Meical and Balur, in conversation with Wulf, now lord of this hold. Gar stood behind Corban, his eyes fixed grimly on the carcass of a great bear that had been dragged aside. Corban saw Cywen and beckoned to her.\n\n'The wounded, Cywen,' Corban asked her when she reached them. 'Can they travel?'\n\n_Brina should be asked this question. Where is she?_\n\n'Most,' Cywen said. 'There are a few who could not sit on a horse, probably for at least a moon.'\n\n'How about a wain?'\n\nCywen looked at the wains in the yard. 'Aye, that should be fine. Stitches will need to be kept an eye on, fevers and so on, but I'd say there's none amongst the living unfit to travel.'\n\n'Good,' Wulf said with passion. 'I would be gone from  this place.'\n\n'Agreed,' Meical said. 'We need to leave. Word will spread of what has happened here, and we need to be long gone before Jael sends a larger warband, or Ildaer braves the river with the full strength of his clan.'\n\nBalur grunted at that.\n\n'There are so many of us, so much to bring . . .' Hild said.\n\n'There is plenty of room in Drassil,' Meical said. 'But we must travel light - we will most likely be hunted. We must make it to Forn with all haste.'\n\n'The horses,' Wulf said. 'My da spent a lifetime breeding them, I cannot just abandon them.'\n\n'Bring them,' Meical said. 'Drassil is colossal. There are no stables, but there are bear pens the size of this hold that could be easily converted. And meadows have been cleared for a league all about the fortress - your da did not rest idle at Drassil for sixteen years,' Meical said to Gar.\n\nCoralen approached them, the first that Cywen had seen of her. She'd been sent to oversee the sinking of their ships, Corban determined that nothing be left for their enemy's use. Her red hair was dark with sweat, her face was soot stained and tight with grief. She was carrying an axe in her hands that she offered to Gar.\n\n'It is your da's. I found it in the skull of a dead bear, beyond the wall,' Coralen said.\n\nGar took it. 'His sword I leave with him,' he said, voice hoarse. 'But I would be glad to carry one of his weapons. It feels . . . right. Especially one that he was so fond of.' He frowned, looking down at it. 'But I have never used an axe before . . .'\n\n'I will teach you,' Wulf said, then his mouth twisted as he looked at his bandaged hands. 'If I can.'\n\n'He spoke highly of you,' Gar said. 'And of your da.'\n\nGrief swept Wulf's face. 'He tried to save my da - pulled him down from . . .' His eyes flickered to the column, to his bandaged hands. 'He stood over us, before that bear . . .'\n\nA warrior ran up, one from Gramm's hold.\n\n'Has the half-breed been found?' Wulf said to the man, a cold rage in his voice.\n\n'She is not amongst the dead,' the warrior replied.\n\n'Fled, then,' Wulf snarled.\n\n'Who?' Meical asked him.\n\n'A half-breed traitor. We gave her a home, raised her, yet she chose to betray Haelan to the enemy. It was only thanks to the boy's quick wits that he'd fled his hiding place before Trigg revealed it to our enemies.'\n\n'Sometimes it feels that this world is full of traitors,' Meical said.\n\n'Aye.' Wulf nodded. 'But I vow, if I ever see this one again, it will be one less amongst the living.'\n\n'We should raise cairns--' Corban said, looking at the bloodstained hold.\n\n'Too long,' Meical said. 'We would still be here when Jael came riding up with a thousand men.'\n\n'Burn them,' Wulf said grimly, 'burn the entire hold, leave nothing for our enemy.'\n\nCywen stood beside her brother, facing the feast-hall, a host gathered behind them. Beyond the gates a long column of wains and horses loaded with provisions was waiting for them.\n\nA silence fell over the courtyard and Brina sang the first lines of the lament, the melody stark and pure, Gar and Wulf adding their voices first, then more joining until the whole host sang the song for the dead, their voices rising to deafening crescendo, filling Cywen's heart with a tide of emotion. As the last notes died, Wulf and Gar stepped forward and threw burning torches at the feast-hall steps.\n\nThe steps and hall had been doused with oil, and flames roared skywards, hungry and crackling. In short moments the hall was ablaze, heat rolling at them in great waves.\n\nWulf turned and left the courtyard, followed  by  Corban  and then all of the others. As Cywen mounted her horse she saw Gar standing before the gates, outlined by flames, still staring at the hall.\n\nCywen glanced sidelong at Brina.\n\n_Should I talk to her, about last night, about the book? After all that 's happened it seems almost unimportant . . ._ Still the memory of the giant words she'd seen had haunted and swirled about her mind throughout the whole long day. She'd wanted to talk to Corban about it, but there had been no opportunity thus far.\n\n'You might as well come out and say it,' Brina said acerbically. 'Holding your tongue suits you just about as much as it does your brother.'\n\nThey'd  ridden  leagues  across  rolling  meadows,  their  convoy now close to a thousand souls, heading steadily towards what looked like  an  ocean  of  trees  that  filled  the  horizon  in  every  direction. Behind them the hold still burned, a flickering beacon upon its hill.\n\n'The book,' Cywen said, talking quietly, even though they were riding between two wains full of the injured and semi-conscious.\n\nBrina sighed, lips pursing, but she said nothing.\n\n_She 's not going to make this easy._\n\n'It scared me,' Cywen said.\n\nBrina was silent, again. Cywen thought she would not answer. Then Brina spoke softly. 'It scares me, too.'\n\n'It is a book of spells, isn't it?'\n\n'Aye, some of it is.'\n\n'I don't understand. I thought the book is about faith, that being an Elemental is simply believing it and speaking it. That's what you told me - that's what the book says. I read it myself.'\n\n'Aye, that's right,' Brina said. Her wrinkled face twitched.\n\n'So why the need for spells, when faith is all?'\n\n'Faith is _not_ all,' Brina snapped. 'That is the point. Faith can be strong, then weak, then gone, all in the same person, all in the space of a hundred heartbeats. That's why Heb died. His faith wavered.' She was silent a moment, abruptly her breathing laboured. 'So the book explains the alternative. The other way. Spells give the wielder more control, more consistency.'\n\n'So they're easier?'\n\n'Not exactly. With faith, there is no cost, no price to pay. But spells are . . . different. Firstly they are harder to perform, in one sense - there is the gathering of ingredients, how to prepare them, knowing the words of power and so on.'\n\n'Like a poultice, or medicinal potion?'\n\n'Exactly.'\n\n_I knew she wanted to talk about this, would not be able to stop once she started._\n\n'Although from what I can see, the ingredients are not so easy to come by as meadowsweet or foxglove, or as pleasant.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'I mean, the ingredients for these spells are often hard to come by, and by and large unwholesome.'\n\n'Unwholesome?'\n\n'Yes. For example, blood is often an ingredient.'\n\nCywen was silent. She didn't like the sound of this, just talking about it was making the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.\n\n'But there is also another cost.' Brina stopped there, looking around to check that no one was listening.\n\n'What other cost?' Cywen prompted.\n\n'I'm not sure,' Brina said. 'The book hints and alludes, but -' she shrugged - 'I need more time to work it out. It is appealing - could be useful in this God-War. To go into battle _knowing_ what you are capable of, having confidence in what you can do. Not like my poor Heb . . .'\n\n'I don't like it,' Cywen muttered.\n\n'I don't like it either,' Brina retorted. 'But that doesn't mean you don't use it. I don't like swords or spears, or fire when it's used to burn a person. There is much in life I don't _like._ But should I throw away or choose not to use a weapon that could help us _win_?'\n\n'I don't know,' Cywen said begrudgingly.\n\n'I know you wish to speak of this with Corban,' Brina said. 'I am asking you to wait. There is more I have seen - hints and riddles about the cauldron, about the Seven Treasures. I am trying to understand it.'\n\n'We could ask Balur, or Meical,' Cywen said.\n\n'No,' snapped Brina. Then, calmer: 'Please. Let me try. Just a little longer.'\n\n_I guess I owe her that much. If spells can help us then we should probably take every opportunity. Still, I don 't like it . . . and if she doesn't tell Corban soon then I will._\n\nHaving reached a resolution with herself, Cywen slipped into silence again until she saw a group of riders cantering towards them from the east, a score, maybe a few more.\n\nBrina kicked her horse on.\n\n'Where are you going?' Cywen asked her.\n\n'One of the benefits of being a counsellor,' Brina said over her shoulder, 'I get to be nosy.' She cantered down the column towards Corban.\n\nCywen thought about that a moment.\n\n_Well, I am Brina 's apprentice, or assistant, or whatever she likes to call me. So I should assist her._ She kicked her horse after Brina.\n\nCorban raised an arm and Dath blew on his horn, the whole column rippling to a halt. The riders approaching them were mostly warriors, dressed in leather and fur, with iron helms, straight spears and strong shields, their war gear looking similar to that of the surviving warriors from Gramm's hold. Then Cywen saw the bairns - two riding together on one horse, a lad and lass, and another sitting before a thickset warrior with long arms and no neck. A small white dog ran along beside them.\n\n_They are from Gramm 's hold._\n\nIt was a good guess because Hild, sobbing and smiling, jumped down from the wain she was driving and ran to meet them, the lad and lass slipping from their horse to run into her arms.\n\n_Wulf and Hild 's children, then. The ones Jael had been holding hostage. But who is the other child?_\n\nCorban stopped before the warrior with the child sitting in front of him. The white dog ran around Shield, barking excitedly, then he saw Storm, tucked his tail between his legs and hid behind the horse. He stuck his head out from behind a leg and growled.\n\nStorm looked disdainfully at him, then looked away.\n\n'Wulf tells me that you are Haelan,' Corban said to the lad, who was dirt stained, and looked exhausted and scared witless, but he managed to sit straighter in his saddle, and when he spoke he looked Corban in the eye and his voice had conviction.\n\n'I am Haelan ben Romar, rightful King of Isiltir,' the lad said.\n\n'Well met, Haelan,' Corban said, speaking solemnly. 'I am Corban ben Thannon, and I am prince of nowhere and king of nothing, but I do lead these people, and we are sworn to fight the man who has usurped your throne, because he serves Asroth and the Black Sun. So you would be welcome amongst us and, I suppose, as safe as it is possible to be in these times of war.'\n\nHaelan looked up at Corban, then down at Storm, and finally along the column that stretched back almost out of sight, full of Jehar, Benothi giants, pit-fighters and so many others.\n\n'You are going to fight Jael? Going to defeat him?'\n\nCorban smiled. 'I cannot promise you a victory, only that I'll fight him and win, or die in the trying.'\n\nHaelan nodded, not looking like his eleven or twelve summers at all.\n\n'That is good enough for me,' Haelan said. 'I will gladly join your warband, Corban ben Thannon.'\n\nCorban held out his hand and took Haelan's arm in the warrior grip. The lad looked momentarily taken aback, then pleased. And then Corban was riding back to the head of the column, Dath blowing on his horn again, and the warband stuttered into movement, the newcomers joining them. Buddai left Cywen's side and loped over to the small terrier, who jumped all over him as if they had been friends forever. Buddai slapped the dog gently with a paw, then rolled in the grass.\n\nCywen smiled at the sight, seeming so natural and ordinary in these most unnatural of times. She took one last look behind her, the sun sinking into the horizon, the fires on Gramm's hill guttering low. Then she turned her head to the east and rode on, towards the endless green that was Forn Forest.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN\n\n#### EVNIS\n\nEvnis sat by the tower gates with his head in his hands. He felt a lot of things right now. _Foolish, most of all. I cannot believe that I just stood up in the middle of a field and called Vonn 's name._\n\nThe emotion of seeing his son after so long had been overwhelming. _Clearly._ But it was fading now, a distant blend of joy and fear. In its wake was the realization that he had ruined an exceptional plan. It didn't help that Braith was pointing that out to him, repeatedly.\n\nAnd Morcant was furious about his silver. _It 's not his silver. It was given to him by Rhin, and she will expect to see it used wisely or returned to her. Perhaps that is why he is so angry. Or scared._\n\nThe sun was setting, and Evnis' hundred shieldmen had arrived. Morcant had ridden in with two hundred swords, so the tower and hill was suddenly a very busy place with horses being put out to pasture, tents going up and food being cooked.\n\nBefore him the marshlands shimmered, glittering like a many-faceted jewel in the fading rays of the sun. With a deep sigh he stood and walked down the hill to where Braith and Morcant were standing, close to where the enemy had escaped. Glyn followed a few paces behind.\n\n_I cannot believe that I stood in the open and allowed an enemy to aim his bow at me._\n\nEvnis had never been an impulsive man - emotional, yes, deeply so, but he never acted on that emotion. Not immediately, anyway, certainly not impulsively. _Except today._\n\nAnd there had been one high spot, one good moment in the midst of all of the irrational behaviour and shame.\n\n_Vonn saved me._\n\nEvnis had played that moment over and over in his mind; Camlin with an arrow aimed at his heart, and then Vonn's hand resting on the archer's arm, stalling him.\n\n_What does that mean? The one thing for sure is that at that moment he didn 't want me to die. That gives me much hope. If only I could have talked to him._ He ground his teeth. _It will happen, and when it does, he will come back to me. If he does not_ - _I cannot have my son fighting for my enemy._ He stopped himself from thinking that . . . he would not allow it to come to that.\n\nHe reached Braith and Morcant. Rafe, a little apart, was squatting with the two hounds and looking down the waterway that had been used so effectively as an escape route. Morcant had tried to follow, hell-bent on recovering his chest of silver, but within a few hundred paces the ground became impossible to ride a horse upon, and soon after that was too treacherous to walk upon. Maybe with time, men picking their route, but not fast enough to keep the boats within sight.\n\n'We need to talk,' Evnis said, the sight of Morcant's petulant face both annoying him and focusing him.\n\n'We need to do more than talk,' Morcant muttered, but Evnis pretended he hadn't heard him and walked on towards the riverbank.\n\n'So. Let us decide,' Evnis said. 'How, exactly, are we going to kill Edana?'\n\n'Starve them out,' Morcant said. 'I've been building towers around the marshland, they won't be able to leave without my seeing them. And I'll either buy the local villages' loyalty, or raze them to the ground. Either way they won't be able to trade for food.'\n\nEvnis looked at him as if he was mad.\n\n'They live in a marsh. It's not farmland, where crops only come in the right season. Look in that river and you'll see a hundred fish. They are not going to come out because they're starving.'\n\nMorcant scowled at him but didn't reply.\n\n_Intelligence is not a necessary pre-requisite for skill with a blade, then._\n\n'We either lure them out, which I imagine will be impossible, or we go in there after them,' Evnis said.\n\n'I'm going to go in there and find them,' Braith said. 'Then I'll send someone back to get you.'\n\n'You can do that?'\n\n'Aye. That's what I was going to do anyway - would've been easier if I'd had Halion to follow . . .' He looked pointedly at Evnis. 'And now Camlin knows I'm here, he won't make life any easier for me.' His hand drifted up to the scar between his neck and shoulder. 'But I can still do it. It will take longer, and I'll need a few more men - huntsmen, preferably. If that's not possible then men who are good on their feet, quiet. Observant.'\n\n'You shall have them. But, once you find Edana and send word to me, how do you suggest I bring a warband in there?' He looked at the marsh, lip curling in disgust.\n\n'Buy boats. Build boats. Steal boats. That's how they're getting around in there, and it's the only way you'll move a significant amount of men.'\n\n_There 's a forest a few leagues behind me, and every village situated about this stinking mosquito-infested latrine will have fisher-boats._\n\n'We can do that,' he said.\n\n'You'll need a lot of boats for that lot,' Braith observed, looking back up to the tower.\n\n'I don't think even that will be enough,' Evnis said. 'I'm sending a messenger back to Dun Carreg for more warriors. We don't know how many are in there - fifty, a hundred, three hundred, five? I don't want to go to all this hard work, get our warband in there only to find out that we're outnumbered.'\n\n'Makes sense,' Braith said. 'And you'll want to leave Morcant's towers manned, in case they decide to bolt and run. Not enough for a fight, but enough to track them if they go running.'\n\n'Aye. Good,' grunted Evnis. _For all of his arrogance he is a good man to have around in a situation like this. And whatever arrogance he has, it is as nothing to that preening peacock over there._\n\nMorcant had just stood and listened, glowering every now and then into the marshland.\n\n'Long as I get that chest of silver back,' he muttered.\n\n'You might never see it again,' Evnis said, enjoying seeing him squirm a little.\n\n'If I don't I'll be telling Rhin you're the reason it's gone,' Morcant snapped.\n\n'Ha, that silver was gone before I arrived. You wouldn't even know about it for another ten-night if I hadn't been here.'\n\nMorcant stalked up to him, his blade in his hands, and Evnis fought the desire to take an involuntary step back.\n\n'I will have it back, or I'll have blood,' Morcant snarled.\n\n'I can promise you one of those,' Evnis told him, glaring.\n\n'And what if you see your son again?' Morcant sneered. 'Will you betray our position again? Perhaps you should not come.'\n\n'You do not make the decisions here,' Evnis said, cold and hard now. 'And I promise you all, I shall not act again as I did today. The next time I see him, my son will join me, or he will die.'\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT\n\n#### VERADIS\n\n'I do not think this is a good idea,' Lykos said as he leaned back in his chair and tipped more wine into his mouth.\n\n'Why not?' Veradis asked him.\n\n'Because none of the people that you have invited to this party like me.'\n\n'That is probably true--'\n\n'Definitely,' Lykos interrupted.\n\n'You are safe enough for now, this is a rowan-meet; it is sacred.'\n\nLykos raised an eyebrow. 'You'd be surprised how far some people will go, once they have begun a course. And, as I said, they _really_ don't like me.'\n\n_What damage have you caused in Tenebral? Whatever you have done, it ends now._ Veradis felt an overwhelming anger at Lykos and the trouble he had caused. If it were up to him he would have slapped him in chains and given the regency back to Fidele, or to Peritus if the rumours of her unstable mind were true. _But it is not up to me. I have been given clear orders where Lykos is concerned, more 's the pity._\n\n'We must try and reach some compromise.'\n\n'Surely. As long as it doesn't involve me being separated from any of my body parts.'\n\n'Nathair values you most highly. That is not an option.'\n\n'You reassure me,' Lykos said with a smile, then drank some more wine. 'Not as much as having Kolai standing at my back, perhaps, but enough to convince me to stay and see what happens.'\n\nAll were allowed one person to accompany them, again, out of tradition more than any real fear of danger. The rowan-meet was sacred, a deep-rooted tradition brought with the Exiles from the Summer Isle. Kolai, the cold-eyed warrior whom Veradis had noticed on the harbour, stood implacably behind the chair Lykos was sitting in. Veradis had brought Caesus with him.\n\nThe tent flap was pulled back and in walked Lamar, Lord of Ripa.\n\n_Da._ Veradis felt the breath catch in his chest. His da had aged, far more than the two years that had passed since last they'd seen one another. He was gaunt, a stoop to his frame that had never been there before, and the skin on his bones was loose and waxy. His eyes met Veradis' and he stopped, just stared at his son. Those eyes still held all the wit and intelligence that Veradis remembered.\n\n'Father,' Veradis said.\n\n'You have grown,' Lamar said solemnly, looking him up and down.\n\nVeradis shrugged, not knowing what to say. Suddenly he felt like a little boy in his father's presence.\n\n'Gods, but you look like your mother,' Lamar said with a sigh.\n\nVeradis blinked at that. Others had said much the same. Many others, but never his father.\n\n'Please, sit,' was all he could think of to say.\n\nA table had been set out, with a jug of wine and cups. Lamar sat opposite Lykos. He regarded the Vin Thalun lord with what most would have considered an emotionless gaze, but Veradis could see the cold hatred behind his father's eyes. Then there were more figures entering the tent. Ektor came first, looking completely unchanged, dark hair stuck across his forehead, face pale and sallow. He met Veradis' eye and nodded to him, no words of greeting.\n\nThey had never been close.\n\nBehind him came Peritus and Alben, both men he respected, one whom he loved. Alben had been his weapons-master, and more than that, had shown him more kindness than his father ever had. He smiled at the old man, silver hair tied tight at the nape. Alben returned the smile, warm and open, and then they were both sitting. Marcellin entered then, with one shieldman at his back, a warrior almost as tall as Krelis. He sat with a nod to Lamar and Peritus and poured himself some wine.\n\n'Welcome,' Veradis said, moving to a chair.\n\n'Not all are here yet,' Lamar said, holding a hand up.\n\nThen Fidele stepped into the tent.\n\nShe paused at the entrance, her eyes fixing on Lykos with clear hatred and scorn.\n\n_Hardly the loving wife, then._ She was as beautiful as she had always been, though different. There was something hard about her, the bones of her face harsher, muscles shifting in her forearm as she gripped the tent pole. And stronger. She had seemed frail when Veradis had left Tenebral, brittle with grief. Now that was gone. She tore her eyes away from Lykos, who was not looking happy at her presence, and walked to an empty chair.\n\n'She should not be here,' Lykos said. 'She is unhinged, has brought this realm to the brink of war.'\n\n'I will not leave,' Fidele said. She looked at Veradis as she said it, not Lykos.\n\n_She does not look unhinged to me._\n\nBehind her a warrior entered, not overly tall or muscular, but his presence filled the room, a melding of grace and menace. He was old for a shieldman, streaks of iron in his hair, heavily scarred, one ear just a lump of flesh, and he was not dressed as a warrior of Tenebral, only in a plain linen shirt and leather vest. And knives. Two at his belt besides his sword, a hilt poking from a boot, and Veradis suspected more were secreted about his body. Then the warrior looked at Veradis.\n\n'Maquin,' he whispered.\n\n'Well met,' Maquin said, his face a cold mask.\n\n_The last time I saw him was in Forn. He was wounded, bloody, had been chased to exhaustion, but I still recognized him. Now, though, this is not that man . . ._\n\nMaquin stood behind Fidele.\n\n'So you have tamed the Old Wolf, then,' Lykos said.\n\n'Do not speak to her,' Maquin said.\n\n'Or what?' Lykos said good-naturedly. 'This is a rowan-meet, remember.'\n\nMaquin said nothing, just stared unblinking at Lykos.\n\n'Perhaps I should speak to you, then,' Lykos said to Maquin. 'I see you have grown your warrior braid back.'\n\n'Hair grows,' Maquin shrugged.\n\n'Aye, and can be cut again.'\n\n'Many things can be cut,' Maquin said, his gaze radiating hatred as palpable as heat from a fire.\n\n_What is going on here?_\n\n'Enough,' Lamar said. He looked at Veradis. 'We have come at your request, though I hold no hope for reconciliation here. Lykos has done too much, gone too far.'\n\n'That is yet to be seen,' Veradis said with a sigh, taking his place at the table, opposite his father. He had thought he was ready for this, prepared. He realized that he wasn't. He poured himself some wine.\n\n_I must resolve this. Redeem myself to Nathair for my failure in Narvon._ He took a slow sip from his cup and focused, just as he did in the shield wall, when the shields cracked together.\n\n'There _cannot_ be war in Tenebral,' Veradis said. 'We must find another way, and the fact that you have all come here shows me that you are willing to try.'\n\n'We are here out of respect for Nathair, the King,' Lamar said.\n\n'That is a good place to start,' Veradis said.\n\n'How is my son?' Fidele asked him.\n\n'He is well, my lady. Weary. He has fought a long campaign, and come through many trials and battles. He has forged alliances, as Aquilus began before him.'\n\n'He has abandoned Tenebral to this lunatic so that a foreign king or two can put their names on a piece of parchment,' Lamar said with a snort, gesturing at Lykos.\n\nVeradis took a deep breath.\n\n'No, Father. He has done much more than that. He fights the God-War, is the Bright Star spoken of in prophecy, and he has captured a fearsome weapon, the starstone cauldron, one of the Seven Treasures.'\n\nLamar frowned at that.\n\n'He has it, then,' Ektor said. He glanced at Fidele.\n\nFidele reached over and gripped Veradis' wrist.\n\n'I fear for Nathair,' she said, 'I suspect he is in terrible danger. The company he keeps--'\n\n'Of course he is in danger,' Lykos interrupted. 'It's not easy being the champion of Elyon. Instantly you have a very long list of enemies.'\n\n_This is heading away from the discussion. I must bring it back on course._\n\n'Nathair is well, and fighting hard not only for Tenebral, but for all of the Banished Lands,' Veradis said. 'But what you are doing here threatens to undermine all he has achieved. You must see that there cannot be open rebellion in his own realm.'\n\n'This is not rebellion,' Fidele hissed. 'This is saving Tenebral. Lykos--'\n\n'Lykos is Nathair's chosen regent. You all know this. Nathair spoke those words to me not two moons gone. What you are doing here is treason.'\n\n'Well said,' Lykos whispered.\n\n_Shut up. You are not helping._\n\n'Veradis,' Peritus said, making an effort to keep his voice steady. 'You do not know what has happened here, what Lykos has done. He killed Armatus--'\n\n'On whose order?' Veradis asked. Had Calidus been misinformed? Surely it could not have been Fidele.\n\n'That is . . .' Peritus glanced at Fidele.\n\n'On whose order?' Veradis repeated.\n\n'Mine,' whispered Fidele.\n\n'Not Lykos'?' Veradis asked. _It is true, then._ He almost could not believe it, even hearing it from Fidele's own lips, had been convinced that Calidus had been mistaken.\n\n'No doubt you have heard many things about me, Veradis,' Fidele said, holding her chin high.\n\n'I have,' he said. _You married Lykos. You ordered the execution of Armatus and Peritus. You sent the eagle-guard to the four corners of Tenebral on pointless errands._\n\n'They are all true. But, I did them against my will. Believe me or not, Lykos cast a bewitchment over me.'\n\nThat surprised him. He had not expected Fidele to accept the charges in the first place, but to then accuse Lykos of _sorcery . . ._ Veradis had doubted Nathair's judgement in choosing Lykos as his regent, he had many faults in Veradis' opinion - but a sorcerer? _He is too drunk, most of the time._ His first reaction was to laugh, the accusation seemed so ludicrous, but one glance at Fidele's face convinced him that she believed what she said. Or that she was mad.\n\n_Show her some respect. She was the high king 's wife, is mother to Nathair._\n\n'How did he bewitch you, my lady?'\n\n'I do not know how or where he learned his infernal talents,' Fidele snapped. 'All I know is that he had a doll, a clay figure, a strand of my hair set within it. When Maquin fought him at the arena it was crushed underfoot, destroyed, and immediately the chains within my mind were broken.'\n\n'So there is nothing left of this doll?'\n\n'Obviously not, or I would still be under his spell.'\n\n_Genius and insanity are separated by a hair 's breadth._\n\n'Lykos has committed countless atrocities,' Peritus said.\n\n'He has burned Ripa, sunk our ships,' Lamar said.\n\n'I told you they don't like me,' Lykos said in a mock-whisper.\n\n_Shut. Up. Nathair is right, politicking is like parenting a horde of bairns._ He took a deep breath.\n\n'Veradis,' a new voice said. Alben. He had stayed silent and listened, thus far. He leaned forward now, his gaze intense. 'Lykos is false.'\n\n_What is that even supposed to mean? And what do they expect me to do? Hand them Lykos ' head on a platter?_\n\n'Even if he is, Alben, I am not here to judge any man's character,' Veradis said. 'I am a King's messenger. Nathair has a proposal. A command.'\n\nA silence settled over them, angry glares criss-crossing the table.\n\n'Let us hear it, then,' Alben said, leaning back in his chair.\n\n'I will state the facts. You have grievances, that is clear. There has been a breakdown of government in Tenebral to the point of civil war. That is also clear. The next step here is battle, where many people will die.' Veradis gestured to the tent entrance, through which gathered warbands could be glimpsed.\n\n'Many have already died,' Fidele said.\n\n'What is the alternative?' Marcellin asked, speaking for the first time and startling a few of them. 'What is Nathair's proposal?'\n\n'That you come with me to Mikil in Isiltir. Nathair will be there - he is holding a council of the alliance. You can put your grievances before him, all of you, and let your King decide.'\n\n'What do you mean, all of us?' Ektor asked.\n\n'Any who wish to go are welcome. A representative of each of the interested parties may be more sensible. Father, it would be in part a journey through winter . . .'\n\n'You think me too weak and frail?' Lamar snapped.\n\n'No. These are Nathair's words. He suggested that Krelis or Ektor make the journey, as your representative. Or both, if you wish.' _One hot-headed, one cold as a dead fish._ 'Fidele, of course. Lykos, Peritus.'\n\n'Me?' Lykos said, sitting up straight and his smile fading.\n\n'Aye. Nathair wants you with him in Mikil.'\n\nLykos frowned at that.\n\n'That does actually sound like wisdom,' Ektor said. 'Certainly a means of avoiding such terrible bloodshed. I hate to admit it, and I can't believe that I'm saying such a thing, but Veradis is making sense.'\n\nFidele glared at him.\n\n'I cannot go,' Lykos said. 'I am regent here.'\n\n'No longer,' Veradis said. 'At least until this predicament is resolved to everyone's satisfaction. And Nathair has asked for you, Lykos. You are leaving Tenebral.'\n\nLykos scowled at that but held his tongue.\n\n'And what of Tenebral in the meantime?' Lamar asked, frowning. 'Who will govern here?'\n\n'I will,' Marcellin said, attracting many shocked stares.\n\n'Marcellin will remain in Tenebral,' Veradis said. 'He will act as steward of the realm until this situation is resolved. By our King. Not the needless slaughter of men of Tenebral.'\n\n'It is not men of Tenebral that I would slaughter,' Lamar said. 'but Vin Thalun. They are vastly outnumbered.'\n\n'I will not throw my men into needless battle,' Marcellin said.\n\n'So it would be you that is outnumbered, Father,' Veradis pointed out.\n\nLamar's eyes narrowed, cold as flint.\n\n_He is more angry than I realized. But he is also a good commander, a man of strategy, knows when to fight and when to retreat. Now for the final role of the dice . . ._\n\n'If you choose to fight, then I will have no choice but to step in. I will fight beside the Vin Thalun.'\n\n'Against your own people. Against your own kin?' Lamar said, bitterness dripping from his voice.\n\nVeradis stared at his father. He'd known this point was coming, could not be avoided. _I will not falter now._\n\n'Yes. I follow the orders of my King. Your King. Lykos is . . . was, his chosen regent.'\n\n'Not any more,' Lykos muttered into his wine cup.\n\n'If you raise a hand against Lykos,' Veradis continued, 'you are raising it against Nathair.'\n\n'You would lose,' Lamar said, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Never a good sign.\n\n'Who knows?' Veradis shrugged. 'All things are possible in battle. But you would be sorely outnumbered, and my eagle-guard are veterans, have been victorious many times.' He looked at Peritus, who had seen Veradis and his shield wall fight their way out of a river and win the day against overwhelming odds.\n\n'I do not think we would lose.'\n\nA silence settled over the tent.\n\n'You have grown since last I saw you,' Fidele said, though to Veradis' ears it did not sound like a compliment.\n\n'I agree,' Lamar said. It did not sound like an insult the way his father spoke it. There was even a tinge of respect in his eyes. _That is something I have never seen before_ - _not directed at me, at least._ For a moment it broke Veradis' train of thought. Then he gathered himself.\n\n'This meeting is at an end,' Veradis said. 'The choices are before you.'\n\n'I for one have made my choice,' Marcellin said. 'It seems that I've walked a long way to sit with you all in this tent, but for better or worse I accept Nathair's proposal. I will not fight, and I will steward Tenebral until Nathair has sorted this mess out.' He scowled at them all with his bushy brows. 'As for you,' he said, pointing at Lykos. 'I hope Nathair exercises some sense and I never see your face in this realm again.' Then he stood and left the tent, his shieldman close behind him.\n\nFidele clapped her hands, slowly, looking at Veradis.\n\n'You have manoeuvred us most skilfully,' she said. 'Divided our ranks and left a route open for us to retreat without losing our honour.'\n\n'It is not like that,' Veradis said. As much as he was battle-hardened, had been injured, stabbed, bruised, Fidele's comment hurt him more than any wound he remembered.\n\n'No? I am well used to the world of politicking, and I recognize this for what it is.' She looked around at them all.\n\n'Divide and conquer.' Her voice was steady, not quite calm, but Veradis saw the colour draining from her face, eyes drawn back to Lykos again. 'But some of us are not so easy to manipulate.'\n\n'I am manipulating no one,' Veradis said, feeling his own temper stirring. He respected Fidele in many ways, but for her to sit there and accuse him, after all that she had done, and confessed to doing . . . 'The things I have heard said about you, my lady. I had discounted them as no more than gossip and rumour, but seeing you, listening to how you are twisting the truth, I am more inclined to believe the rumours.'\n\n'Have a care,' Maquin said to him.\n\n'I have few friends still breathing,' Veradis said slowly, turning his gaze upon Maquin. 'And I'd not lose you, Maquin. But you'll not threaten me again.'\n\nMaquin shrugged. 'It wasn't a threat.'\n\nVeradis stood. 'This meeting is over.'\n\nHis father rose, Ektor standing with him.\n\n'Father, perhaps we could talk, soon?' Veradis asked him.\n\n'Aye,' Lamar said. He passed a hand over his eyes. 'After we have reached our decision.'\n\nEktor nodded a farewell.\n\nLamar turned to leave, Ektor moving to hold the tent flap open for him. Fidele stood, face taut with anger, and turned to follow them.\n\n'Fidele,' Lykos called after her. She paused and looked back.\n\n'Soon,' he said and blew her a kiss.\n\nMaquin's explosion into violence was so sudden that it took Veradis half a dozen heartbeats to realize it was happening.\n\nMaquin leaped across the table, sent it flying as he pushed off from it, cups and jugs and chairs flying, smashing, wine spraying.\n\nLykos was still seated; he shoved himself backwards and disappeared as his chair rolled, Maquin a heartbeat behind him, somehow a knife in his fist.\n\n_He cannot do this_ - _it is a rowan-meet, sacred._\n\nVeradis drew his short sword, heard people shouting, willed his feet to move after Maquin, who slashed at the rolling Lykos, blood arcing. Then Lykos' shieldman Kolai was there, standing over Lykos, who was still tangled in his chair. Kolai and Maquin exchanged a flurry of blows, punches, chops, knife thrusts, too hard and fast for Veradis to follow. There was a wet punching sound, then, for a moment, everything was still, Maquin standing with his knife buried to the hilt up through Kolai's lower jaw.\n\nThe Vin Thalun collapsed, one leg juddering, and the chaos began again, more shouting, Veradis feeling as if he was moving through water, trying to reach Maquin. Voices were yelling outside the tent, muffled, eagle-guard piling in, weapons drawn, bodies everywhere. Veradis stumbled on something, slipped, then felt an impact on his shoulder, turned, yelling, and something slammed into him, staggering him back a pace. A man.\n\nIt was his father, Lamar, his arms around Veradis.\n\n_What?_\n\nThen Veradis felt something warm on his hand, looked down, saw blood slicking his fist. He jerked backwards, let go of his sword hilt, the blade buried in his father's belly. With a sigh Lamar collapsed.\n\n#### CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE\n\n#### LYKOS\n\nLykos scrambled on the ground, fists pulling up chunks of grass and dirt. Maquin's face loomed over him, standing over the corpse of Kolai.\n\nHe was scared, and angry with himself for being scared, but the fear was winning out over any thoughts of revenge, screaming at him to get _away._\n\nMaquin lost a few moments as he dragged his knife from Kolai's skull and shoved the collapsing body out of his way, moments that Lykos determined to use well. Finally he managed to roll out from the chair that he had become entangled in, rose to a crouch and leaped towards the canvas of the tent wall. Fumbling for his knife, he managed to draw it and slash at the fabric, tearing a rent large enough to fit his upper body through. He hurled himself through, crashing out into cold daylight to land on his head before a line of frowning eagle-guard, beyond whom his Vin Thalun were milling.\n\nHe clambered to his feet and ran, Maquin's snarling face appearing through the tear in the tent. Lykos lunged to the side and heard a knife whistle past his ear to thud into an eagle-guard shield.\n\n'Stop him!' Lykos yelled at the top of his voice, the first ranks of Veradis' eagle-guard parting to let him through. 'Protect Veradis, defend your lord,' he bellowed, voice cracking.\n\nThe eagle-guard were moving, sweeping around the tent like a closing fist. Some of his Vin Thalun had seen him and were moving his way.\n\n_Faster. Move faster._\n\nLykos looked back to see that Maquin had cut his way out of the tent. He saw Lykos, seemed blind to the fact that Lykos was surrounded by eagle-guard, and a horde of Vin Thalun were growing closer with every heartbeat, because he just snarled and ran at Lykos.\n\n_Does the man not know when he is beaten?_\n\nNevertheless that wave of fear that had only just calmed swept up again.\n\n_He killed Kolai in less than ten heartbeats._\n\nLykos looked about frantically, heard someone in the eagle-guard shout and saw shields thudding together.\n\nMaquin threw himself against them, managed to pull one man out of position; Lykos saw the glint of iron as swords were drawn.\n\n'Do not kill him,' Lykos yelled.\n\nSomeone clubbed Maquin with the hilt of a sword. Maquin staggered, grabbed a shield, was clubbed by more men.\n\nLykos sucked in a few breaths, felt relief, then anger sweep his fear away. Then a deep joy.\n\n_The Old Wolf is mine again._ Then he smiled.\n\nHe heard a scream, looked to see Fidele half in and half out of the tear in the tent. She was looking at Maquin, trying to climb out, but hands were pulling her back.\n\n_Peritus?_\n\n_Amazing the difference half a day can make. Life is looking far more promising than when I woke this morning. I will come and find you soon_ , he promised Fidele.\n\nThe first of his Vin Thalun were about him now, looking at him with confused, questioning glances. He strode towards Maquin, beckoning for his warriors to follow.\n\nThe Old Wolf was on his knees in the grass, a ring of eagle-guard about him.\n\n'My thanks,' Lykos said to a serious-looking warrior who seemed to be in charge. 'I'll take him now.' The eagle-guard looked at him suspiciously.\n\n'You'd best get inside that tent - your Lord Veradis has been attacked.'\n\nThe eagle-guard yelled some orders and they hurried away.\n\nLykos looked down at Maquin, Vin Thalun all around pointing iron at the pit-fighter.\n\n'What a good day this is turning out to be,' said Lykos as he squatted down beside Maquin. Not too close - Maquin was bleeding from his scalp, but you could never be too careful with this man.\n\nMaquin breathed deep through his nose, hawked and spat blood. 'I can smell your fear,' he said.\n\n'No, you have that wrong,' Lykos said, leaning as close as he dared. 'You're mine now. And this time it will be forever.' He stood up. 'Oh, and you need to stop killing my shieldmen.' He spun and kicked Maquin in the head, stunning him.\n\n'Take him to my quarters,' Lykos ordered. 'Twenty men on each shift.'\n\nAs his warriors bound Maquin and dragged him away, Lykos processed what had just happened, what he'd glimpsed inside the tent as he'd been rolling over in his chair.\n\n_Lamar with a sword in his belly. Marcellin the new steward of Tenebral._ He snarled, glaring over at Marcellin and his warband, resenting Nathair and his decision to remove him from power.\n\n_I will get it back._\n\nHe looked at the rowan-meet tent, could hear the sound of grieving from within, people shouting. He called a dozen men to him and marched up to it, cautiously entering.\n\nEagle-guard were everywhere, hovering mostly, some attempting to clean up the mess Maquin had made. Kolai's corpse had been lifted to one side of the tent, where he lay staring at nothing, a red hole in his jaw, blood drying upon his chest.\n\n_An exceptional warrior. What a waste. Is there anyone that the Old Wolf cannot kill?_\n\nVeradis was kneeling in the centre, his sword discarded and red to the hilt, Lamar lying on the ground, head upon Veradis' lap. Veradis was stroking his father's head. Lamar was breathing, though he was as pale as the dead and it looked as if an ocean of blood had spilt into the grass about them.\n\n_How did that happen?_\n\nThe silver-haired man who had been present in the rowan-meet was kneeling with them, hands stained red, bent over Lamar's wound.\n\nLykos only gave them a perfunctory glance.\n\n_There she is._\n\nFidele was standing beside a tent pole, Peritus with her, as well as Ektor, the sickly son of Lamar whom Lykos had never seen before. He had a stunned expression upon his face, like a man after a battle. It looked as if Fidele and Peritus were arguing. A trio of eagle-guard hovered close by.\n\n'My lady,' Lykos said behind her.\n\nShe almost leaped away, fear washing her face. That made Lykos happy. Then she got angry and reached for a knife at her belt. Peritus gripped her wrist.\n\n'Now, is that a way for a wife to greet her husband?'\n\nShe spat in his face. 'I'll put a knife through either yours or my own heart before I let you touch me again,' she hissed at him.\n\n'You should be careful, the promises you make. You may have to fulfil that one.'\n\n'I intend to. Where is Maquin?' she asked, something other than rage seeping into her voice.\n\n'In my care,' Lykos smiled. 'He will be well looked after.'\n\n'He is my shieldman, I demand that he be returned to me.'\n\n'I don't think so. He is a slave. My slave, my escaped property.'\n\n'You will give him back, unharmed, or I will have your head today, and no force in the world of flesh will stop me.'\n\nShe spoke with such utter conviction that for a moment he believed her.\n\n'Don't worry, I have no desire to kill him, quickly.' He smiled. 'Living will be a greater punishment for him.'\n\n'You will--'\n\n'I will do as I _please_ ,' he hissed, feeling his anger begin to wax like the tide. 'And you will stop telling me what to do, unless you want Maquin's head as a gift.'\n\nThe three eagle-guards nearby stepped closer, watching him suspiciously.\n\n_I must tread carefully. They love her more than they do me, and I no longer have the effigy Calidus gave me, or the regency of Tenebral. Power is a fickle master._\n\nHe let his eyes wander her face and body. 'I had forgotten how beautiful you are,' he said. 'And look, you gave me this.' He lifted his shirt and twisted to show a scar low on his back. 'I treasure it,' he whispered. 'And when you are back in my bed, we shall discuss what would be a fitting punishment for betraying your husband so . . . thoroughly.'\n\nHer fingers twitched for her knife again.\n\n'As much as I would love to stay and chat, I have work to do. But we shall talk again.'\n\n'There is nothing left to say until we are both standing before Nathair,' Fidele said. 'He shall decide the right and wrong of this.'\n\n'This is a reprieve for you, nothing more,' Peritus said. 'Once we are before Nathair, you will know justice.'\n\n'We shall see,' Lykos said.\n\n'Return Maquin to me,' Fidele called after him.\n\n_Never, bitch._\n\nVeradis' voice filled the room, shouting _No_ , over and over. Alben was staring at him, shaking his head.\n\nLamar's chest had stopped rising and falling.\n\nKrelis darkened the tent entrance, came staggering over, as if drunk.\n\nVeradis looked up at him. 'He's gone,' he said, palms open and bloody.\n\nKrelis snarled and punched down at Veradis, again and again, men rushing to pull Krelis off. He shrugged them away, carried on punching, blood spattering from Veradis' face. He made no effort to fight back, or even to pull away.\n\nThen Alben clubbed Krelis across the back of the neck with the hilt of his sword, subduing him enough to enable warriors to pull him away.\n\nLykos left the tent, shaking his head.\n\n_Family._\n\nThe gates of Ripa's tower were open and Lykos strode through as if he owned them, a hundred Vin Thalun about him. _The Old Wolf is shackled, but he 's not my only enemy._\n\nVeradis' eagle-guard had stepped in during the confusion of the rowan-meet's end, when rumour had spread and violence hung in the balance. The warband of Ripa had snapped and snarled like an angry dog, for the moment without clear leadership as Lamar was slain and Krelis was grief-stricken. Caesus, Veradis' captain, had brought up his warband and ordered the men of Ripa to stand down. After a few tense moments they had, and now Lykos thought to take advantage of the confusion that had spread in the rowan-meet's wake.\n\n_That Caesus is one to watch_ - _followed Veradis ' orders without hesitation, and it was clear he'd have killed his own countrymen without any hesitation. Another fool too loyal to think for himself._ He shook his head. _Where does Nathair find them?_\n\nHe strode through a timber feast-hall, through an arched doorway; the floor became stone as he entered the tower; a spiral staircase stood before him.\n\n_Up or down? Where are they?_ He sent half of his men up, took the rest with him and spiralled downwards, footsteps echoing as he wound his way deep into the rock of Ripa's cliffs. At every corridor he sent men to search, until he was left with only a dozen men about him. Soon he found what he was looking for. A bolted door, two guards outside - men of Ripa. They stood uncertainly before him. He snapped an order and quickly had them overwhelmed and disarmed, then unbolted the door and kicked it open.\n\n'Ahh, here you are,' he said as he peered in.\n\nThe giantess Raina and her bairn Tain were standing against the far wall.\n\nThe first thing Lykos noticed was that their collars were gone from their necks.\n\nHe stepped into the chamber and Raina snarled at him like a cornered wolven. Tain appeared hostile, too, but in a more brittle way, the kind you'd see in a wild horse - fire that could turn to flight. He clutched a chair in one hand.\n\nLykos' men flowed into the room, Lykos pacing closer, drawing his sword.\n\n'I have missed you,' he said, arms open in friendly greeting.\n\n'Come no closer,' Raina growled. He saw a piece of chain in her hands.\n\n'You do not tell me what to do,' Lykos snarled. 'I thought you learned that lesson long ago.' He stepped closer still, stopped a dozen paces away. 'I hope that you have enjoyed your respite, because it is over. You are mine again.' He looked at her hands. 'I see that you have kept your collar and chain. Very helpful of you.'\n\n'To crush your skull with.'\n\nLykos sighed. 'Need we go through this? If you resist, I will kill your son. I don't need both of you - that is just a luxury, an extra surety. So.' He looked between them both, saw Raina's will wavering. He raised a hand and his men drew closer, spreading into a loose arc around the two giants.\n\n'Well?'\n\nRaina's eyes darted around the room, and she took a step closer to her son, part shielding him behind her. Lykos saw her eyes narrow and knew her answer. He drew his sword. She snarled and stepped forwards, hurling the collar at his face with startling power and speed, holding onto the chain, wielding it like a whip. He threw himself to the side, saw the collar crunch into a warrior's face behind him, the man crashing to the floor in a gurgle of blood and teeth.\n\nA Vin Thalun grabbed the chain, which in hindsight was a mistake, as he was pulled hurtling forwards towards Raina, grabbed by Tain and pummelled with a chair.\n\nLykos and his men rushed in, some jabbing Raina with spears. They knew, whatever Lykos said to the giants, that he would personally flay anyone who caused either of the giants' deaths, so they were hesitant. While Raina was distracted with jabbing spear-points, Lykos sped in behind the furious Tain, who was still smashing what was left of a splintered chair-leg into the pulped head of his warrior. Lykos slashed Tain across the back of the leg and kicked him behind the knee for good measure, dropping the giantling to the ground. Lykos grabbed a handful of Tain's hair and yanked his head back, resting his sword against the throbbing vein in Tain's neck.\n\n'Hold,' bellowed Lykos.\n\nRaina froze instantly, then dropped her chain. Immediately the Vin Thalun were on them, tying their wrists with rope.\n\nFootsteps echoed in the corridor and warriors walked in, a dozen, then a score, warriors of Tenebral in gleaming cuirasses with bright eagles on their chests. At their head strode the old man, Alben.\n\n'Step away,' he said, eyes searching out Lykos. There was something about his stare that made Lykos wary.\n\n'They are my prisoners,' Lykos said.\n\n'They are prisoners of war, agreed,' Alben said. 'But not yours. Veradis ben Lamar holds the highest rank here, and these are his men. He has ordered these prisoners taken into his personal custody.'\n\n'What? That is ridiculous,' Lykos said.\n\n'Here are the orders, and his seal,' Alben said, waving a scroll at Lykos.\n\n'Pfah,' Lykos grunted, waving an arm. 'Papers. We are all on the same side here. What does it matter whose custody they are under?'\n\n'Exactly,' Alben said. 'So you will not mind if they are in Veradis' custody, rather than yours.' It was not framed as a question.\n\n'They are _mine,_ ' Lykos snarled, feeling his temper fray. He was not used to dealing with so many disagreeable people all in the same day. He made to push past Alben, his Vin Thalun pulling the giants behind them. Alben stepped in his way.\n\nLykos put a hand to his sword hilt. Alben rested his hand gently on his. The hiss of swords being slowly pulled from sheathes sounded as the eagle-guard wrapped fingers around hilts.\n\n_Outnumbered. And I hate to say it, but those eagle-guard are Veradis ' veterans. In close quarters like this . . ._\n\nWith a twist of his lips he pulled his hand away from his sword and barked a command at his men. They dropped the ropes.\n\n'And what does Veradis plan to do with them?'\n\n'Take them to Mikil with him.'\n\nLykos raised an eyebrow at that. 'May I?' he asked, gesturing at the open door and Alben stepped out of his way.\n\nLykos marched away, a seed of worry taking root in his gut. _Mikil. Calidus will not look favourably upon that, and I will most likely get the blame. Ach, what a day. Still, it could have been worse. I need a good bottle of wine, and then I have an old friend to become reacquainted with . . ._\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas walked with a limp through Mikil's keep, one arm bandaged and in a sling. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to use a sword with his old skill again. Yet he was thankful to be alive.\n\n_Though perhaps not for much longer._\n\nHe was about to see Jael, his first audience with the King since he'd been sent on his fateful mission in search of Haelan, the fugitive King of Isiltir.\n\nA moon had passed since he'd led the attack on Gramm's hold, since he'd ridden out against a warband of warriors charging uphill with long, curved swords. If he'd known they were the most skilful warriors the Banished Lands had ever seen he'd have organized a retreat before they'd arrived and left Gramm's hold to them.\n\n_At least, the one that I fought was. And judging by the fact that I 'm the only survivor of over three hundred men, I'm guessing that the others weren't half bad with a blade, either._\n\nDag the huntsman walked beside him, neither one saying a word to the other. Silently they climbed a staircase and entered a long corridor, at its end shieldmen in red cloaks and black breastplates standing guard before a door. Sounds of combat drifted out, grunts and thuds, the clack of practice blades.\n\nUlfilas and Dag were ushered in and stood before Jael, King of Isiltir.\n\nHe was not alone.\n\nThe room was large, before Jael's chair a space was cleared, in which two men fought. Ulfilas recognized one - the shieldman he'd seen win the bout in Dun Kellen, named Lafrid. The other he didn't know, but even at a glance Ulfilas could tell that he was good. Careful, never overextending, patient. As Ulfilas watched, his eyes drawn for a moment, he saw Lafrid make a feint, much like the one he'd used in Dun Kellen, but the other man just stepped back and smiled.\n\nThe bout went on.\n\nBeside Jael, seated in high-backed chairs, were three other men, and standing behind them the bulk of a giant.\n\n_Not more giants._\n\nThis one was dark-haired, face impassive, a war-hammer slung across his back. Of the three men seated, Ulfilas recognized the first - King Nathair, though he had been a prince the last time Ulfilas saw him, at the council of Aquilus. The years had worn heavy on him, nothing of the enthusiastic boy left about him. Now he was lean, still handsome with unruly curly hair, but there was a gauntness to his features, a hollowness about the eyes that spoke of a deep weariness.\n\n_Being king will do that to a man._\n\nNext to him sat an old man, silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard on a sharp-lined face, clusters of laughter lines at his eyes. Despite his years he looked full of life, with bright eyes and a certain tireless energy about him. And then Ulfilas saw the third man. He almost took a step back, his fingers twitching in the sling for his sword hilt - it was a warrior similar to the ones he'd just fought at Gramm's hold. Clad in black linen and dark mail, the hilt of a curved sword slung above his shoulder.\n\n_How can that be?_\n\nPerhaps the warrior felt Ulfilas' eyes upon him, for he looked away from the bout and stared full at Ulfilas. Again he felt the urge to step back, to recoil. The man's eyes were black, no pupil, no iris, just a black well. Ulfilas' fingers moved to form the ward against evil.\n\nThe man looked him up and down, slowly, then returned his attention to the duel before them.\n\nIt came to an end suddenly, the patient man enduring a blistering combination of blows from Lafrid, the last strike too powerful, unbalancing Lafrid for a moment. The other man's weapon darted out, struck Lafrid hard on the wrist, then it was at his throat.\n\n'You're dead,' the patient man said.\n\nLafrid blinked, it had happened so fast, then nodded grudgingly and gripped an offered arm. 'Well done,' he muttered.\n\nJael clapped, Nathair and the old man following suit. The dark-clothed warrior didn't.\n\n'Well, it seems I have found my first-sword. Unless you have come to test your blade,' Jael said, looking at Ulfilas.\n\n'I am afraid not, my King,' Ulfilas said, looking down at his bandaged arm. The cut to his bicep had been the worst injury, slicing deeply through muscle.\n\n'I see you have a tale to tell. Well, let's hear it.'\n\nUlfilas stepped forward, Dag following him.\n\n'I attacked Gramm's hold, my lord, as planned. Ildaer and some of the Jotun joined us, and it was all going well, more than well: the gates were down and Gramm's warriors broken, fleeing. We were hunting for the child when two warbands were seen approaching - one on a small fleet of ships.'\n\nNathair and Calidus sat up straighter at that.\n\n'The other a warband of riders, approaching from the south. I rode out to face the riders - we outnumbered them heavily.' He glanced at the black-clad warrior. 'They were like him. Clad in black war gear, no shields, curved swords worn upon their backs.'\n\n'Tukul,' the black-clad warrior breathed, the word sounding like a curse.\n\n'Tukul?' Jael said.\n\n'My sword-brother. A betrayer.'\n\n'We fought.' Ulfilas felt a flush of shame. 'They were better than us. The likes of which I've never seen before. I fell and later escaped when I saw the battle was lost.'\n\nAs he spoke of it Ulfilas remembered too vividly how he had been struck half a dozen times in as many heartbeats, somehow his reins slashed as well, and falling with a numbing crash to the ground. He'd lain on his back in the blood and dirt as the black-clad warrior had loomed over him, thinking his death was moments away. Then he'd seen the warrior choose to fight a bear and giant instead. He hadn't stayed around to watch the outcome.\n\n'Dag found me a few leagues south - he'd been tracking the men who took the children from Dun Kellen.' He dropped to one knee before Jael. 'I failed you, my King.'\n\n'Yes, you did.' Jael sighed. 'But your honesty is refreshing, Ulfilas. Never any excuses from you. And did you make a mistake? I think not. Would anyone have had a different result in the same circumstances? Again, I think not. So I shall leave your head on your shoulders. This time.'\n\n'I thank you for your mercy,' Ulfilas said, and he meant it.\n\n'It seems our enemies have joined forces,' Nathair said. 'The Black Sun evaded me in Narvon, stole some of my ships, burned the rest. Now I know where he took them.'\n\n_The Black Sun?_\n\n'Well, we shall raise a warband and go pay them a visit,' Jael said. 'They will have Haelan with them now, no doubt.'\n\n'They are not at Gramm's hold any longer,' Dag said. 'I found Ulfilas, but we didn't come straight back. Went and watched them for a while. They left later that day, near a thousand of them, by my reckoning, heading east. I put a few of my boys on their trail. We'll soon hear where they're going.'\n\n'They're going to Drassil,' the old man said.\n\n'What?' said Jael.\n\n'You remember my father's council at Jerolin?' Nathair said to Jael. 'He spoke of the God-War, the polarization of sides between the Black Sun and the Bright Star. The prophecy that spoke of the Seven Treasures and Drassil.'\n\n'I do,' Jael said.\n\n'Well, that is what this is. It is happening now.' He looked hard at Ulfilas. 'Those who attacked you, one of them was the Black Sun, an upstart peasant named Corban, though he dares call himself the Bright Star.' His mouth twisted bitterly. 'The servants of Asroth are prone to lies and deception.' His eyes flickered to Calidus. 'This is why I am here, why a council of war must happen between our allies.' He pinched his nose, closed his eyes. 'Better to leave this conversation for the council. Are the others here?'\n\n'Lothar arrived yesterday from Helveth, but there is no sign of Gundul yet.'\n\n'Ach,' Nathair sighed. 'Well, we will wait, then. There is always the morrow. I need to sleep now. It has been a long road, but before I go and find my chambers, I have a gift for you.'\n\n'That is most gracious of you,' Jael said.\n\n'It is a little unusual, but I think that you will value it more highly than gold. Or even the head of this child pretender to your throne.'\n\n'You have my interest piqued,' said Jael.\n\n'Sumur. He is your gift. These are dark times and our enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity. A finer first-sword you shall never find.'\n\n'These are dark times,' Jael agreed, 'and my enemies gather as we speak.' Though Jael was looking at Sumur with little joy. 'But, as you saw, my new first-sword is a very capable man. And the best in all of Isiltir.'\n\nThe old man spoke up now. 'No offence to your newly appointed first-sword, but Sumur is better.'\n\nThe newly appointed first-sword, Fram, snorted. He was looking at Sumur with interest, though, not anger, as some warriors would under the circumstances.\n\n_I like that about him. A calm head._\n\n'Nathair fears for your safety,' the old man continued, 'and this seems to us to be the perfect solution.' He smiled genially, but there was more behind that smile. Daggers. An implied threat. _Do not refuse me,_ it said.\n\n_Don 't do it_, thought Ulfilas. _Do not take him. How can you trust an outsider_ - _not a man of Isiltir? No matter how good, how could you rely on his loyalty?_ But Ulfilas remembered a conversation with Jael, how he seemed consumed with the fear of assassination. _He could be tempted, if this man is as good as they say, and if he is anything like the one I met, then he is._\n\n'Are you sure he is better than Fram?' Jael asked.\n\n'Perhaps a demonstration?' Calidus said.\n\n'Yes. I would like that.'\n\nSumur rose and stepped into the cleared space before them, shrugging off his scabbarded sword, laying it carefully on a table, then picking up the wooden practice sword that Lafrid had used.\n\nFram stepped into the makeshift ring.\n\n'A friendly demonstration,' Calidus warned. 'No need for bloodshed or death. Or permanent injury.' As he said it he stared hard at Sumur, who returned the gaze with his flat, black eyes. He shrugged.\n\nFram and Sumur bowed to Jael, then turned to face each other.\n\nSumur just walked forwards, as if Fram were an open doorway that he intended to pass through. Fram shuffled his feet, sword raised, looked mildly confused.\n\n_He is a counter-striker, prefers to defend, and strike off of his opponent 's blows._\n\nSumur's feet moved, a ripple through his body, starting at his ankles, and then he was striking two-handed at Fram, a blurred combination to head, throat, chest, groin and thigh. Ulfilas did not see which blow connected - perhaps one, perhaps all, but a few heartbeats later Fram was lying groaning on the floor.\n\n_The problem with being a counter-striker is that you first have to block the strikes made against you._\n\nSumur stood over Fram, looked as if he hoped the warrior would get back up, then dropped the practice sword and calmly retrieved his scabbarded blade and slung it across his back.\n\n'Impressive,' said Jael.\n\n'He is,' Nathair said. 'And he is yours. I will sleep better knowing you are watched over by one such as Sumur.'\n\n'My thanks,' Jael murmured, 'but . . .'\n\n'What? Ahh, I know. You doubt his loyalty. A shieldman must be prepared to give his life for you, and as he is not a man of Isiltir . . .'\n\n'Exactly,' Jael said.\n\n'Sumur is loyal, to the extreme,' Calidus said, leaning close in his chair. 'Tell him to put a knife through his hand.'\n\n'That will not be necessary,' Jael said.\n\n'I think it is. But the order must come from you, else you would still question.'\n\nJael frowned as Sumur padded closer.\n\n_Even walking he is graceful as a dancer._\n\n'Tell him,' Calidus hissed.\n\n'Sumur, put your knife through your hand,' Jael said, wincing as if the words tasted sour.\n\nSumur drew a knife from his belt, placed its tip against the palm of his left hand, and pushed. It was a slow, deliberate movement, the knife tip disappeared fraction by fraction into Sumur's hand. And all the while Sumur stared blankly at Jael.\n\nUlfilas felt himself wincing.\n\n'Enough,' Jael said with a nervous laugh.\n\nSumur stopped.\n\n'You are sure?' Calidus asked.\n\n'Yes. Yes. Sumur, take the blade out.'\n\nHe did, one smooth pull, then cutting the edge of his linen shirt and tying a strip around his palm. Ulfilas saw one drop of dark blood hit the floor.\n\n'Well?' Nathair said.\n\n'He is loyal,' Jael said. 'Of that there is no dispute.'\n\n'If you still have concerns then keep Fram as well. Who said we kings should only have one first-sword?'\n\nJael smiled at that, though Ulfilas could tell he was still not completely happy about this new arrangement.\n\n'How can I take someone of such skill and devotion away from you, Nathair? If I am at risk from my enemies then surely you, our high king, are in greater danger, and so would need his skills more than I.'\n\nNathair smiled. 'That is not a problem - you must not concern yourself about that. And to prove it I'm going to leave you with another score of his sword-kin. Consider it an honour guard.'\n\n'I must protest,' Jael said, almost squirming in his seat. 'You cannot set aside such fearsome warriors on my behalf.'\n\nNathair waved a hand in the air, a dismissal. 'I told you, that is not an issue. I have a thousand more making camp beyond your walls that are just like him.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE\n\n#### CORALEN\n\nCoralen pushed a branch out of her way, stepped onto a rotted and fallen trunk and jumped down, avoiding a patch of dark-vine that would stick to her boots and burn her fingertips if she touched it, all the while moving through the forest as quietly as she could manage. She'd had years of practice during her years with Rath's crew.\n\n_But no amount of woodland hunting and living in forests could have prepared me for this._\n\nForn was like no other place she'd ever seen, dark, oppressive and enormous. The trees were on average as thick as a fortress tower, looming so high above that the forest canopy seemed like green-tinged clouds. Daylight was a nimbus glow high above, leaking down upon them like misted copper, most of the time the level of light hovering somewhere between twilight and full dark. The foliage upon the ground was sometimes just flat forest litter with clear spaces wide enough to pull two wains through, sometimes it was such a snarl of bush, thicket and thorn that Balur and his giants could not cut a way through it.\n\nAnd they were not alone. The forest was alive with noise - during the day mostly birds and insects, though some of the insects were as big as her hand. Night was worse. There were the noises Coralen was familiar with: fox and owl and the occasional howl from a wolven - Storm always cocked her head at those. But also the sounds that she had never heard before. Strange clicking, scratching sounds and hissing, usually just out of the firelight's reach. Once there was a deep basal rumble that she felt reverberate into her feet through the ground. Balur told them all that it was a draig, and reassured them that it was leagues away. And of course there were the notorious Forn bats - a hiss above from wings almost as silent as breath, sometimes a distant screech. So far she had not seen any of the great bats, only the husk-like, dried-out remains of their victims. A deer, a boar, once an elk as big as a horse. After that she'd resolved not to wander in the forest alone, and to ensure her scouts travelled in pairs.\n\nThey'd left Gramm's hold almost two ten-nights ago, the first ten-night making good time, the second proving to be slower going. Even abandoning the wains had not proved the remedy that Coralen had hoped for.\n\n'How can we travel any further through this?' Coralen muttered to Enkara, who was walking along quietly beside her.\n\n'We are nearly there,' Enkara assured her, wiping sweat from her brow. By Coralen's reckoning they were well into autumn and approaching winter, but the weather within Forn was surprisingly mild, the thick lattice of branches high above keeping out all extremes of weather, apart from rain, which would still drip from leaves and find the back of her neck with annoying accuracy. They'd been walking since dawn, when the air was cold and they could see their breath misting, and it was not highsun yet, but it didn't take long to warm the blood when you were forging your way through a forest.\n\n'Nearly there?' Coralen said, feeling a flare of excitement. 'Drassil is that close?'\n\n'Not Drassil,' Enkara said, 'but something else . . .'\n\n'Coralen,' a voice called from behind her.\n\nThey both stopped and turned, saw movement in the undergrowth and waited.\n\nDath appeared and Coralen frowned.\n\n_He is supposed to be on rearguard._\n\nA figure appeared behind him, a dark blur in the foliage.\n\n_Kulla._ Coralen rolled her eyes. She was like dark-vine where Dath was concerned.\n\nDath reached them, breathing hard and sweating heavily. He rested a hand upon his knee, opened his mouth to talk, realized he couldn't yet.\n\n'Dath thinks we are followed,' Kulla said for him.\n\nHe nodded.\n\n'You should be fitter,' Kulla said to Dath, poking him in the ribs.\n\n'The Bright Star's closest friend, you shame him. How could you defend him if you'd had to run a little first?'\n\n'I . . . am . . . fit,' Dath said, looking more hurt than angry.\n\n'Followed?' Coralen said.\n\n'Aye. I dropped back because I spied a doe pass us. Thought it would make a change from brot. I hunted it a while.'\n\n'He is very good at that,' Kulla said.\n\n'I thought I saw something,' Dath said.\n\n'Saw what?'\n\n'A glint of iron behind us.'\n\nCoralen waited.\n\nShe had left Enkara to scout ahead and sped back past the long column of their warband, strung out over a league of forest, then carried on a little for good measure, gathering a few of her scouts along the way. Dath and Kulla were with her, along with Teca, the woman Coralen had saved from the Kadoshim in the woods of northern Narvon. She had the makings of a fine huntswoman. Yalric, one of Gramm's warriors who had survived the battle of the hold, was with them too. And Storm, of course.\n\nThe wolven was crouched beside her now, both of them sitting in thick foliage upon an embankment, the rest of Coralen's hunters spread loosely on the far side of the path. They'd been here maybe half a day, the glow of the sun above the trees steadily drifting westwards, waiting for whoever it was that Dath had spied. She rested her head against Storm's shoulder.\n\n'I am glad you are healed,' she whispered, tweaking one of Storm's ears. The wolven had limped for a ten-night after her run-in with the bear at Gramm's hold, ribs bruised, maybe cracked. She was brave, though, tougher than any warrior Coralen had known, and had loped on day after day, league after league. Coralen had seen Corban's concerned looks, and had felt the same way, but one day Storm had uncurled from sleep, stretched and just seemed fine again. Coralen had felt a weight lift from her shoulders that she hadn't realized had been there.\n\n_Can 't believe how soft I'm getting. Rath would be ashamed._\n\nShe felt a vibration and realized that Storm was growling quietly. She sat up, reaching slowly for her strung bow, half a dozen arrow shafts stuck into the earth before her. The odd ray of sunshine sloped into the forest from the west, motes of dust suspended in the amber glow.\n\n'Easy,' she whispered to Storm, half-nocking an arrow, then concentrated on staying as still as possible. She focused on her breathing, as Rath had taught her, long, deep breaths, hold, slow release, over and over. Just when she thought Storm must have heard something else, there was a sound off to her left, a crackle of forest litter. Then, quiet but clear as the tree before her, a whispered conversation. Her skin prickled.\n\n_Dath was right._\n\nMoments later a figure appeared in the gloom, pausing for a while on the path below her, then moving on, slow and steady, eyes sweeping ahead and the forest to either side. Then two more figures, further back, twenty paces apart, like an arrowhead. She waited longer.\n\nNo one else came.\n\nA sound behind her, the scuff of bark, Storm's surprised snarl and she was throwing herself forwards, twisting as she fell, loosing the arrow half-blind into a shadow looming behind her. A scream, then Storm smashed into the figure, an explosion of blood.\n\nCoralen lurched to her feet, trusting Storm with her back, reaching for another arrow. The men on the path were scrambling for cover, one down with an arrow through his throat that she knew instinctively was Dath's. Arrows whistled through the twilight, one skittered off a tree, another sank thrumming into a trunk.\n\n_Two men down there, at least two men._\n\nThen she saw them - one flat against a tree, spear in hand, the other a dozen paces from him, crouched behind a fallen trunk. The one behind the tree peered around it, showing her his back and she put an arrow through it. He grunted and sank to the floor. The one behind the fallen trunk saw his comrade collapse, realized someone was behind them and leaped into motion. He was fast, running and leaping diagonally away from the others Coralen had placed on the opposite bank, but away from her as well. He weaved as he ran, Coralen releasing one arrow which missed him by a hair's breadth, then she was up and running. In a dozen paces she knew he was faster than her.\n\nBut not faster than Storm.\n\nThe wolven hurtled past her down the slope, bone-white fur blurring in the gloom as she raced after the huntsman. He heard the drum of her paws, turned panicked eyes towards her, fumbled with a knife at his belt and then she was on him, tearing at him as they rolled.\n\nCoralen ran faster, saw them separate and Storm spring to her feet, twisting to get back at him. The huntsman struggled to rise, blood slicking his shoulder and back. Storm ran at him.\n\n'Hold,' Coralen yelled at Storm, and the wolven skidded to a halt before the man, stood snarling and slavering over him. Coralen reached him, kicked his knife from his hand and then kicked him in the head. He dropped onto his back.\n\nDath emerged from the gloom, others close behind.\n\nThe huntsman on the ground groaned. 'Who do you serve?' Coralen said, drawing her sword and pointing its tip unwaveringly at his chest. He curled his lip and spat blood.\n\n'That is rude,' Kulla observed. Her sword was in her hand, and although she made no move the man on the ground cringed a little.\n\n'Look at me,' Coralen said to him. He did. 'I will have an answer to my question, one way or another.'\n\nShe held his gaze, preparing herself for what she might have to do. She'd seen Rath and Baird put men to the question, but never done it herself. Torturing defenceless men was not something she'd ever aspired to do.\n\n_But we need to know._\n\nShe remembered what Rath used to say in times like this, and sometimes it had worked.\n\n'This is the end for you, one way or another. I'll not make you false promises, offer you your life. You'll not be seeing daylight again.'\n\nShe took a moment, let the words sink in.\n\n'What I will offer you is a quick end, no pain. No flaying of your skin, or breaking of your bones. No putting your eyes out, or holding a flame to your stones. No giving you to her . . .' She looked pointedly at Storm, who was watching him with her fangs dripping red.\n\n'So I'll ask you one last time. Who do you serve?'\n\nHe licked his lips, eyes moving around their group, from Coralen to Storm, Kulla, Dath, Teca and Yalric, all stern and silent. He must have seen no hope amongst them, and no mercy, for Coralen saw the decision in his eyes before he opened his mouth.\n\n'Jael,' he said. 'I serve Jael, King of Isiltir.'\n\n'He's no king of mine,' Yalric growled, hefting his axe.\n\nCoralen tutted.\n\n'How far behind us is Jael?'\n\n'He's not following, yet. Far as I know, my master set us on your trail, went to report to Jael about the Hold, and you . . .'\n\n'How many of you following us?'\n\n'Four,' he said without any hesitation.\n\n_And four are here_ - _three dead, you soon to follow._ Coralen thought about breaking her word, putting him to the question. They weren't hard to follow, over a thousand of them and a few hundred horses tramping through the forest, it would be impossible to hide their tracks. But it was vital that there were no eyes on them - that's what Enkara had said. _No eyes watching us._\n\nBut looking at him she believed him, and it made sense. It's what she would have done - put a few good men on the trail, told them to hang back and not lose them. Report back when there was something to report.\n\nShe shifted her weight and stabbed him through the heart.\n\n'Get their bodies. Best we leave a message for those who come after,' she said.\n\n'I like you,' Kulla said to her as they made their way back to the warband.\n\nCoralen glanced at her and grunted. Kulla was short, slim, large dark eyes in an oval face. And a deadly killer. Coralen had seen her spar, seen her take lives at Gramm's hold with a deadly efficiency, as if she was harvesting crops.\n\n'You are strong, here,' Kulla said, tapping her forehead. 'And here.' She pressed her palm to her heart. 'Back there, you did what you had to do, even though you did not like it.'\n\nThey had gathered the four dead huntsmen, wound rope around their feet and hung them from branches so that they dangled over the trampled path. Then Coralen had gutted them, slicing their bellies and spilling their intestines in tangled heaps below their hanging arms. She knew the warband that would eventually come this way would find them, half eaten probably and butchered like game after a hunt. It would sow seeds of fear.\n\nShe looked at her hands, still stained with blood.\n\n'No, I didn't,' Coralen said.\n\n'You will make a good match for our Bright Star.'\n\nCoralen blinked at that, felt her neck flushing.\n\n'Did Tukul talk to you?' she said, more abruptly than she intended.\n\n'No,' Kulla said, wrinkling her brow. 'Why?'\n\n'Never mind.'\n\nShe found that she missed Tukul, had enjoyed his company on the mad ride through Isiltir. All of the Jehar were stern and serious, but there had been another side to Tukul, a pragmatic humour that seeped into all he did or said. He had reminded her of Rath.\n\n_And now he is dead, too. Like Rath._\n\nShe felt grief clench in her chest, like a fist about her heart, slowly breathed it out, her thoughts turning to Gar. He had howled like an animal when Tukul had died, and his grief was still draped heavy upon him, his eyes hollow and angry.\n\n_I do not think there is one person in this entire warband that has not suffered the loss of loved ones because of this God-War._ That made her angry.\n\n_We shall have our vengeance._\n\nThey were catching up with the warband now. Something drew her attention, from behind her. She slowed, turned, stared into the forest, head cocked to one side.\n\n'What is it?' Kulla asked, staring with her.\n\n'I don't know,' Coralen frowned. She could not have said what had made her pause - not a sound exactly, more a tingling upon her skin.\n\n_Like I 'm being watched._\n\nThere was nothing, only the gentle rustle of a breeze through branches. She shrugged and carried on, leaving Kulla and the others as rearguard scouts, and sped up to try and get back to Enkara before it was full dark. Storm padded beside her, and when they reached Corban the wolven loped away to join him. Glancing down, Coralen noticed something red sprinkling the ground. She squatted to inspect it, saw it was paler than blood, almost pink. Then she heard Storm growl and looked up to see Buddai sniffing at the wolven. He frolicked closer to her, Storm gave him a swipe with a paw and he jumped away.\n\n_Hmm . . ._\n\nCorban reached down to run his fingers through Storm's fur, then smiled over at Coralen.\n\n_I 'll have to report to him about what happened, but I need to find Enkara before it's dark._\n\nShe ignored him and jogged on. Soon she found Enkara, a darker shadow in the encroaching gloom.\n\n'I've found it,' Enkara said, looking very pleased with herself.\n\n'What?'\n\n'Walk over here.'\n\nCoralen did, past Enkara. For a moment she felt something, a kind of prickling against her skin, like the air before a storm breaks, but then something under her foot shifted and she looked down to pick her way. The ground was covered with deep forest litter, clusters of dark-vine here and there. She took some wide strides to avoid it. Then she stopped and looked back at Enkara, who was smiling at her.\n\n'What?' Coralen asked.\n\n'You can't see it?'\n\n'See what?' She was getting annoyed now.\n\nCorban was getting close now, Meical beside him, both of them leading their horses through thick undergrowth. Behind them the warband was a hulking shadow.\n\nEnkara bent down and seemed to plunge her hands into the ground, then she saw the Jehar warrior lift up a thick knotted rope, leaning back and pulling on it. As she did, the ground shimmered and rippled, spreading out in circular waves from Enkara like a rock thrown into a pool. Coralen steadied herself, looked down to see that she was standing on some kind of wooden construct.\n\nEnkara put her back into pulling. 'Some help,' she grunted, and Coralen hurried over. Together they tugged on the rope and with a creaking groan a wooden door rose up from the forest floor, a huge iron-banded and hinged semi-circle.\n\nCoralen stood there with her mouth open, looking down at a wide stone slope that led down into darkness.\n\n'A glamour,' Enkara said.\n\n'What is this?' Corban asked.\n\n'A tunnel that will take us to Drassil,' Meical said.\n\nBalur smiled when he saw it.\n\n'Good. You have found one, then,' the giant rumbled. 'When Drassil was abandoned they were hidden so well that those that came after could not find the way back.'\n\nEthlinn was beside him. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. 'The glamour is strong upon these,' she said, her voice like the creaking branches.\n\n'There's more than one?' Corban asked.\n\n'Yes,' Enkara said. 'We found six of them, all beginning at Drassil. Tukul set us to clearing them - some were blocked, others crumbled and collapsed. Some had things living in them . . .' She shivered at a memory.\n\n'But, how will we hide them from our enemy?' Corban said. 'We will lead them straight to Drassil.'\n\n'No,' Balur said. 'The glamour is cunning. You cannot see them until they have been revealed by someone who has walked them. Once you have seen one, you can see them all.'\n\n'I don't understand,' Corban said.\n\n_Neither do I,_ thought Coralen.\n\n'When we are inside and the door is closed above us, the glamour will cover them again. No newcomer will see them, will notice anything other than the forest floor.'\n\n'So how did Enkara see it?' Corban asked.\n\n'Because she's seen it before. And now that you have, the glamour will no longer work upon you. You will be able to see all six of them, now.'\n\nCorban thought about that for a moment, then looked up and smiled.\n\n'Excellent,' he said.\n\nThe doors closed with a bang and darkness settled about them, broken by countless torches that burned a dotted line down the endless tunnel.\n\nEthlinn had remained behind with Enkara and Coralen, the rest of the warband marching on. Ethlinn lifted a huge wooden beam and slipped it through iron bars fixed to the enormous trapdoor.\n\n'A precaution,' she said, 'though doubtless unnecessary.' She murmured a few words in giantish, Coralen feeling her skin prickle as it had earlier, when she'd stood upon the door and not seen it.\n\n'There,' Ethlinn said, turning away.\n\n'So Drassil is down there?' Coralen said.\n\n'Aye,' said Enkara. 'It would take three or four moons of hard walking through Forn to reach Drassil from this point, and that is without the glamours and traps that surround the fortress. In this tunnel, mounted, we'll be there in a ten-night.'\n\n'Onwards then,' Coralen said.\n\n'Home,' whispered Ethlinn.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas stood with his back to the great doors of the feast-hall, checking all entrances and exits, making sure they were guarded by trusted men. Even though they were in the heart of Isiltir, in the fortress that had once been Romar's seat of power, Ulfilas had reached a point of permanent mistrust.\n\n_Perhaps Jael 's paranoia is rubbing off on me._\n\nHe flexed his fingers and clenched a fist, felt muscle and tendon ripple and contract along his arm, the stitches in his bicep pulling. A ten-night had passed since he'd arrived in Mikil and met with Jael. His arm was out of its sling now, feeling weak, and aching as he'd never imagined, but slowly, oh so slowly, he was starting to feel a trickle of strength flow back into it.\n\nThe room had been converted into a council chamber, the fire-pit covered over with boards and a thick-legged carven table placed across it.\n\n_The fire-pit should be lit, if even just to lend some heat to this room._ Summer had slipped into autumn and the winds blew cold across the rolling plains of Isiltir.\n\nAll the kings of the alliance were there: Jael at the table's head, with Fram close by and Sumur a black shadow at his back, then Nathair with his companions - silver-haired Calidus and the brooding giant, the outline of his war-hammer like a crow upon his back. Lothar, once battlechief to Helveth's ruler and now king of the realm. Ulfilas remembered him from the battle of Haldis, deep in Forn Forest. He had been clear-headed in council and fierce in battle. He sat now in silence and kingly splendour, the black hammer of his realm emblazoned on a white cuirass, a white cloak of wolven fur trimmed with gold around his shoulders. His face was predatory and hawk-like, his nose sharp and beaked. One warrior stood at his back.\n\nAnd then there was Gundul, King of Carnutan, dark-haired and round-faced. He was the son of the traitor Mandros who had slain Aquilus, Nathair's father, and had his head taken from his shoulders in recompense by Nathair's first-sword, Veradis. Gundul had played a part in Mandros' downfall, and in return Nathair had supported him in his claim to the throne of Carnutan.\n\n_None of these men would be king now, if not for Nathair. It is no wonder Jael is indebted to him. But no man gives such favours for nothing. What will he ask for in return?_\n\nA man sat beside Gundul, with deep lines in a narrow face and an iron-grey beard, he sat straight-backed and alert, sharp eyes taking in every detail.\n\n_Belo, some relation of Gundul, and apparently more in control of Carnutan than Gundul is._\n\nGundul had only arrived yesterday, two hundred warriors riding with him as an honour guard. Jael had chafed at the delay, and so had Nathair, who had spent most of his days hidden away in his camp, which was built like a fortress around a huge wain, wheels as big as a horse. Nathair stood, and the murmur of conversation died out, a hush falling around the table.\n\n'Well met,' he said, nodding to each king. 'It has been a long road since last we were all together - during my father's council at Jerolin. It was there that we made our pledge to one another, gave our oaths to this alliance; and now, look at us all. We are kings. Fortune has favoured us.' He raised a cup to them, his lips twisted in an almost-smile, as if at some unknown jest.\n\nThe kings raised their cups.\n\n'I have helped you all, given aid when you asked. Lent my warbands, their blood spilt in your causes. Now I ask that you remember the oaths that we pledged to one another, and the war that we committed to fight.'\n\n'I remember it well,' Gundul said. His face was flushed, whether with wine or enthusiasm Ulfilas could not tell. 'And I for one remember with gratitude all that you have done on my behalf. Whatever must be done, if it is within my power to do so, then I am willing.'\n\nJael and Lothar raised their cups to that, though Belo's face did not look so pleased.\n\n'The God-War has begun in earnest. The Black Sun is revealed as a warrior from Ardan in the west. He has gathered a warband about him of evil men and giants - Jael's battlechief has already crossed paths with him.' Nathair gestured towards Ulfilas, who stood blinking beneath the gazes of the kings of the Banished Lands. A silence grew.\n\n'I fought them in the north,' Ulfilas said. 'It is true - giants and deadly warriors, the like of which I have never encountered before.' His gaze flickered to Nathair. 'I alone escaped with my life, my entire warband slaughtered.'\n\n'In the north?' Lothar said. 'What were their numbers, and where are they now?'\n\n'Over a thousand strong, and more joining them, so Jael's scouts tell us. They have travelled into Forn,' Nathair said, 'and seek to take refuge in Drassil.'\n\n'Why in God's name would they do that?' Gundul asked. He dwelt furthest from the old forest.\n\n_All he knows of Forn is likely the faery tales and stories of its bloodthirsty inhabitants_ - _draigs, wolven, bats and all manner of beasts that 'll consider you a good meal._\n\nBelo leaned forwards, resting his chin on steepled fingers.\n\n'What do you propose is done about this Black Sun?' he asked.\n\n'We go after him.'\n\n'That would not be the easiest task,' Belo commented.\n\nNathair frowned, turning a brooding stare upon Belo. 'Did you ever think that a God-War would be easy?'\n\n'I can't say that I've thought about it much at all,' Belo said. 'Gundul's and my time has been spent working hard in our own realm to heal the damage done during the succession.'\n\nNathair raised an eyebrow at that but made no comment.\n\n'What would you have us do?' Lothar asked.\n\n'Build roads into Forn, wide and straight like the giant roads of old. Each of you from a different location, set on a course to intersect at Forn's heart. From there, we build a fortress of our own. Drassil must be found, and the Black Sun dug out from the hole that he hides in.'\n\n'Why not just leave him there?' Belo asked. 'If he is hiding, let him hide. Most that go into Forn are never heard of again.' He shrugged. 'Let the forest do our work for us.'\n\nNathair stared at him, took a deep breath, not quite a sigh. 'This is a council of kings,' Nathair said. 'Let your King speak for his realm.'\n\n'I advise my King,' Belo said. 'And to do that, I like to understand the facts.'\n\nNathair pinched his nose.\n\n'I have given you all the necessary facts. The Black Sun is in Forn. We must go after him. To bring the might of our warbands against him we have to build roads for them to march upon, to bring them supplies, to be able to fight without a tree branch getting lodged up your arse.'\n\n_I think he 's getting angry._\n\n'There may be other options.'\n\nNathair slammed a fist onto the table. 'I have not travelled a thousand leagues, fought myriad battles, dethroned kings and crowned new ones and stormed the gates of Murias to come here and haggle like a fishwife over _options_.' He was shouting by the end of the sentence.\n\nBelo just stared at Nathair, fingers still steepled under his chin.\n\n'This an alliance,' Belo said calmly, 'not a dictatorship. You do not rule here, or command the kings of the Banished Lands.'\n\nNathair went very still.\n\nCalidus rose beside Nathair and touched his arm. The King of Tenebral had gone pale. He took a deep breath and sat.\n\nCalidus faced Belo and spoke. 'There are weapons in Forn,' the old man said. 'Relics from the Giant Wars and the Sundering. We have to take them from the Black Sun. To leave him is to allow him to become stronger, and to consolidate his power.' Calidus' voice was deep and resonant, soothing in its pitch and cadence, and Ulfilas felt himself nodding in agreement with the old man's words. 'If left, one day he will emerge from Forn, stronger, too powerful by far, and prepared to annihilate us all.'\n\n'That does not sound so good,' Gundul muttered.\n\n'No. Best we strike now, before he grows stronger,' Jael said.\n\n'That is our reasoning as well,' Calidus said good-naturedly.\n\n_Jael has a motive to fight this war, to chase this warband into Forn: Haelan. To catch one is to catch the other. But these other kings, why do they need to do this? To commit their warbands to such a mammoth task?_\n\nUlfilas studied the faces around the table and could see that some at least were thinking along similar lines. Lothar was nodding thoughtfully. Gundul just looked scared. Belo, though, did not look impressed with the idea of carving a route through Forn.\n\n'So you would have us build roads?' Belo asked.\n\n'That is right. Summon your warbands and we shall begin our search for Drassil and the Black Sun.'\n\n'Forn is a big place,' Belo said.\n\n'Best then that we start sooner rather than later,' Nathair grated.\n\n'There is someone missing from this table,' Belo said. 'Someone whom I have heard has joined your, our, alliance. Queen Rhin.'\n\n'She will come,' Calidus said. 'She is securing her borders, but when we call for her, she will come, and bring a mighty warband with her.'\n\n'Internal strife, then,' Belo said. He looked pointedly at Nathair. 'There are rumours of other realms that are struggling to maintain order within their borders. I have heard the word _rebellion_ mentioned in connection with Tenebral. Is there any truth in this?'\n\n'There has been--' Calidus began.\n\n'It has been crushed,' Nathair interrupted. 'My first-sword has sent me word, Tenebral is at peace, and he brings the leaders of this so-called rebellion here, for my judgement.'\n\n'Veradis, your _problem-solver._ '\n\n_It was Veradis who cut Mandros ' head from his shoulders. Belo's cousin._\n\n'Just so,' Nathair said, eyes fixed on Belo, who gave the first sign of any kind of emotion, a tightening in his jaw and narrowing of his eyes.\n\n'I think it is time we retire,' Belo said. 'You have made your case clear, what you wish from us. Gundul and I shall discuss it at length.'\n\n'That is not good enough,' Nathair said. Calidus put a hand upon his shoulder but he shook it off. 'Time cannot be wasted. I must have your answers now. This day.'\n\nBelo shrugged and stood, his chair scraping. 'We don't always get what we want,' the ageing warrior said. 'And I for one am not sure I'll be advising my King to listen to a man who cannot even maintain order within his own realm. Come, Gundul,' he said, touching the young King's arm.\n\n'Stop,' Nathair said quietly, venom in his voice.\n\nBelo did stop, for a moment looking with angry eyes at Nathair.\n\n'You do not give orders to us, King of Tenebral. This is a council of equals, and I take my orders from my King, not some upstart with a faded title, a realm in chaos and a reputation for murdering kings. Now, Gundul, let us--'\n\n'Sumur, kill this thorn in my flesh,' Nathair said.\n\nSumur moved without a second's hesitation, walking calmly around the table, hand reaching over his shoulder for the hilt of his blade.\n\n'This is not amusing,' Belo snapped. 'I will not be intimidated.' Ulfilas saw his eyes flickering between Nathair and Sumur.\n\n'My patience is at an end. I will listen to your whining opposition no more,' Nathair said.\n\nWith a rasp, Sumur drew his blade.\n\n'This is a council amongst allies,' Belo snapped, disbelief and fear mingling in his voice. He took a few steps back, hand reaching for his own sword.\n\n'You are not my ally,' Nathair said. 'You did not take the oath, Gundul did.'\n\n'This is outrageous,' Belo cried.\n\nSumur walked on, around the table.\n\n'Alric,' Belo yelled, panic in his voice now, the shieldman behind Gundul shifting, looking between Gundul and Belo.\n\n'Alric, now!' Belo shouted, and the shieldman moved, stepping in front of Sumur and drawing his sword.\n\nSumur curled a lip and rolled his shoulder, his sword snapping out, the shieldman moving too slowly, staggering into Gundul's chair, gurgling as blood spurted from his throat.\n\nSumur walked on.\n\nBelo drew his own sword, backing into a column. Sumur reached him and struck an overhand blow, double-handed. Belo blocked it, but Ulfilas heard the unmistakable sound of bone cracking. Ulfilas, no stranger to battle, winced.\n\n_He 's broken Belo's wrists._\n\nBelo screamed, sword dropping from strengthless fingers.\n\n_No one is that strong._\n\nSumur raised his sword and struck again, Belo's scream cut short, then again, the sound of meat being cleaved, more bone breaking.\n\n'Enough!' Calidus yelled and Sumur froze, looked back over his shoulder, blood splattering his face. He licked a drop from his top lip.\n\nA silence had fallen upon the chamber, kings staring in horror, Gundul's eyes fixed on Belo's corpse. He whimpered.\n\n'I was going to do this later,' Calidus said with a sigh, 'but perhaps it is appropriate now.' He gestured for the feast-hall gates to be opened. Ulfilas thought about questioning him, then looked at the pile of meat and bone that had been Belo and decided to move, nodding to his men to open the great doors. Daylight streamed in, along with a bitter wind. Footsteps thudded and warriors marched in, black-clad men and women like Sumur, a hundred, two hundred, more. They stood before the council table, eyes black and empty.\n\n'They are a gift for my fellow kings,' Nathair said. 'One hundred warriors for each of you, a protection in these dark and dangerous times.'\n\n_A protection from whom? More your enforcers._ Ulfilas did not like this, not one bit. He could see that the kings and their shieldmen felt the same way. The display of violence had been shocking, but the consequences of this were settling upon him now. Nathair was taking over this council of kings. If each of these warriors before him was half as capable as Sumur, then together they could carve up a warband.\n\n_This is Isiltir, not Tenebral._ He looked to Jael, hoping that he would give Ulfilas the order to summon his warband and put an end to this. Jael just sat there, looking as shocked and scared as the rest of them.\n\n'Now,' said Nathair, 'let us discuss our assault on Drassil.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE\n\n#### UTHAS\n\nUthas strode along beside Rhin, Dun Carreg towering above them upon its cliff like some predatory bird. Horns blowing, Rhin's honour guard rippled to a halt on the giantsway.\n\n_Honour guard! More like a warband_ - _five hundred of Rhin 's shieldmen and fifty Benothi giants. Not a sight often seen in Ardan._\n\nUthas looked about him, drinking in the view like a half-parched man.\n\n_Ardan, they call it now, but it was only ever Benoth to me. There was a time when I thought I 'd never see this land again._\n\nAhead of them Dun Carreg sat on its high cliff, at its foot the sprawl of a fisher-village, and all about them were rolling meadows, to the north the glitter of a pewter sea, and behind it all the cry of gulls. Uthas sucked in a deep breath, savouring the salt air and chill that filled his lungs.\n\n'Was this your home, once?' Rhin asked him.\n\n'Home, no,' Uthas said. 'I dwelt in Dun Taras, governed that part of Benoth for Nemain, but I came here often. I have . . . fond memories of this place.'\n\n'The truth does not often live up to the memory,' Rhin said, looking up at Dun Carreg high above. 'Let us see what welcome Evnis has prepared for us.' She clicked her horse on and they headed through the fisher-village, the inhabitants hustling off the streets into houses as they saw Uthas and his kin approaching. They carried on up the winding road to the fortress, hooves clattering on the stone bridge as they crossed the chasm that separated the fortress from the mainland, the wind blowing up around them in great gusts.\n\nWarriors lined the courtyard beyond Stonegate, turned out in their finery to greet their queen. With Rhin's warriors and fifty giants striding into the courtyard it soon became crowded.\n\n'Where is Evnis?' Rhin said with a frown to the man who stepped forward to greet her, a captain named Andran.\n\n'He rode south, my Queen,' Andran said. 'He received word of the rebels in Dun Crin.'\n\n'How far is Dun Crin?' Rhin asked, looking annoyed.\n\n'A ten-night down the giantsway,' Uthas answered. 'Through the Baglun and out the other side. Dun Crin is sunk in the marshes, though.'\n\nRhin nodded thoughtfully. 'Well, we do not need him for what we came for, I suppose. I just would have liked to see him.' She ordered her honour guard and mounts cared for, her warriors to be escorted to the feast-hall for a meal.\n\n'Your giants should accompany them,' Rhin said.\n\n'They may cause unrest,' Balur said.\n\n_Giants walking abroad in Dun Carreg_ - _this has not happened for a thousand years. And the reaction they are likely to provoke is the reason Rhin came with us._\n\n'They are my guests here. Any unrest will end with heads on spikes.' She said that loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear.\n\n_That should be enough. Rhin 's presence in the fortress, combined with her commands, should be enough to keep my people safe._\n\n'Eisa, you lead the kin,' Uthas said. 'Eat, drink, rest with our friends. And be courteous.' He held her gaze and raised an eyebrow. 'Salach, you will stay with me.'\n\n'And now I will defer to you, Uthas,' said Rhin. 'Let us go in search of your Treasure.'\n\nUthas led Rhin and Salach through the streets of Dun Carreg, a sense of wonder filling him. He gazed about at the wide flagstoned roads, the stone buildings looming over them, and remembered when his kin had gazed back at him from shuttered windows and bairns ran laughing in the streets.\n\nSoon they passed around the keep and into a wide courtyard, a pool with fountain and steps dominating the square. Then, further on, down the steps into the tunnel that led to the great well. It was all exactly as he remembered, even the damp smell, the drip of water, the echo as they entered the circular room with the wide hole that sank deep into the bowels of the cliff that Dun Carreg was built upon.\n\nUthas nodded to Salach, and he squatted beside the well-shaft, reaching down along the rough stone. He nodded as he found what he was looking for, then there was a click, a hiss and the outline of a door appeared on the wall to the left of them.\n\nRhin nodded approvingly and the three of them walked through.\n\n' _Lasair_ ,' Uthas commanded, and the torch of rushes in his hand sparked into flame. He led them on into the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg, excitement coursing through his veins.\n\n_Nemain 's necklace, one of the Seven Treasures._\n\nCalidus had sent him to find them - necklace and cup, the Treasures he had promised to Asroth - and Rhin was to be his protector. Fifty Benothi giants wandering the west would not be much appreciated by the locals. Once he had them he was ordered to take them to Calidus, either at Mikil or somewhere closer to Forn and Drassil.\n\n_Drassil. This will bring me one large stride closer to claiming the fortress back for my kin. For all of the clans._ The thought of it sent a thrill through him - sitting on Skald's throne, the chieftains of the five clans bending their necks before him. He realized he was grinning.\n\nThey spilt into a huge chamber, iron sconces holding unlit torches hammered into the damp walls. Uthas lit a few, sending shadow and light flickering about the room.\n\nA shape was slumped in the middle of the room, crumpled and curled. The skeleton of a wyrm, not that large compared to the ones that had dwelt in Murias, but big enough, tattered scraps of skin hanging off strips of pale bone.\n\nIts head was gone.\n\n'This is a clean cut,' Salach said, kneeling beside the skeleton and examining the point on the spine where the head had been shorn. 'Not a bite wound, but a blade.'\n\n_So people had been down here, found a way in. And encountered a wyrm._\n\n'This way,' Salach said, leading them to the left of the room, towards a mound of piled rubble, draped with thick web. Towards the tomb where Uthas had watched Nemain place the casket containing the necklace and book.\n\n'This is where the casket was kept,' Uthas said as he held his torch higher.\n\nHere and there the splintered frame of a doorway was visible, rock and boulder collapsed from the wall above to fill the entrance. Uthas exchanged a look with Salach, feeling a knot of worry growing in his belly.\n\n_How did this happen? A dead wyrm, the entrance to the tomb collapsed._\n\nThere was a gap in the rubble, high but too small for a giant to wriggle through, and Uthas could not imagine Rhin attempting to squeeze through, so he put his torch down and began to lift rocks. Salach soon joined him.\n\nUthas lost himself in the rhythm of lifting. He kept glancing at Rhin, the torchlight making her face shift, rippling between shadow and light.\n\n_She is changed since Uthandun. Humbled by Calidus. Shamed by him, in front of us all. That does not sit well upon a woman as proud as Rhin._ During their journey south from Uthandun, through the Darkwood and into Ardan, Uthas had seen flashes of that change: not as calm, more prone to bursts of rage and melancholy.\n\n_She feels more dangerous now, not less so. What has Calidus done?_\n\n'That should do,' Rhin said, breaking into his thoughts. He looked and saw a hole amidst the rubble, large enough for him to stoop through. Salach lifted his torch, shrugged his axe from his back and passed through the doorway, Uthas and Rhin close behind.\n\nThey were standing in a circular chamber, smaller by far than the one they'd come from. At the far end of the chamber was a stone tomb, the lid lying cracked and broken upon the floor. Rows of giant axes and war-hammers edged the room, all thick with dust and web.\n\n'These are still sharp,' Salach commented, running his thumb along the edge of one of the axe-blades.\n\nThey approached the tomb, treading over the flat stone lid, which was broken into slabs. Uthas held the torch higher and peered into the open tomb.\n\nInside was the skeleton of a giant, its hands clasped upon its chest, at its feet the broken shards of wyrm shells. Uthas glanced around the room, remembering the skeleton in the chamber without. Then he looked back into the tomb, eyes searching ever more frantically. Salach leaned in, ripped out the skeleton's chest cavity, ran his hand around the base of the tomb.\n\n'It is not here,' Uthas growled, feeling his dreams of Drassil crumbing like sand within his cupped hands.\n\nHe stared at Rhin and she stared back at him, suspicion growing in her eyes.\n\n'Evnis,' they both said together.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban blinked as the trapdoor opened above him. Enkara went first, holding her hands up high, and iron glittered in the torchlight above her. He rode Shield up the slope, Storm loping beside him, and squinted as he entered a room that felt as bright as the sun after spending a ten-night in that huge, endless tunnel.\n\nBlurred figures were standing in a semi-circle before him and he reined in. As his vision started to clear he saw they were Jehar. They drew their swords, dropped to one knee before him, bowing their heads and crying out, 'The Seren Disglair.'\n\n'Please, rise,' Corban said as he slid from Shield's back.\n\nThere were ten of them, all older, between forty and fifty summers like Enkara.\n\n_I thought this kind of behaviour was all over. I 've accepted who I am, but Seren Disglair or Bright Star or whatever they call me, it doesn't mean people need to get down on their knees in front of me._\n\n'On your feet,' Corban said, more firmly, walking to the closest one and gently lifting him. They stood and sheathed their swords, looking at him with awe-struck eyes.\n\n'Well met; I am honoured to meet you,' Corban said. 'I have been told much about you, and value your faithfulness in guarding Drassil for this day.' He had spoken a long time to Enkara about this, quizzing her during their journey through the tunnel of what to expect upon his arrival.\n\nHe greeted them all by name, again learned from Enkara; he thought it the least he could do, not able to imagine the dedication it had taken to spend sixteen years preparing Drassil for these times, then watch most of their comrades leave, knowing that they had to stay and guard an empty fortress.\n\n'And you must be Hamil,' he said to the last one, a serious-looking man with iron grey at his temples and a hooked nose. The man dipped his head.\n\n'Hamil, we have ridden far and there are many of us. Would you and your kin please help get them settled?'\n\n'Of course, Bright Star,' Hamil said.\n\n'Corban - please, my name is Corban.'\n\n'Of course. One question.'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'Where is Tukul?'\n\nFor a moment Corban did not know what to say. He missed Tukul, every day. For a man whom he had not known all that long, Tukul had had an immense impact upon him.\n\nThen Hamil looked over Corban's shoulder and saw Gar. He stared a moment, then smiled, the expression transforming his face.\n\n'Gar, is that you?' Hamil said.\n\nGar looked at him, blankly at first, then he smiled in return, though to Corban it looked wan. Nevertheless he slipped from his horse and embraced Hamil, who hugged him tightly and patted his back.\n\n'Oh, how you have grown,' Hamil exclaimed.\n\n'Aye. Seventeen years,' Gar shrugged.\n\n'Where is your father?' Hamil asked him.\n\nGar's smile vanished, that stricken, hollow look returning to his eyes.\n\n'He fell,' Gar said.\n\n'What? No.' Hamil gasped. He took a long look at Gar and hugged him again. 'This world will not be the same without him.'\n\n'No, it won't,' Gar whispered.\n\nMeical was waiting patiently on the slope behind. 'There are many weary people down here,' he said.\n\n'Of course, of course,' Hamil said, and then they were all moving, Hamil taking Shield's reins from him and allowing Corban to move deeper into the hall. People began to file out of the tunnel, an exodus squinting and blinking in the light. Buddai bounded over to Storm and they ran off together. Now that Corban's eyes had adjusted he took a moment to look around, and saw a huge chamber, bigger even than the hall in Murias where the cauldron had been kept.\n\nIt was roughly circular in design, the flagstoned floor that Corban was standing upon sunk deep into the ground, broad pillars of light slanting down into the chamber through vellum-covered windows. Wide stone steps led up to great doors of oak and iron. The steps would have stretched the length of the keep at Dun Carreg, so wide that they looked more like the tiered seats of a theatre or a gallery. But all of that was not what took Corban's breath away. High above, branches as thick as tree trunks in the Darkwood wound their way through the chamber, many of them breaking through the roof, or, as Corban looked closer, perhaps the roof was built around them, as there seemed to be some kind of design at work. A gentle breeze set branches and leaves rustling, as if a hidden host were whispering in the shadows up above them. He turned a half-circle, trying to take it all in, then froze, his jaw opening. At first Corban did not understand what he was seeing so he walked closer. Then he understood. At the centre of the chamber was a huge trunk, wider than Dun Kellen's keep, rising up and up, disappearing into the shadows of the high roof. The chamber he was standing in was built around the trunk, an outer ring of stone around one of timber, sap and bark.\n\nSomething was built into it, at its base, where the stone floor met the trunk.\n\nCorban ran a hand along the bark. It was hard as iron, though not as cold. In fact, there was a sense of warmth, a tingle in Corban's fingertips. He walked slowly along the trunk, marvelling at it, then reached the construct he had seen.\n\nIt was a throne, partly wood, hewn into the trunk, and part stone, the arms carved in the shape of the great wyrms Corban had seen below Dun Carreg and in the cauldron's chamber in Murias. Sitting upon it, slumped within it, was the cadaver of a giant. Stretched grey skin, here and there patches of ashen bone, a tattered strip of leather or cloth. And in its chest, through its chest, piercing the chair behind it and on, deep into the trunk, was a spear. Sap had leaked and congealed about the wounded trunk. Corban ran a hand along the spear shaft, which was thick and smooth, darker veins twisting through it, a spike of black iron at its butt. When his fingers reached the metal he snatched them away as if burned. For a moment he'd thought he heard voices, a hissing chorus inside his head.\n\n'It is Skald's spear,' a voice rumbled behind him.\n\nBalur One-Eye.\n\n'With this blow our high king was slain, the Giant Wars were begun, and the Sundering sealed.' Melancholy dripped from his voice.\n\n'Who did it? Who killed Skald?'\n\n'I did,' Balur said.\n\nCorban looked up at him and saw tears running down Balur's craggy face.\n\nA thousand questions rushed to the tip of his tongue but his voice faltered. The grief on Balur's face was too much to disturb.\n\n_The questions will wait._\n\nThey stood in silence a while, the warband emptying from the tunnel beneath Drassil like ants marching from a nest.\n\nEthlinn appeared at his other shoulder.\n\n'Come, Bright Star, let Balur show us Drassil, first and greatest of the giant strongholds.'\n\n'You have not seen it before, then?'\n\n'No. I was born in Benoth, and like you I have only heard of it in tales.'\n\n'Come then,' Balur grunted.\n\nCorban walked the streets and courtyards of Drassil in a state of ever-growing wonder. The stronghold was built around a tree, although a tree the size of which Corban would have claimed was an impossibility. The main trunk was thicker and taller than any construct Corban had ever seen, more like a mountain rising into the sky than a thing of bark and timber. Its upper branches seemed so high that they touched the clouds. Branches sprouted from it, stone towers and walls spiralling and twisting about them as if set by some child-god's unbounded imagination. Here and there the ground was scarred and ruptured by roots rising out of the ground like the ancient knotted knuckles of some colossal sleeping giant.\n\nHamil appeared from a side street and hurried over to Corban.\n\n'We have worked hard to prepare Drassil for your arrival,' Hamil said. He wore the dark chainmail of the Jehar, and black linen beneath it, but he seemed less severe than most of the Jehar Corban had met.\n\n'I am grateful for your commitment,' Corban said. That seemed to make Hamil incredibly happy and he gently took over as their guide, pointing out where vine had been sheared from walls, where stonework had been repaired, explained how they had made maps of the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath the stronghold and out beneath Forn. They passed a handful of cairns.\n\n'Those are new,' Balur observed.\n\n'Aye. They are raised over our Jehar kin who died here. Sixteen years we were here as the Hundred. Some died of sickness, others met Forn's predators. Daria is there, Gar's mother.'\n\nCorban looked at the cairns, stone slabs dotted with moss and pale flowers. He had never thought of Gar having kin elsewhere; the man had been such an integral part of his life, it felt strange to think of him having a life elsewhere.\n\n'Over there is the courtyard of forges,' Hamil said. 'You giants were very organized - nothing scattered, everything in its place.'\n\nBalur just grunted.\n\n'We have only used one forge while we have been here, but they are all prepared for use.'\n\n'Thank you,' Corban said. 'We will need them all.'\n\n'This way,' Balur said, changing their course.\n\n'Ah.' Hamil smiled, but said no more.\n\nBalur led them to a wide set of arched doors. He stood there a moment, hand on the iron handle, head bowed, and then tugged the door open. It was dusty inside, light streaming in on cobwebs thick as rope. Balur entered first, the others following.\n\nIt was a weapons chamber, as large as Dun Carreg's feast-hall, lined with racked weapons - axes, war-hammers, spears, longswords, daggers, along the back wall coats of chainmail and leather armour, shoulder plates, cuirasses, arm-bracers.\n\nBalur smiled.\n\nThey tarried in there a while, Balur walking down each wall, trailing fingers against axe-hafts and hammer-heads as if he were greeting old friends. He stopped and pulled a spear from a rack and threw it to Ethlinn, who caught it with one hand and spun it, cobweb flying from its iron-spiked butt. Corban paused before a dagger, its blade wider and probably a little longer than his own sword. He ran his thumb across its edge and drew blood.\n\n'May I have this?' Corban asked Balur.\n\n'Of course,' Balur said.\n\nCorban drew it from the iron rack, found a leather scabbard for it.\n\n_For Farrell, when he needs to chop heads from the Kadoshim._\n\nThey left the chamber with some regret and entered a courtyard that was lined with stone buildings, hundreds of them, looking more like a row of stables than anything else, though taller and wider.\n\n'The bear pens,' Balur said.\n\nThey were a hive of activity and appeared to be being put to good use. Corban saw some of the Jehar who had remained behind organizing the stabling of horses, removing tack, rubbing mounts down and providing water and food.\n\nOne line of the pens was built against a high wall, green with thick vines and hanging purple flowers. Hamil led them through the courtyard to a set of steps built into the wall and they climbed them. Meical came out of a stable, saw them and followed after.\n\nThe view at the top was not what Corban expected.\n\nThe branches of Drassil's great tree stretched out over the wall to cast dappled shadows over a deep meadow that ringed the fortress, a wide open space - _or killing ground_.\n\n'That is not natural,' Corban observed, pointing to the open meadow.\n\n'It is not,' Hamil said with pride. 'It was Tukul's undertaking, and took us many years to clear the trees and undergrowth so far back from the wall. On the south side of the fortress we have tilled fields of wheat, maize, rye. The harvest was good.'\n\n'It is an amazing feat,' Meical said.\n\n'So it is,' said Corban, 'and it will be most useful to us if Nathair and Calidus come against us here.'\n\n'They will,' Meical said.\n\n'You are sure?' Corban looked at the Ben-Elim.\n\n'Yes.'\n\nCorban took a deep breath. 'I have been so focused on just getting here that I have given little thought to what we will do now that we've arrived. We must talk of what comes next.'\n\n'We should,' Meical and Balur said together, and Hamil nodded his agreement.\n\n'But for now let us settle, find our places here, rest. Soon we will make our plans.'\n\nCorban woke feeling unsettled, a pale grey light seeping into his chamber. It was the first night he'd spent in a bed since they'd left Dun Taras with the warband of Domhain, and yet he'd slept poorly.\n\n_A year ago. And my back aches more now, after one night upon a mattress stuffed with goose feather and horsehair than it did sleeping rough on the floor._\n\nBut his broken night's sleep was not just down to the mattress. He had dreamed again of the Otherworld. It had been similar to the last time, where he had been walking in a green valley, a lake in front of him, waters still and pure, and behind him tall cliffs that reared as high as the bloated, blood-red clouds.\n\nThat had struck him as odd. His memory of the Otherworld was of shades of grey, land, rivers and sky, but this place was lustrous in its colour. He'd wandered, the beauty of the place seeping into his very being, filling him with a sense of calm tranquillity. And then he had seen Meical, flying high above with great beats of his white wings. Somehow he had known it was Meical, although he was too high to distinguish any features, and he had remembered Meical's words to him, about Asroth hunting him, about the Kadoshim flying abroad in the Otherworld. _Promise me if you find yourself there again, that you will hide, do not move. Asroth 's Kadoshim fly high, and they will see you before you see them._\n\nSo he had found shelter beneath a red-leaved maple, sat and watched Meical as he had alighted on the cliff high above him. He thought he glimpsed other white-winged figures greeting him, but then they all disappeared into a dark hole in the cliff face. And then . . .\n\n_Then I woke up._\n\nHe dressed quickly, strapping on his sword-belt and pinning his wolven cloak about him. Something struck him as wrong. He looked about and realized that Storm was not with him, remembered now looking for her when he'd awoken during the night, missing her presence. Perhaps that had contributed to his restlessness.\n\n_Probably off exploring, sniffing every corner of this place._ Still, it was unusual, and he'd rather have her at his side. He opened his door to find Gar standing there with a fist raised to knock.\n\n'Sword dance,' Gar said by way of explanation, then turned and strode away. Corban followed him, the slap of his boots ringing in the empty corridor.\n\nThe weapons court of Drassil was enormous, like everything else in this fabled fortress, most of it hard-packed earth and worn grass, to one side an area flagstoned. Weapons bins stood full of practice blades, and even though the Jehar didn't use anything other than their curved swords, there were stacks of shields and spears, lined in racks, a row of straw targets at the far end of the field.\n\n_It is not so different from the Rowan Field at Dun Carreg._\n\nDawn mist clung to the ground, the air was chill and heavy with moisture, the sky above feeling as if it was pressing down upon them, clouds bloated and heavy with rain. As Corban hurried along behind Gar he saw Coralen, standing with Enkara and Kulla, Enkara showing them a combined rotation of shoulder and wrist. Corban recognized it as a technique that Gar had taught him a while ago, a way of getting a final snap into the strike of a two-handed blow.\n\nThe three women looked up as he approached them.\n\n'Coralen, have you seen Storm?'\n\n'Not since yesterday,' she said.\n\nCorban frowned. 'Me neither. The last time I saw her was just after we came out of the tunnel. She ran off with Buddai.'\n\nCoralen raised an eyebrow at that.\n\n'I think I might know where they are, or at least what they're doing.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'I think Storm's in season.'\n\n'What!'\n\nCorban blinked, for a moment not understanding. Then Coralen's words sank in.\n\n_In season? Are Storm and Buddai making pups?_ In hindsight it was so obvious that he almost slapped his forehead. Her change in behaviour, her playfulness with Buddai. _Of course wolven have seasons, but I have noticed nothing. Too busy, too preoccupied to notice those around me. And she 's run off with Buddai._ He thought about that a moment and then smiled. _They would make fine pups. Or cubs?_\n\n'Corban,' Gar called to him and Corban hurried away, Gar throwing him a curved practice sword.\n\nCorban loved the sword dance; it was like an old friend or a favourite place, such as the oathstone glade in the Baglun, somewhere that he would go where he felt safe and comfortable. Once he began, raising his sword high, two-handed into stooping falcon, everything else melted away. He did not even remember moving from one form to the next, flowing between them like liquid. The dance ended with a lunge and shout combined, a straight thrust that began in his ankles and ended with his blade through an imaginary opponent's heart.\n\nWith the shout still ringing in the air Corban blinked and looked around, sweat dripping from his nose. The weapons court was full with what must have been every single person that had travelled to Drassil with him. Corban saw Balur and the rest of the Benothi, villagers of Narvon, Wulf and the survivors of Gramm's hold, Javed and the oarsmen from the Vin Thalun ships, all mingled. Something white moved, and for a moment he thought it was Storm, but then he realized it was much smaller - the terrier, with Haelan standing beside it.\n\nAll of them were staring at him, and as he looked back he realized what a unique and varied warband they made, so many strengths and specialities amongst them.\n\n_We are a force to be reckoned with._\n\n'This is the weapons court,' he heard himself cry out. 'Come, join us, for here we will forge the warband that will slay the Black Sun and his followers, and set the Banished Lands free.'\n\n_Where did that come from?_\n\nA silence settled about him, and then a huge roar, starting, Corban suspected, with Farrell and Dath, but growing into a bellow louder than a hundred draigs. As it died out and people began stepping into the court Corban marched over to Balur, Gar pacing behind him.\n\n_He won 't let me get out of sparring, even if I am the Bright Star._\n\n'Balur, I would ask something of you,' Corban said.\n\n'Aye,' Balur said, eyebrows knitting together above the scarred socket of his missing eye. 'Ask then.'\n\n'Would you spar with us? You and your kin?'\n\n'Is that wise?' Gar said quietly.\n\n'A good question,' Balur rumbled.\n\n'At Gramm's hold we fought giants. At Murias I saw Benothi fighting alongside the Kadoshim. My guess is that we will be fighting giants again.'\n\nIf possible Balur's eyebrows knitted tighter and protruded further.\n\n'So you want me to teach you how to kill giants?'\n\n'Yes,' Corban shrugged. 'I wouldn't take it personally - we already practise how to kill each other, us men.' He glanced at the Jehar warriors about the field, many of them women, finally at Coralen, who was performing a particularly vicious move that ended up with Farrell on his back and Coralen's weapon thrust under his jaw. 'And women.'\n\nBalur glowered down at him, then his brows unknitted.\n\n'I was wondering if you would ask me. The answer is yes, it is wisdom. We will spar with you, though perhaps first some practice weapons should be fashioned for us - axes and war-hammers in the dimensions that we use.'\n\n'Well, it's not like there's a shortage of wood,' Corban grinned.\n\nBalur's face twisted and it took a moment for Corban to realize the giant was smiling at him.\n\nHamil approached Gar and whispered something in his ear. Gar frowned and Hamil pointed over at the Jehar, who were gathered together in a loose circle, seemingly every last one of them.\n\n'What is it?' Corban asked.\n\n'The Jehar are choosing a new leader,' Gar said, the frown still on his face.\n\n'Tukul is gone.' Hamil shrugged. 'We follow you, Bright Star, but there should be a lord amongst us. That is the way it has always been.'\n\n'Aye. So why are you frowning?' Corban asked Gar.\n\n'Akar has put himself forward,' Hamil answered when Gar didn't.\n\nGar and Hamil walked away, towards the gathering of Jehar. After a moment's hesitation Corban followed.\n\nThe Jehar were standing in a ring, over three hundred and fifty of them, with Akar standing at their centre.\n\n'How does this work?' Corban whispered to Hamil.\n\n'A warrior is nominated, or nominates themself. If more than one is put forward, then the court of swords decides.'\n\nCorban looked at Akar, standing stern and resolute in the circle's centre.\n\n'I have waited the allotted time,' Akar called out, looking up at the sun. 'None have presented themselves, no one has nominated another.'\n\n_He is a great warrior; I 've seen him fight, and he has proved himself many times over during our journey here. And he has led a company, proved he has the skills to lead. But he was fooled by Nathair, fought for him._ Corban frowned, troubled at the thought of Akar taking up Tukul's mantle. _But who could take Tukul 's place? No one._\n\n_Except Gar._\n\n_Do I just think that because of how close I am to Gar?_ Instantly he knew the answer to that was _no._ He loved Gar like a father and brother combined, but above and beyond that he knew that Gar was a great man, deserving of leadership.\n\n'Something troubles you?' Hamil asked him quietly.\n\n'I think Gar should be your lord,' Corban said.\n\nA smile twitched Hamil's mouth. 'I nominate Garisan ben Tukul,' he cried out in a loud voice.\n\nAkar's head snapped around to him, as did the head of every other Jehar in the crowd. Except Gar. Corban saw his friend bow his head. He looked up at Hamil. 'I am not worthy,' he said.\n\n'He is not worthy,' Akar said. 'I have spent my life in Telassar, I am already a named captain of the kin, have led warriors in battle. I am trained and proven.'\n\n'Another has been nominated,' Hamil said. 'The time for words is passed, only the court of swords can decide this.'\n\n'If he accepts the nomination,' Akar said, eyes falling upon Gar.\n\nGar looked at Hamil, about the crowd, then finally at Corban.\n\n'You _are_ worthy,' Corban said to him. 'No one more so.'\n\nHe sighed, then nodded. 'I accept,' he said, and strode into the ring to stand before Akar.\n\nHamil stepped out of the crowd.\n\n'Akar ben Yeshua, would you stand against Garisan ben Tukul in the court of swords?'\n\n'I would,' Akar said. 'He has been tainted by the world, softened and weakened. He is not fit to lead the Jehar.'\n\nThat made Corban angry. He fought to keep his mouth clamped shut.\n\n'Garisan ben Tukul, would you stand against Akar ben Yeshua in the court of swords?'\n\nGar stood before Akar, head bowed, then raised his eyes and met Akar's gaze.\n\n'I would,' Gar said. 'Because my father did not want Akar to lead the Jehar.'\n\nAkar scowled at that. 'A dead man's words should stay with him, in the grave.'\n\nGar drew his sword.\n\n_What!_\n\n_What are they doing?_\n\n'Why is Gar doing that?' Corban gasped, grabbing Hamil's arm.\n\n'Because his father would have wished him to.'\n\nAkar drew his blade, threw his scabbard to one side.\n\n'No. Why are they using sharp iron?'\n\n'This is to the death,' Hamil said.\n\nGar and Akar faced one another.\n\nThere was a pause, the calm in the storm before violence is unleashed, death's wings close.\n\nCorban walked into the ring.\n\n'No,' he said.\n\nEveryone looked at him.\n\n'You will _not_ fight to the death,' he shouted. 'Asroth and his Black Sun outnumber us, threaten to overwhelm us. I need every warrior that can hold a blade - and two Jehar with a lifetime of skill and learning . . .' He shook his head. 'It is a waste. I will not lose either of you over this decision.'\n\nBoth men stared at him.\n\n'What would you have us do, then?' Gar asked. 'This must be decided.'\n\n'Let it be to first blood,' Corban said. 'If anything, that will reveal the greater skill.'\n\nBoth men stared at him, then nodded.\n\n'Then begin,' Corban said and stepped back into the crowd.\n\nThe two men raised their swords and without any other sign attacked.\n\nTheir blades rang, a flurry of high blows from both men, neither giving ground. Then Gar stepped in close and kicked Akar in the knee. Akar staggered back, for a fleeting moment his cold face twisted with shock and anger. Gar followed him, striking in a long, relentless combination to head, neck, groin, gut, heart, head - Corban recognized each and every blow, one flowing into the next, fluid as a song.\n\nAkar defended, something the Jehar did rarely, giving ground with a shuffling backstep, favouring, protecting his injured leg.\n\nCorban felt a presence behind him, glanced back quickly to see crowds forming, seemingly every man woman and child in the weapons court. The sound of iron on iron had drawn them.\n\nGar did not let up, Akar's defence beginning to appear frayed, disjointed as he tried desperately to parry every blow.\n\nAbruptly Gar stopped, took a step back and walked slowly around Akar.\n\n'You are right to say that the world has touched me, moulded me,' Gar said, eyes never leaving Akar as he paced around the warrior, who was taking advantage of the respite, setting his feet, controlling his breathing.\n\n'But you are wrong to say it has made me weaker.' Gar stepped forward, sword moving again, iron clashing, ringing loud. This time Akar did not give way and the two of them stood, chopping and lunging, blocking, stabbing, parrying, neither one able to break through the other's defence, each parry turned into a strike that was in turn blocked. Blow by blow they inched closer, until they were standing with swords locked above them, grating sparks, legs planted, leaning into their blades as if they were an extension of their bodies, both staring at each other, sweat dripping. Then Gar's head jerked forward, headbutting Akar on the nose. Blood spurted and Akar stumbled back a step, Gar's foot hooking behind Akar's ankle and then Akar was on his back, blood running down his chin, Gar's sword hovering over him.\n\nCorban let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. _Coralen 's used that move on me a hundred times, and I eventually learned to do it back to her. Looks as if Gar's been watching us spar._\n\n'You're bleeding,' Gar said. 'Do you yield?\n\n_It was an unorthodox move, something these Jehar would probably consider beneath them. But as Coralen always says_ - _dead is dead._\n\nAkar stared up at Gar, emotions warring across his face. Then something in him softened and he nodded.\n\n'First blood is yours,' Akar said. 'I yield.'\n\n'The world has touched me, but it has made me stronger, not weaker,' Gar breathed. 'Now, give me your hand, brother.'\n\nGar held his arm out.\n\nA moment's hesitation and then Akar took it. A roar of approval rose up from about the ring, even the giants bellowing their approval, Corban's voice lost in the din of it. Then Akar dropped to one knee before Gar and kissed his hand. Other Jehar dropped to the ground, Gar looking about at them with a slightly embarrassed expression upon his face.\n\n_Now he knows how I feel._\n\nHamil stood and strode to Gar, gripped Gar's wrist and raised his arm in the air.\n\n'Garisan ben Tukul,' Hamil cried in a great voice, 'Lord of the Jehar.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin swayed in his saddle, holding onto his mount with his knees as his hands were bound behind his back. Twenty paces to his right the dark waters of a wide river flowed, and to the north he glimpsed snow-capped peaks, a wind swirling down from them that set the long grass whispering and brought with it the faint chill of ice. He shivered. He was riding as part of a great column, close to six thousand warriors before and behind him, the combined warbands of Veradis' eagle-guard and Lykos' Vin Thalun. An honour guard of Ripa surrounded Krelis, Ektor, Fidele, Peritus and Alben. Ahead of him Maquin caught a glimpse of the two giants - prisoners again, like him - their long strides keeping pace with the mounted eagle-guard watching them.\n\nMore than a moon had passed since that day in the field beyond Ripa's walls, when the world had been turned on its end. Two warbands massed against Lykos, outnumbering him two to one - killing the Vin Thalun lord had felt inevitable.\n\n_And then Veradis had arrived._\n\nAs they'd stood in the rowan-meet, listened to Veradis' proposals on behalf of Nathair, any hopes he'd had of Lykos finding justice had been burned away. And then the final straw. After all that Lykos had done to Fidele, to see him in her presence, taunting her . . .\n\n_I thought my self-control was total. It seems that I was wrong._\n\nHooves sounded behind him and Lykos came into view on his left side. Maquin stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.\n\n'And how are you today?' Lykos said.\n\nHe kept his lips shut tight.\n\n'Managing to sit straight?'\n\nMaquin's back and ribs were bruised purple. Each breath brought with it an ebb and flow of pain.\n\n_One cracked rib, at least._\n\nAnd when he had emptied his bladder that morning there had been streaks of blood in his urine. He gritted his teeth, buried the pain. He would not give Lykos the satisfaction of knowing how bad it was.\n\n_I 've endured worse before, and I will no doubt endure worse if Lykos has anything to do with it._\n\n'This is only a taste,' Lykos hissed, 'of what is to come. I am watched, you see. That bitch has told tales of me to Veradis, and even though he is not in his right mind at the moment, he watches me. So, no bruises that cannot be covered by your clothing, no broken bones, no pain that keeps you from your saddle . . . Yet.'\n\nLykos rode in silence beside him a while, almost as if they were old friends.\n\n'What I am really looking forward to is when I can have both you and Fidele chained in the same room. I _will_ have her back, you see, but before we can go back to how things were, she will have to be punished. Taught the consequences of her actions.'\n\nMaquin's fists clenched, an involuntary ripple that bypassed his conscious mind - he tried to stop it when he realized his body was betraying him, willed his fingers to loosen, but it was too late - Lykos had seen. He laughed, low and intimate.\n\n'You have a weakness now, Old Wolf. Fidele has charmed you, that is clear. After I have punished her and she has learned her lesson, when I have her in my bed again, perhaps I'll let you watch.'\n\n_I should have got her out of that tent, run with her, then and there, instead of chasing Lykos like some blood-crazed berserker._\n\nThey crested a ridge in the road and ahead of them, upon a hill beside a lake was Jerolin, its black walls and tower gleaming in the weak sunlight.\n\n'Ah, good,' Lykos said with a vicious grin. 'Tonight you will have a room rather than a tent. Thick stone walls to drown your screams.'\n\n_Not if I can help it._\n\nMaquin had not screamed once during Lykos' visits. Grunted, winced, ground his teeth, bitten his tongue, but he had held his voice, regardless of Lykos' efforts. A voice in his head told him he was being stupid - _cry out and Lykos will stop, for fear of drawing attention._ But he had not, because he knew the Vin Thalun were listening, waiting to hear their lord break the Old Wolf. With each night's visit Lykos grew a little more desperate, a little more frantic, and Maquin knew what his warriors would be whispering around their campfires.\n\nLykos leaned close. 'Soon, I will break you,' he whispered.\n\n_Never._\n\nMaquin stared at the fighting arena on the plains before Jerolin, remembering the last time he had been there. Facing Orgull in the circle, the rebellion, chaos, fighting Deinon and Lykos, fleeing with Fidele . . .\n\nHis horse was led to the stables, where hands dragged him from his saddle and led him unceremoniously into a cluster of buildings close to the keep. He was thrust into a stone room, the door clanging shut behind him.\n\nThe shaft of sunlight through a high window edged its way across the room as highsun came and went, sliding towards sunset. Maquin heard muted voices and the slap of booted feet beyond his door, saw the orange flicker of torchlight through the gaps as twilight seeped slowly into the world, then full dark.\n\nNo one came to his room.\n\n_He will come._\n\nHe felt a flutter of fear at the thought of what was to come, but immediately smothered it.\n\n_I may as well rest until it starts._\n\nHe lay down upon the bench and closed his eyes.\n\nKeys rattling in the door woke him and Lykos walked in, silhouetted by torchlight that a warrior held behind the Vin Thalun lord.\n\n'Good evening,' Lykos said amicably, two, three shieldmen entering the room before the door was shut.\n\n_He fears me still, even bound and beaten bloody._ He felt a moment's pleasure at that thought.\n\nLykos drew a small knife from his belt, sharp and wicked looking.\n\n'Help him stand,' Lykos said.\n\nTwo of his shieldmen grabbed Maquin, the third standing back, holding his torch high to illuminate the room.\n\nLykos cut away Maquin's cloak and woollen layers, exposing a web of bruising and lacerations. The Vin Thalun smiled.\n\n'You _will_ kneel to me. You _will_ beg for my mercy. You _will_ pledge yourself to me for all eternity,' Lykos said grimly. 'You remember Orgull, do you not? Your hulking friend. Do you remember seeing him broken, beaten, wishing only for death. _I_ did that to him.'\n\n_You did not break his spirit._\n\n'This night, you will beg; this night.' Then, slowly, carefully, Lykos stabbed Maquin with the knife - an incision about a thumbnail deep, starting at his armpit, slowly working its way down to Maquin's hip.\n\nMaquin grunted, ground his teeth, squeezed his fists together until it felt as if the bones in his hands would crack. He knew better than to writhe or try to pull away, that would only lead to greater injury, worse pain. Instead he endured, stared fiercely into Lykos' eyes - his look a promise of death should he get free.\n\nLykos stepped back, a slight scowl creasing his forehead.\n\n'I will flay you if I have to,' he growled. 'Or perhaps an eye . . .' He raised the knife, rested it on Maquin's cheek a hair's breadth below his eyeball.\n\nMaquin was staring at Lykos, but in his mind he was back on the bridge of swords, the Ben-Elim standing before him with his sword of flame.\n\n_You must make your choice_ , the Ben-Elim had said to him.\n\n_I did. I came back for three people: two to kill, one to love. If I 'd known it would lead me here . . ._\n\nFidele's face hovered in his mind. For a brief moment he felt her lips brush his, the tickle of her breath, the faint smell of roses.\n\n_I 'd make the same choice. She is worth a lifetime of pain._\n\nWith a snarl Lykos pulled the knife away, left a thin cut in Maquin's cheek. Sweat stung it. Maquin blinked, saw Lykos turn away and snatch the torch from his shieldman.\n\n'Perhaps a tickle of flame will coax something more from you,' Lykos hissed. He held the torch between them, inched it closer to Maquin's belly. He smelt the hairs on his body burning first, heat washing him in waves, felt the almost irresistible urge to move, to step away.\n\n_I cannot move, I am held fast. And to move, to scream, is to fail._\n\nSweat beaded his brow, dripped from his nose.\n\nLykos smiled and moved the flame nearer, just a fraction, but the pain surged and Maquin felt his skin start to blister. A groan escaped his mouth, a wave of pain behind it desperate to find release in screaming abandon.\n\nHe clamped his mouth shut.\n\n'I should have tried this sooner,' Lykos said, leaning close to Maquin, studying him. Willing him to break.\n\n'Scream, damn you,' Lykos snarled, the frustration growing in the Vin Thalun with every passing heartbeat. He twisted a fist into Maquin's matted hair.\n\n_Not in this lifetime you bastard._\n\nA voice spoke behind Lykos. 'My lord, burns like that may kill him; at the very least he will not be able to ride on the morrow--'\n\n'You'll be surprised what this man can do,' Lykos said. He took a step closer, the flame no longer a ripple of pain now, just a constant, searing agony. Maquin smelt his own flesh burning. He opened his eyes, saw Lykos' face hovering in front of him, that hateful face, smiling, eyes bitter and full of malice.\n\nMaquin lunged forwards, for a moment taking his guards by surprise, too focused on holding him up to hold him back. His mouth opened, a huge roar escaping his throat, echoing around the room and then he snapped his mouth shut, teeth closing on Lykos' face - his nose, part of one cheek.\n\nHe bit down hard, ground his teeth into flesh, felt blood burst into his mouth, hot and salty. He shook his head like a wolven with a hare in its jaws.\n\nLykos screamed, high and piercing.\n\n_He was a lot quicker to scream than I_.\n\nThen Maquin felt a rush of heat sear his face, flame shooting up between him and Lykos. Maquin's lunge had squashed the torch to them both, ignited Lykos' linen shirt.\n\n_Good - let's see how you like it!_\n\nLykos screamed again. He was sobbing and trying to pull away.\n\nSomething crashed into the back of Maquin's skull and his legs turned to liquid. He sagged to his knees, blood slick upon his lips and chin, saw Lykos fall backwards, dropping the torch and slapping desperately at his burning shirt.\n\nThere was another blow across the back of Maquin's head that knocked him to the floor. He rolled over, watching Lykos screeching in pain, saw him ripping off his shirt, standing there, chest heaving, blood sluicing his face from where Maquin had bitten him.\n\nLykos was blinking and gasping heavily. He gingerly touched the blisters on his chest, felt his torn face and looked at Maquin with undisguised hatred. He drew his sword.\n\n'You . . . are more trouble than you are . . . worth,' he breathed and raised his sword.\n\nFootsteps suddenly echoed in the corridor, the sound of ironshod sandals on stone.\n\nLykos paused, looked at the door, Maquin following his gaze to see figures there. Men with eagles on their chests.\n\n'Put your weapons down,' a voice ordered, harsh and commanding, but vaguely familiar. Then: 'He is coming with me.'\n\n'No. He is my prisoner - mine,' Lykos said, spitting a gob of blood on the floor.\n\n'Not any more. He will stand before Nathair. After that, perhaps he will be yours again, but until then I am taking him into my custody.'\n\nThe voices started to blur in Maquin's mind, he was unable to make much sense of them.\n\n'You keep taking prisoners from me; this is becoming a very bad habit,' Lykos growled. 'And I thought we were friends.'\n\nThere was no answer, only the pressure upon Maquin's back disappearing and firm hands gripping him. He groaned as he was hoisted from the ground, heard someone swear, then darkness closed in about him.\n\nHe woke to pain.\n\nIt was still dark, torchlight flickering somewhere. His torso was agony. He groaned.\n\nSomeone was bending over him, spreading something cool across his belly. He opened his eyes to see an old face staring back at him, framed with silver hair and beard.\n\n'Alben,' he whispered.\n\n'Hush,' Alben said, smiling, though it didn't clear the worry in his eyes. 'Drink this.' He lifted Maquin's head and gave him sips of something bitter from a cup.\n\n'Will he live?' a voice said behind Alben.\n\nAlben sighed. 'I don't know. He is strong, and the desire to live burns fiercely in him. But this is not a day's healing. A moon, maybe.'\n\n'We must leave on the morrow. The mountain paths are closing.'\n\n'He cannot ride.' There was no possibility of discussion in Alben's tone.\n\n'A wain, then?'\n\n'Perhaps,' Alben shrugged.\n\nMaquin lifted his head. 'Veradis?' he whispered.\n\nVeradis stepped into his vision, his strong face with short hair and close-cropped beard lined with cares, making him seem older than his age.\n\n'I am sorry, for your father.'\n\nMaquin had seen the cairn as they rode out from Ripa, seen Veradis, Krelis and Ektor standing before it with heads bowed.\n\nGrief, raw and powerful swept Veradis' face.\n\n'It was your fault,' Veradis said.\n\nMaquin blinked at him, confused.\n\n'You attacked Lykos in the rowan-meet; pandemonium broke out, shieldmen bursting in, shouting, shoving. My father was knocked, somehow. He fell upon my . . .'\n\n'It was an accident,' Alben said. 'A tragic, terrible accident.'\n\n'I didn't know,' Maquin said. _I am a fool. Should have kept my knife in its sheath._ 'I am sorry,' he mumbled. 'So sorry.'\n\nVeradis ground a palm into his eyes. 'The past is done,' he said. 'I am sorry, too. I was not aware that Lykos was doing . . . this.' He gestured at Maquin's body.\n\n'I am surprised at the friends you keep,' Maquin whispered. The pain was more bearable now, still there, a constant throbbing, but dulled.\n\n'As am I,' Alben echoed.\n\n'Lykos is not my friend,' Veradis snapped, then took a long, frayed breath. 'But he is my King's ally. I cannot understand the things that have happened here, what he is accused of doing.'\n\n'These are not accusations - they are facts,' Maquin said, looking at the tapestry of scars and fresh wounds upon his body. 'He is evil, and must be stopped.'\n\n'That is not for me to decide. Nathair will hear all - I promise you that. He will decide. Until then, I will keep him from you, and Alben is the best healer I know.' He shrugged. 'I would do more if I could.'\n\n'It is enough,' Maquin said.\n\nVeradis turned to go, but hovered by the door.\n\n'Part of me hates you,' he said quietly. 'Because of my da. I cannot stop it.'\n\nMaquin said nothing.\n\n'And you should know, I cannot save you, even if I had a mind to. You broke our sacred law when you drew your blade. I should have executed you on the spot, and the only reason you are alive is because someone of influence has begged me to postpone your execution.'\n\n_Fidele._\n\n'But you drew a blade in a rowan-meet; there will be no pardon, no way out from that. Once you stand before Nathair the inevitable will be decided. You will die.' He stayed a moment more, then shook his head and left. Maquin heard his voice in the corridor, and then another figure slipped in, a shadow wrapped in a cloak.\n\nA muffled sob came, and then Fidele was kissing him, stroking his face, tears dropping onto him, mingling with his own tears.\n\n'Elyon, but it is good to see you,' Maquin breathed.\n\n'What has he done to you?' Fidele snarled, then swore in a very unqueenly way. He lifted a hand to her cheek.\n\n'I tried to get you,' she whispered, 'I took Alben and a few score warriors to take you back from Lykos.'\n\n'The eagle-guard stopped us, thought it would lead to war,' Alben said.\n\n'They were probably right,' Maquin said. 'Veradis?'\n\n'No, one of his captains. Veradis was in mourning, had passed over command for a time.'\n\nThe grey of dawn was creeping through windows now, and Maquin heard the sound of iron-shod feet, guards changing shifts.\n\n'You cannot linger, my lady,' Alben said. 'If anyone sees you . . .'\n\n'I am a prisoner too,' Fidele said with a twist of her lips. 'To be judged by my son on the charge of adultery.'\n\n'What!' Maquin tried to sit up but a fresh wave of pain convinced him to stop.\n\n'Because of the farce with Lykos,' she said.\n\n'So reports of you kissing an ex-pit-fighter will not help your cause,' Alben said.\n\n'True enough,' Fidele said, a smile twisting her lips.\n\n'Go,' Maquin said. 'This has been enough.'\n\nShe brushed her lips against his one more time, cupped his cheek with her hand, then she was slipping away.\n\n'I will be back soon,' Alben said. 'Veradis has placed guards on your door. You are safe, from Lykos at least.' He frowned with worry.\n\n'I will not die,' Maquin growled. _Three things to live for._\n\nAlben smiled, leaned down and whispered in Maquin's ear, then left too.\n\nMaquin lay there, watching dawn claim the day, feeling his eyes grow heavy with sleep and the potion Alben had given him. As sleep took him he mused over the words that Alben had whispered in his ear.\n\n_Keep the faith._\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen sat at a long table in the great hall of Drassil. Corban had called a council of war, and many had come. Meical and Gar were sitting with Corban, and beside them Balur and Ethlinn, in chairs built for giants. There was Brina and Coralen, Hamil of the Jehar and Wulf from Gramm's hold, Teca the huntswoman to represent the people of Narvon, Javed and Atilius from the oarsmen, and also the child prince, Haelan, a shieldman standing behind him.\n\n_And there 's me, Cywen the apprentice healer. Sister to, apparently, one of the most important people in the world. Madness._\n\nAnd lurking off to one side, not at the table, but close, were Farrell, Dath and Kulla. Farrell had his new sword at his hip, a giant's dagger gifted to him by Corban.\n\nGar shifted beside Corban and whispered in his ear.\n\n_Gar has changed, since his duel with Akar._ Six nights had passed since the duel, and Gar had lost the stoop to his shoulders, the bitter twist to his mouth. He was a fine leader and already the Jehar were saying how like his da he was. _How proud Tukul would have been._ While it was obvious that Gar still mourned the loss of his da, he seemed to have accepted it as well.\n\n_The first step on a long road. And I know what that feels like._\n\nCorban stood up and the room fell into silence.\n\n'We are finally here, in fabled Drassil,' Corban said. 'It feels as if we have completed a quest, just getting here. We've encountered our enemy, fought battles, lost friends and family.' He looked at Cywen and Gar as he said that. 'But now we stop running, and we make a stand. The God-War is happening, now,' Corban continued. 'We have been fighting it. But now that we are here we must decide not only how to fight this war, but how to win it.' He turned to Meical, who sat straight and tall, jet-black hair, silver scars down his face.\n\n'Meical, you are the author behind all of this, the force that has bound us together and guided us here. Now, more than ever, your wisdom would be welcome. How do we win this war?'\n\n_Is this really my baby brother? The same brother I kicked Rafe in the stones for, because he 'd bloodied Corban's lip? When did he get so eloquent?_\n\n'The answer is simple,' Meical said. 'From the outset Calidus' plan has been to use the cauldron to breach the wall between this world of flesh and the Otherworld, the world of spirit, where the Kadoshim and Ben-Elim dwell.'\n\n'Hasn't he already done that?' Dath said. 'Those Kadoshim in Murias seemed pretty real to me.'\n\n'No,' Meical shook his head. 'With the Seven Treasures a doorway can be opened that allows Asroth and the Kadoshim to cross over from the Otherworld in their own forms, and in doing so their forms would become flesh. What happened in Murias was akin to a possession, where some of the Kadoshim's spirits passed into host bodies. This was because there were only two of the Treasures present, and so only a crack in the doorway could be created. What happened in Murias, and those Kadoshim, is but a shadow of what Calidus hopes to achieve: Asroth and the host of the Kadoshim made flesh. And for Calidus to do that, he needs the Seven Treasures. He has the cauldron, and will be searching for the rest. But two of the Treasures are here.' He looked to Balur, who had the starstone axe slung across his back.\n\n'The starstone axe and the spear of Skald are here.'\n\n'What of the other Treasures?' Brina asked.\n\n'Two more are in the west,' Meical said with a shrug. 'The cup and necklace.' He glanced at Balur and Ethlinn.\n\n'That is true,' Ethlinn said. 'Uthas lost the cup during the retreat from Dun Taras, and the necklace was kept in one of the southern fortresses.' She looked at Balur. 'We do not know which one.'\n\n'And the others?' Corban asked.\n\n'The torc and the knife,' Balur rumbled. 'The torc was last recorded as being in the hands of the Jotun; the knife, with the Kurgan. But that was over a thousand years ago - what has happened to them . . .' He shrugged.\n\n'Whatever happened to them, Calidus will be bent on finding them. He will find them. And the knowledge that we are here will drive him. The thought of us in Drassil with two of the Treasures will consume him. He will think the longer we are here the stronger we will become - and he's right. Besides, there are other Treasures here apart from those forged out of the starstone. He will come as soon as he can,' Meical assured them.\n\n'How do you know that?' Brina asked him.\n\n'Because I know Calidus.' He sighed and shook his head. 'I have made mistakes, in the past been outwitted by him. That is because he knows me, too. He sought out the people I recruited for this war and has removed many of them from the board.'\n\n_They were people, not pieces in a game!_\n\n'We were one kin, once, before he fell,' Meical continued. 'I know him, and in this I am certain. He will come for us - and as quickly as he can mobilize his forces.'\n\nCorban nodded thoughtfully, sharing a glance with Brina.\n\n'And that leads us on to the next question,' Brina said. 'How will he come here? It is not exactly a pleasant stroll through sun-warmed glades.'\n\nMeical frowned. 'We have all experienced the difficulties of marching through Forn, and we had the advantage of the tunnel. He will want to bring a lot of men - he will not want to risk defeat. How he will find Drassil, and then bring with him enough warriors to ensure a victory in his reckoning, I do not know.'\n\n'Maybe we'll have longer than you suspect, then,' Atilius said.\n\n'Maybe,' Meical replied. 'But one thing I have learned to my detriment; never underestimate him. He is cunning, and he is ruthless.'\n\n'I have a question,' a small voice piped up - Haelan, the childking of Isiltir. 'What of our allies? Do we have any?'\n\n'Now that is a very good question,' Brina said. 'This warband is low in numbers, though made of exceptional warriors, granted. We total around eight hundred men and women who can wield a blade. Calidus and Nathair, I have no doubt, can rally many thousands more than that. If they do make it this far, we will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.'\n\n'There is Edana,' Corban said. 'Though we have no idea how she fares - alive, dead, a warband behind her?'\n\n'Craf will know,' Brina said.\n\n_If we ever see the old crow again._\n\n'Is there anyone else?' Haelan asked, looking to Meical.\n\n'There are friends to our cause in various places, but none who could lead a warband, except, perhaps, the Sirak.'\n\n'Who are they?' Cywen asked.\n\n'The horse lords of Arcona,' Meical said.\n\n'If we sent messengers, would they help us?' Brina asked.\n\nMeical shrugged. 'Perhaps. Politics is an unstable affair. Those who are sympathetic to our cause would certainly try - but who is to say whether they are in power, or even still alive with Calidus' scheming?'\n\n'And there is one other ally who has not been mentioned,' Corban said.\n\n'Who is that?' Brina asked him.\n\n'The Ben-Elim,' Corban said. 'Meical, you read from the prophecy, a line about them gathering beneath the great tree.' Corban gestured to the trunk that the chamber they were sitting in was built around. 'That is why you counselled me to come here, because of the prophecy.'\n\n'Aye,' Meical said. 'Because of the prophecy.'\n\n'So, where are they? When will they arrive?'\n\nMeical gave Corban a sad look. 'I do not know, Corban. The prophecy is not clear.'\n\n'But you are Ben-Elim, one of them. More than that - their captain. Surely you must know.'\n\n'I do not. Neither do they. All that we know is that the prophecy says it will happen. So we must believe, we must trust. And remember, we accomplish much by our very presence here.' He glanced behind him at the spear embedded in the tree. 'With the spear and axe in our possession we know that Calidus cannot fulfil his aim, cannot breach the wall between this world and the Otherworld, cannot bring Asroth's destruction upon the Banished Lands.'\n\n'That's all well and good,' Brina snapped, 'but what do we all do now?'\n\n'We ready ourselves for the battle to come,' Meical said. 'A battle that will spill a river of blood, that will see us live or die, win or lose. And it is coming, of that there is no doubt.'\n\nA silence fell upon them all.\n\n'So we prepare,' Corban said. 'We train, we build, we organize, we use our surroundings. And we scout.' He looked at Coralen. 'We don't want to be surprised by a warband appearing at our walls.'\n\n'We can use the tunnels,' Coralen said. 'There are six of them - Hamil has mapped them, and they run for leagues upon leagues, many with smaller exits along the way. If we man them, have fresh horses at each waypoint, I would be very surprised if any warband could come within fifty leagues of Drassil without us spotting them . . .'\n\n'A fine idea.' Corban smiled at her. 'I would suggest that you and Dath take responsibility for that - recruit who you need for the task.'\n\n'There is much to do,' Brina said, brusque and businesslike. 'We will need healers and a hospice ready for the wounded.' She looked at Cywen.\n\n_Ah, that is why I am here. Wonderful._\n\n'We have a great store of supplies, linen for bandages, herbs and medicines; we cultivated a large garden for just such an end,' Hamil said.\n\nBrina nodded grimly.\n\nThe meeting descended into a discussion of all that would be needed - the logistics of feeding near a thousand people day in, day out, of clothing, of firing forges, of making weapons, training, the maintenance and strengthening of Drassil's fortifications. Cywen found herself drifting in and out of various threads of conversation as the day wore on. She felt a weight on her foot and looked down to see Buddai had flopped upon her.\n\nHe had reappeared some days ago, following Storm. Corban had told Cywen of Coralen's suspicion, and to Cywen's eyes both Storm and Buddai had looked sheepishly guilty.\n\nThe chamber was darkening, someone was lighting torches, others quietly carried tables and benches into the chamber and lit fire-pits. Corban stood to signal the end of the meeting. Farrell and Dath accosted him before he could leave.\n\n'Yes?' he said, raising an eyebrow.\n\n'Everyone seems to have a job to do,' Dath said.\n\n'Aye. Most have more than one job, including you two,' Corban said.\n\n'True enough,' Dath said, 'but we'd like one more.' A grin slowly spread across his face.\n\nCorban frowned. 'What are you two up to?'\n\n'I'm not one for saying things, or making speeches,' Farrell said, shuffling his feet. 'But, you see, we want to be your shieldmen.'\n\n'Corban blinked at that, looking from Farrell to Dath and back again.\n\n'We _are_ shield-brothers, sword-kin, all of us,' Corban said. 'And you two most of all, my oldest friends.' He paused a moment, swallowed. 'We've stood shoulder to shoulder, the three of us, saved each other's lives many times over. But there is no need for shieldmen amongst us. I am no king. And besides, I have Storm . . .'\n\n'Ah, that's where we disagree, you see,' Dath said. 'And we're not the only ones.'\n\nThe doors burst open and people poured in, a whole host filling the chamber, hundreds of them.\n\n_All of them_ , Cywen saw, _every last person that followed Corban to Drassil. What have Dath and Farrell been up to?_\n\nIt did not take long before they were all spread in a half-circle about Corban, tiered by standing on the wide steps about the chamber's edge.\n\nCorban just stared at them all, looking completely bewildered. Brina stepped before Corban and ushered Laith forward. She walked slowly, solemnly, holding a pillow before her, something gleaming upon it.\n\n'This is for you,' Brina said, 'made by your people for you, as a token of our esteem.'\n\nIt was a spiral of metal, dark like iron, but threaded with streaks of silver, two snarling wolven heads at each end.\n\n'My people?' Corban whispered. He reached out and tentatively touched it.\n\n'It is an arm-ring,' Laith said, voice like gravel. 'We thought to make you a king's torc, but Dath said you wear the torc your da made you, and that you would not change it. So, we made you a king's arm-ring instead . . .'\n\nBrina plucked it from the pillow and slid it up over Corban's hand, until it rested about his bicep. Laith gripped it and gently squeezed, the metal moulding itself to the contours of Corban's arm.\n\n'I don't know what to say,' Corban muttered, gazing down at the arm-ring, then out at the crowd about him. 'I have done nothing to deserve this.'\n\n'You freed us,' Javed said, taking a step forward. 'We were slaves, we would have died with collars around our necks.'\n\n'You came to our aid,' said Wulf, stepping beside Javed and Atilius. 'Our home was burning, our warriors broken; we'd have died without your help.'\n\n'You saved us,' Balur rumbled. 'We would have perished in Murias without you.'\n\n'And we'd have been slaughtered by the Kadoshim had you not intervened,' Teca from Narvon said.\n\nCywen stepped forward. 'You crossed realms and mountains to find me in Murias. In the middle of battle you came for me. I owe you my life.'\n\n'You give me hope that all is not lost,' Brina said looking at him with a sharp smile.\n\nGar stepped close to Corban. 'You give me the strength to go on,' he said. 'You give my life meaning.'\n\n'You will save all the Banished Lands,' Coralen said as she stepped forward. 'And I will follow you to the ends of the earth, or die trying.'\n\nCorban was looking at all of them, tears streaming down his cheeks.\n\nMeical stepped forward.\n\n'Corban, give me your sword.'\n\nCorban slid it from its sheath and shakily offered it to Meical hilt-first.\n\nCywen smiled through her tears.\n\n_My da made that sword. Fashioned the wolven head as pommel, worked the iron, bound the leather. He and Mam would be so proud of Corban._\n\nMeical took it and held it high over his head.\n\n' _Oscailte_ ,' he yelled and stabbed the sword down into the flagstoned floor. There was a concussive crack and a flash of incandescent sparks, the sword sinking half its blade into the ground. Meical released it and stepped back, leaving the sword quivering, a fading hum emanating from it.\n\n'Corban ben Thannon,' Meical cried out in a voice that swept the room like the north wind, 'our Bright Star, the Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Lightbringer, Rock in the Swirling Sea, will you bind yourself to these people, be their sword and shield, the defender of their flesh, their blood, their honour, unto death?'\n\nCywen stared at Corban. Saw him look around the room and straighten with pride and resolve.\n\n'I will,' Corban said. His voice trembled. He gripped the blade of his sword, his blood dripping down the cold iron, finding the fuller to flow into.\n\n'People of the Bright Star,' Meical cried out, 'will you bind yourselves to Corban ben Thannon, become his sword and shield, the defender of his flesh, his blood, his honour, unto your dying breath?'\n\n'We will,' they cried, Cywen raising her voice with the rest of them, the sound of their voices like a clap of thunder, making the flames in the fire-pits flicker.\n\nGar nodded to Dath and Farrell, and one by one they stepped forward and gripped Corban's blade, their blood mingling with his, then stood either side of him. Gar stepped forward and did the same, all the while his eyes locked to Corban's. He stood aside, let the next person step forward. Cywen followed, smiling at her brother as if it was Midsummer's Day, both joyful and solemn, then Coralen, Brina, all of Corban's captains. Then the crowd behind began to file forward, each and every one of them performing the same ritual, Corban sharing more than words with each one of them.\n\nEventually it was done and then food and drink was filling the tables, boar and deer turning on spits above fire-pits. Cywen finally fell into her bed exhausted, but also filled with a sense of something she'd almost forgotten.\n\n_Peace. I feel at peace, for the first time since . . ._ She did not know, giving the last shreds of her sleep-slipping attention to that thought.\n\n_Since Ronan was slain._\n\nOne last thought flitted through her mind before sleep took her.\n\n_We are going to win._\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas wiped sweat from his brow. It was freezing cold, there was snow beneath his boots, and the ground was as hard as iron beneath that, and yet still he was sweating.\n\n_This road-making is hard work, there 's no denying._\n\nBehind him close to three thousand warriors laboured from sunrise to sunset, felling trees, levelling ground, laying a timber road wide enough for a dozen horsemen to ride abreast. At the rear of the column King Jael rode with his honour guard of twenty Jehar warriors, and Sumur. Ulfilas had ridden with them for the first moon, but he found those black, dead eyes of the Jehar harder to bear than the backbreaking life of a road-layer, so he chose to fill his days with hard work and his nights with exhausted, dreamless sleep.\n\nUp ahead Ulfilas heard shouting, saw men stop what they were doing.\n\n_Better go and see what all the fuss is about._\n\nRunning feet caught him up as Dag joined him.\n\n'What's that all about?' Ulfilas asked the huntsman.\n\n'We'll find out soon enough.'\n\nUlfilas felt a flush of pride as he looked at the road they were building and thought of both the leagues behind them and the conditions under which they'd accomplished this mammoth task.\n\nIt was Tempest Moon, the heart of winter, and they had carved their way over sixty leagues into Forn forest, following the trail left by the warband that had abandoned Gramm's hold, following the markers left by Dag's scouts. Felling trees, stripping them of branches, cutting them down to manageable strips, clearing thorn and underbrush, and all while hungry predators watched, prowled and occasionally ate someone stupid or unwary enough to wander too far alone.\n\nThen Ulfilas and Dag were at the head of the column, staring up at what had caused the commotion.\n\n'Ah, well, at least we know what happened to your scouts, now,' Ulfilas said to Dag. Four corpses dangled upside down from branches directly in front of the route of the new road. Dag gave him a sidelong glance.\n\n'They were good men,' Dag muttered. 'Huntsmen through and through; two of them I trained from before they were old enough to set foot in the Rowan Field.'\n\n'Oh. My apologies,' Ulfilas said. He'd noticed himself making comments like that lately; insensitive, sometimes cruel. _That is not the man I used to be. What is happening to me?_\n\n'Cut them down before word of this spreads,' he muttered to Dag. _Warriors won 't like this. It's the kind of thing that festers into fear around a campfire at night._\n\n'Too late to stop that,' Dag said, looking back at a group of men supposedly working on tree-felling who were standing staring at the corpses.\n\nBehind them Ulfilas saw a handful of riders approaching.\n\n_Jael._\n\n'What is all this?' Jael called as he rode up. There were a dozen riders about him - Fram his first-sword and other warriors, the best in Isiltir. About them strode the black-clothed Jehar, Sumur close to Jael.\n\n_Jael has his own shieldmen, a bulwark between him and the Jehar._ He remembered Sumur defeating Fram without breaking a sweat, and cutting down old Belo in Mikil's feast-hall. _I do not think they would protect him for long, though._\n\nThe Jehar spread to either side of the new road's foundations, some looking up at the dangling bodies as men climbed trees to cut them down.\n\n'What is all this?' Jael repeated, gesturing at the corpses.\n\n'My scouts,' Dag said.\n\n'Ah. Confirmation that we are on the right trail, at least.'\n\n_We 've hardly needed that so far, the path left by the warband fleeing Gramm's hold has been wide and deep. I could have tracked them, and I'm no woodsman._\n\nDag didn't answer.\n\n'How long have they been up there?' Jael asked.\n\n_Now that is a sensible question. In other words, how far behind this Bright Star and his rabble are we?_\n\nDag bent to look at the first corpse that was cut down, hitting the ground with a brittle crack.\n\n'They are frozen,' Dag observed, 'and have been feasted upon by . . .' He waved at the forest, trees encroaching upon them. 'So it is hard to tell with any measure of certainty, but -' he poked and prodded strips of skin, sniffed - 'dead four moons, is my guess.'\n\nJael nodded. 'We are making good time,' he murmured, looking pleased.\n\n_We have a head start: a trail to follow._\n\nAfter Belo had been cut down at Nathair's council they had spent the day discussing how exactly Drassil was to be discovered.\n\nThey had settled upon the plan put forward by Calidus, to build roads into Forn, each with a different starting point. Gundul's road would begin at Brikan, the old Hunen tower that the Gadrai had occupied as their foothold in Forn. Lothar's road would follow the course they had originally travelled to Haldis, the Hunen burial ground, and then work deeper into Forn from there. The theory Calidus had used to justify this course was that the giants had dwelt in Drassil before their Sundering into many clans, and so Haldis and Brikan most likely were linked to Drassil in some way, possibly even by giant-built roads.\n\nJael's road had been given a different starting point - the logical move to follow the trail of this Corban, 'the Black Sun', Nathair had called him, and his warband into Forn. Ulfilas suspected that they had the easiest course, and from Jael's expression so did he. It was not just personal satisfaction and pride in a job well done. Nathair had given an incentive that the leader of the first group that found Drassil would rule the three kingdoms of Isiltir, Carnutan and Helveth, the other two kings reduced to vassals. Looking at his Jehar warriors, no one had doubted that he could enforce the threat. _Or promise, to the winner._\n\n_So the race is on._\n\n'Onwards then,' Jael shouted, turning his mount to ride back down the road, the Jehar closing about him and his shieldmen like a black-gloved fist.\n\nUlfilas turned and stared ahead, into the gloom of the forest. A snowflake drifted down and landed on his nose, filtering through the leafless canopy high above. Trees filled his vision. _And out there somewhere is this Black Sun, with giants and the warriors that cut through my men like a scythe through wheat._\n\n_And we are rushing to find them._\n\n'What do you mean, their trail has disappeared?' Jael snapped.\n\n'There are no more signs of their passage, my King,' Dag said. 'No boot prints, hoof prints, excrement, dung, scuffed rocks, trampled or broken foliage. Nothing. It is as if they disappeared.'\n\n'Pfah,' Jael said, clearly unable to formulate anything more complex.\n\n_It would appear that our good run has come to an end._\n\n'You must search harder,' Jael said, waving a hand vaguely at the forest.\n\n'My King, I have over two hundred scouts scouring the surrounding area. If there is any sign to be found, they will find it.'\n\n'Has there been any word from Ildaer and his ilk? The Jotun dwelt in this region once, they must surely know something.'\n\n'No word from him, or any of the Jotun, my King,' Dag said.\n\n_We have heard nothing from them since Gramm 's hold. What happened to Ildaer there? Does he even still live?_\n\nJael threw a cup of wine at the fire; the flames flared.\n\n'What use in dealing with giants if they prove to be useless,' he snarled.\n\nThey were sitting in Jael's tent, a huge, sumptuous reminder of Jael's new title, furs and tapestries draped extensively about, a richly decorated table and chairs in the centre laden with cups studded with jewels and gold platters heaped with untouched food. The pale dawn light leaked in through the entrance, the forest feeling dense and oppressive all about them.\n\n'We'll keep moving forwards,' Jael said. 'Straight as an arrow from their last known position. And keep searching; take more men from the warband if you need them - just find that trail.'\n\n_And if it is not there to be found?_\n\nYes, my King,' Dag said, bowed and left the tent. Ulfilas followed him, not wishing to endure the wrath of a petulant King. He knew Jael better than any man alive. There was a crash from inside as the tent flap swung shut behind him.\n\nUlfilas stood with one hand upon his sword hilt, looking down at the corpses strewn about the glade. Four men. They'd been part of a scouting team that had not returned to camp last night. Each man was lacerated with scars, two had had their throats ripped out, the flesh gaping in ragged strips. One of them lay amongst his own intestines.\n\n'What did this?' Ulfilas asked, his eyes sweeping the trees about the glade, shadows moving with the creak of branches.\n\n'Wolven pack?' Dag shrugged, though he was frowning. He crouched to examine one of the dead more closely.\n\n'It happened early,' Dag muttered, prodding the pile of intestines that were frozen solid. 'Soon after dusk. And look.' He pulled the dead man's head back, the throat cut in three clear lines. Ulfilas frowned.\n\n_Those cuts look too neat for claws._\n\nDag looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Looks iron-made, not animal,' he said.\n\n'Whether iron, tooth or claw, Jael's not going to be too happy about this,' Ulfilas muttered.\n\n'I know it,' Dag agreed.\n\nIt had been a ten-night since the trail of their enemy had disappeared, the road-building slowing to a snail's pace as more and more men were taken from work crews to scout the surrounding areas. Three nights ago men had started disappearing. These were the first that had been found. Yesterday, upon hearing of men going missing, Jael had half-throttled the messenger bringing him the tidings.\n\n_He doesn 't seem best equipped for dealing with the pressures of ruling._\n\nA sound in the undergrowth had Ulfilas and the six men with him drawing their blades, Dag reaching for his bow and quiver. Figures appeared from amongst the gloom between the trees, Dag's scouts.\n\n'Something for you to see,' the first one said, breathing hard, then turned and disappeared.\n\n'More dead men?' Ulfilas muttered.\n\nThey followed the man through thick undergrowth, finally climbing a slope and stopping beside the scout.\n\nDag looked around and then smiled.\n\n'What?' Ulfilas asked.\n\n'Look,' Dag said, pointing.\n\nThey were standing on a level area, an embankment either side. Dag nudged something with his toe, a rock. Ulfilas looked closer, saw that it had been shaped, an edge rounded.\n\n'It is dressed stone,' Dag said.\n\nUlfilas looked further, saw more pieces of stone glinting with frost, sparkling a ragged line into the distance.\n\n'A road,' he whispered.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin stood on the banks of the lake, watching Meg walk away from him. He'd just said goodbye to her. With a sigh he turned and stared out at the disjointed walls and towers of Dun Crin, islands of stone amidst the dark waters. Beyond them he could see the small fleet of boats that was carrying away so many of those who had started to make a new life for themselves around this lake.\n\n_Better to run and live than to stay and die. And better for the warriors that stay. They 'll fight better knowing their bairns and kin are safe._\n\nHe heard footsteps and turned to see Edana walking towards him, Halion, Baird and Vonn around her.\n\n_Vonn. Edana 's shieldman. Do I trust him so close to her?_\n\n'Walk with me,' she said to Camlin, and they strolled in silence away from the lakeshore, following a path that wound through tall grass and thick clumps of reeds, shadowing one of the many streams that fed into the lake.\n\n'You are sure of this?' Edana said when the lake had passed from view.\n\n'It is the only way. Even if I'm successful, it's still no guarantee, but it'll give us a chance. It'll slow them down, and bring them here from one direction. Much better knowing where they'll be arriving.'\n\nEdana stopped and turned to face him, took hold of his hands and stared into his eyes.\n\n'I will never forget this, or the countless other times you have risked your life for me. If there is ever a time when this is over, and I am Queen of Ardan . . .' She hesitated. 'I will not forget this.'\n\nCamlin shrugged. 'I'm not doing it for a reward.'\n\n'Why are you doing it, Camlin? A brigand from the Darkwood. You do not even come from Ardan, but from Narvon.'\n\nHe looked at Halion, Baird, then Vonn, finally back to her.\n\n'Because,' he said with a shrug, 'you make me want to be a better man. Not just you, but all of you. Marrock, Dath, Corban. Never really had friends before, just fellow thieves. Doesn't make for a good night's sleep.'\n\nEdana nodded to herself, as if hearing an answer to a long-asked question.\n\n'Come back to us,' she said.\n\n'I'll try my very hardest t'do that.' He grinned.\n\n'And I want you to take someone with you. Halion, Baird or Vonn, my most trusted shieldmen.'\n\n'No need,' Camlin said with a shake of his head.\n\n'I think there is. And even if there isn't - it will help me sleep better at night. Please, do it for me.'\n\nCamlin looked between them, at Baird's slightly wild grin - _a good man to have beside me in a fight, though I think he may pick a few that don 't need fighting_ - Vonn, as serious as a man standing at his mother's cairn, and Halion, calm, steadfast - _keeps his head in a scrap, a strategic man, better with a blade than most, maybe better 'n Braith, even_.\n\n'I'll take Vonn, then,' he said.\n\n_Don 't like the thought of him left around Edana without me here to keep an eye on him._\n\nEdana smiled and Vonn nodded, more to himself than Camlin.\n\n'Right, I'd better be off, 'fore I lose any more light.'\n\nEdana stretched onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. She turned to walk away and they heard footsteps rustling through the grass and reeds. Everybody's hand went to a sword hilt, including Edana's.\n\nA shadow appeared amongst the reeds, a figure stepping out before them.\n\n'Ah, I thought you were here somewhere,' Lorcan said. His eyes sought out Edana. 'I need to talk to you about something.'\n\nCamlin lay on his belly upon a slight hillock, reeds a slatted screen before him, looking down upon a willow beside a twisting stream. Three arrows were stuck into the soft earth before him, his bow lying beside him. A figure sat leaning against the willow tree, wrapped tight in a cloak, head drooped forward onto his chest, seemingly asleep. Yellow hair stuck out from a pulled-up hood. A spear leaned against the willow tree, just a handspan from the figure's fingers.\n\n'How long do we have to lie here?' Vonn whispered. 'I can't feel my feet.'\n\nCamlin ignored him.\n\n_He does have a point._\n\nIt was cold, the sky above was overcast with clouds heavy and silver sheened, threatening snow, the marshlands were a grey, damp, mist-filled world of mosquitoes and croaking frogs. They'd been lying on this hillock since sunrise, and the sun was now melting into the western horizon.\n\n'Camlin, I--'\n\n'Shut up,' Camlin breathed, pointing.\n\nSomething was moving, off to the left, a shiver amongst the long grass and reeds - a movement opposed to the wind. Steadily it kept creeping forwards, then stopped, within sight of the figure sitting against the tree. A hesitation, a hundred heartbeats, two hundred, then it was moving forwards again. Two men broke from cover, stooped low, moving swiftly and silently in a loop around the figure against the tree until they had the willow's trunk between them and the reclining warrior.\n\nStealthily they crept up, single file, the first drawing a knife from its sheath.\n\nCamlin pushed himself onto his knees, tugged an arrow from the ground in front of him, slowly lifted his bow.\n\nThe first man was right behind the sleeping figure, by the spear. He raised his knife.\n\nCamlin drew the arrow to his ear, held his breath, sighted, released. It struck the second man, piercing leather vest and linen shirt to sink deep into his back. At the same moment the first one buried his knife to the hilt in the sleeping man's chest.\n\nThere was an explosion of straw, the man with the knife tugging his blade free, looking at the shape against the tree, then at his collapsing companion, then straight up to the hillock where Camlin was drawing his second arrow.\n\nIt punched through the knife-wielding man's chest, hurling him onto his back. He thrashed in the grass a moment, movements weakening, then he was still.\n\nCamlin and Vonn climbed to their feet, Camlin groaning from the stiffness in his limbs, and they hurried down the hillock.\n\n'That's the third time this has worked,' Vonn said to him, shaking his head.\n\n'Aye,' Camlin agreed. They'd been hunting these scouts for four nights now, each time using the straw man to lure their enemy in and then kill them. So far it had been remarkably successful. Six men dead in three nights.\n\nCamlin checked the two dead but knew before he saw their faces that neither one was Braith.\n\n_Can live in hope, though._\n\nHe drew a knife, bent and cut his arrows free of the two dead men, checked them over for food and coin, then saw Vonn standing above him, frowning.\n\n'Old habit,' he said with a shrug as he dragged and tipped one corpse into the stream. 'Check our friend, eh?'\n\n'He's a straw man wrapped in a cloak,' Vonn said.\n\n'Aye. Check the cloak's not ruined - can't have a pile of straw leaking out of his belly, can we?'\n\n'He's fine,' Vonn said.\n\n'Good. Give me a hand with this one, then.'\n\nTogether they lifted the second dead man and carried him to the stream, slipping the corpse into the slow-moving water as quietly as they could. Camlin grabbed the spear and with the butt-end pushed the body down into a snare of reed. Then they checked the area for any evidence of their having been there, Camlin emptying one of the dead men's water skins over a pool of blood, diluting and dispersing it. Vonn picked up the straw man and slung him over his shoulder, then they were moving off into the reeds, shadowing the stream.\n\nCamlin froze suddenly, turned and looked back.\n\n'What?' Vonn hissed, hand going to his sword hilt.\n\nCamlin stood still as stone, head cocked to one side, eyes scanning the twilight and mist that curled languorously amongst the shadows. All he could hear was the gentle flow of the stream. Then a splash, almost nothing.\n\nMore long moments listening, then he shrugged and walked on.\n\n'Wish you wouldn't do that,' Vonn muttered.\n\nCamlin ignored him.\n\n'So what now?' Vonn asked him.\n\n'Do it again,' Camlin said. 'They'll be strung out in a loose line, but we'll move faster than them. We'll set up again in half a league or so, snare us some more scouts.' With each trap Camlin had edged his way back towards the lake and Dun Crin's ruins, imagining that Braith and his huntsmen would be inching their way ever so carefully inwards. So far he'd been right.\n\n'How many of them are there?'\n\n'Don't know,' Camlin shrugged. 'At least ten, probably closer to a score.'\n\n'What if they come in bigger groups?'\n\n'Doubt it. Braith always sent us out in twos - enough to watch each other's backs, not too many to make a racket or leave a trail.'\n\n'How do you know where to put the straw man?'\n\n'Don't know,' Camlin said. 'Just a feeling, mostly.'\n\n'Most of this is guesswork, isn't it?' Vonn said.\n\n'And a bit of luck.' Camlin grinned back at him.\n\nDawn came damp and grey. Camlin emptied his bladder, prodded Vonn awake and checked their straw man.\n\nJust before full dark he'd found a spot that felt right. A cluster of alders beside a stream, a gentle rise in the land screened by a snarl of dogwood and briar.\n\n'C'mon then,' Camlin grunted. He leaned the spear against an alder, adjusted the straw man so he appeared to be sleeping, then picked up his bow, slung his quiver over his shoulder and headed off towards the cover of the dogwood. He heard Vonn's footsteps padding behind him.\n\nThey settled behind the bushes, Camlin stabbing arrows into the spongy turf, and waited. Time was hard to measure, the clouds too thick and bloated for any sign of the sun. 'What do you think about that mad bird?' Vonn asked him as he strung his bow.\n\n'Craf?'\n\nIt had been a shock to all of them when Craf had fluttered into their meeting. Camlin had felt a rush of excitement, thinking that the bird's arrival must precede that of its companions - Corban, Dath and the others - but the bird had quickly disabused him of that notion. It had been good to hear news of them, though. That they were still alive, most of them, at least.\n\nThe other things it had squawked at them all - Camlin still did not know what to make of all that.\n\n_Going to Drassil. A fortress of faery tales, and talking about prophecies and bright stars and the Seven Treasures. I remember Gar saying things like that about Corban, as we fled across Cambren. But now he 's leading a warband several hundred strong, Benothi giants amongst them. Can that really be true?_\n\n'I don't know,' Camlin said to Vonn.\n\nHe lay flat in the grass, wriggling to find a gap in the bushes to peer through. Snow was falling now, soft and steady. It was getting darker, the snow adding a faint glow to everything.\n\n_Have to end this, soon. Too dark to hunt, and my bowstring 's going t'get wet._\n\n'It makes me think,' Vonn said quietly beside him. 'My da used to say strange things, about a God-War. Never came out and said it straight, of course, that's not his way. But he would allude to things, choices, sides, using your head, not your heart.' He tapped fingers to his temple and his chest as he did it.\n\n_He can see Evnis saying it to him now._\n\n'It's like he knew it was coming . . .'\n\n'Maybe he did,' Camlin muttered darkly. _Maybe he did. Maybe there 's a reason we're on opposite sides._\n\nA movement drew his eye, down by the stream. He squinted, seeing movement through the falling snow.\n\n'Best concentrating on staying alive through this,' Camlin whispered, pointing. 'Plenty of time later to think about God-Wars. The trick right now is to keep breathing.'\n\nHe pushed himself to one knee and reached for his bow.\n\nTwo men broke from a cluster of trees, moving stealthily, flitting from one clump of cover to the next. Sound was muted, the snow beginning to settle on anything that wasn't water.\n\nCamlin frowned. _They 're more cautious._\n\nHe reached for an arrow, nocked and drew, deciding not to wait for these men to reach the diversion.\n\n'Vonn, be ready to move quick,' he whispered, voice strained with the tension of holding his drawn bow. His arrow-tip tracked both men below him, only thirty or forty paces away now, settling upon the first, feeling his vision close in upon the man's chest.\n\n'I'd lower that bow, right slow if you want to keep breathing,' a voice hissed behind him.\n\n_It can 't be . . ._\n\nCamlin released his arrow, dimly registering a scream from down below as it found his target. Beside him Vonn spun around, scrambling to get his feet under him. Camlin heard a solid crunch, Vonn falling back, eyes rolling back into his head, blood matting his hair.\n\n'You don't want to be killing him,' Camlin said. 'He's Evnis' boy.' Slowly he laid his bow down in the grass.\n\n'I told you to lower your bow, not shoot one of my men,' the voice snarled.\n\n'Didn't think cooperating would change your mind about killing me.'\n\n'You're right there, Cam,' the voice behind him said. 'Now, turn around slow.'\n\nTwo men were standing looking at him. One with a spear levelled at Camlin's face, a young lad, fair-haired. Camlin recognized him, though he couldn't remember his name.\n\nBeside him stood Braith, naked sword in one hand, a smile on his face.\n\n'Thought you'd catch me with my own trick?' Braith said. 'I'm hurt.'\n\n'Hello, Braith,' Camlin said.\n\n#### CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE\n\n#### CORALEN\n\nCoralen bent low in the saddle, kicked her horse on and kept her eyes on her target, her spear held tightly and level with the ground. Frozen by winter's arrival it was as hard as rock, the horse's hooves pounding a staccato rhythm. At the last moment Coralen nudged a knee, twitched the rein, and her mount veered to the left, at the same time Coralen lunging with her spear, piercing the straw target approximately where a warrior's heart would be. She grinned fiercely as she reined in and cantered back to collect her spear. As her excitement faded she became aware of a pain in her shoulder and shrugged, trying to adjust the weight of her new chainmail shirt. It was rubbing on the bone between her shoulder and neck. She wasn't used to wearing one, but Gar had given it to her last night, told her that everyone was getting one.\n\n_We 'll all be wearing them when we face Nathair and his warband. You'll be grateful when it turns a blade and saves your life._ She'd frowned and he'd pointed a finger at her. _Wear it, practise in the weapons court in it, sleep in it. You 'll need to be used to it when real battle arrives._\n\nShe knew he was right, although right now it felt heavy, uncomfortable and restrictive.\n\n_And that 's why we're supposed to train in them now._\n\nShe saw Dath hovering, looked at him enquiringly and he hurried over. He was wearing a new chainmail shirt, too.\n\n'What is it?' she asked him.\n\n'You know what I was talking to you about?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'Do you really think it'd be a good idea?'\n\n'I do,' Coralen said, 'but it's not me you need to be talking to about it.'\n\n'I know. I just wasn't sure, and you're, you know, pretty fierce. If you like the idea, then maybe . . .'\n\n'Why don't you go and ask him?' Coralen said, spying Corban on the weapons court.\n\n'Would you come with me?'\n\n'Me? Why?'\n\n'Because he takes your advice seriously. And you put him in a good   mood.'\n\n'Ach, you fool,' Coralen said, aiming a boot at Dath, feeling both angry and happy that he'd said that.\n\n_Do I?_\n\n'Please?'\n\nCoralen sighed. 'Come on, then. Let's go and talk to him now.'\n\n'Now?' Dath blinked.\n\n'Aye. No time like the now if you want something done,' she said, and before Dath had a chance to object she was kicking her horse into a trot. She heard him running to keep up.\n\nThey passed rows of straw targets. Cywen and  the  giantling Laith were standing before some, Cywen throwing knife after knife from the belts strapped diagonally across her chest, each one hitting the target flawlessly. Laith had a similar belt of leather across her torso, knives as big as daggers sheathed in it. As Coralen watched, Laith threw one of them. It slammed into the straw  target  and hurled it to the ground.\n\n_I wouldn 't want to be on the receiving end of one of those._\n\nFurther along, Wulf and a few score men hefting single-bladed axes were similarly practising.\n\n_His hands have healed well_ , Coralen noted as Wulf's axe _thunked_ into the head of a straw man. She remembered Tukul and with a sigh determinedly banished those memories.\n\n_The future must fill my mind now, with what is to come._\n\nThere was a dense circle of people around the stone section of the weapons court, a fair number of giants dotted amongst them, all watching Balur and Corban. Coralen's eyes were drawn to Corban's arm-ring, the streaks of silver in it gleaming in the pale winter daylight.\n\nA moon had passed since that night in Drassil's feast-hall when they had sworn their oaths to Corban, and he to them. Things had felt different since then, there was a unity amongst their disparate groups that had not been there before, and the moon had passed in a flurry of activity: forges fired, weapons and armour made, clearing more land beyond Drassil's walls, hunting, scouting, grinding of grain, shoring of walls, and then training and preparation for the battles to come. They were beginning to feel like a real warband, not just people hurled together by the whim of war.\n\n'Never try and block a blow from a giant with strength alone,' Balur was saying in his rumbling deep bass of a voice. 'It will shatter your bones.'\n\n_I could 've reasoned that out myself,_ Coralen snorted. _Any weapons-master worth his pay teaches that you guide a weapon away, not meet its momentum head on. Unless the only other option is death._\n\nTo demonstrate the point, Balur hefted his freshly made wooden battle-axe. He swung it high and down at Corban's head in a whistling arc. Corban stepped to the right, swung his own practice blade and struck the axe haft a glancing blow, steering it to crunch into the frozen ground. As Balur was off-balance Corban slipped inside his guard and had his sword-tip at the giant's throat before Balur had managed to wrench his axe free of the ground.\n\nWarriors around the court cheered and murmured.\n\n'It would never be as simple as that,' Corban shouted. 'Balur held back - he could have hit harder and faster. But the key point is still the same; it's all about timing. Speed, balance, reactions. Whatever your choice of weapon, the same result can be achieved - sword, axe, spear, even a shield can be used to the same end.' He looked about the court and nodded. 'Come on, then,' he said, 'let's see you do it. And no broken bones, eh?'\n\nWarriors paired up with giants and filled the courtyard.\n\nCoralen took the opportunity and headed towards Corban. He heard the sound of hooves on stone and turned, smiling up at her as she slid from her saddle. Storm padded beside Corban and Coralen saw the swell of her belly. They'd guessed for a while now that she was in pup.\n\n_What are her cubs going to look like?_ Coralen couldn't help but feel excited about the prospect.\n\n'Dath's got an idea he wanted to talk to you about,' Coralen said.\n\n'What's that, then?' Corban asked.\n\n'Something I've been thinking about for a while,' Dath said. 'It might sound mad to you, or wrong, or--'\n\n'Just tell him,' Coralen said.\n\n'It's about archers,' Dath said. 'About using them in battle.'\n\nCorban frowned.\n\n'See, I knew he wouldn't like it,' Dath said to Coralen.\n\n'Just hear him out,' Coralen said to Corban, staring at him fiercely. She knew what it had cost Dath even to approach him about this.\n\nCorban looked a little abashed and nodded.\n\nDath hurriedly continued, 'I know that the bow is not considered a weapon of war, that it is a huntsman's tool. And that the old way talks of honour in combat, of one warrior testing his skill against another.'\n\n'Aye, that is how it has always been.'\n\n'Well, I think times are changing,' Dath said.\n\nCorban frowned again.\n\n'Look at them,' Dath said hurriedly, before Corban had a chance to say anything. He pointed at Wulf and his men practising their axe-throwing. More than just the warriors of Gramm's hold were there - Coralen saw Gar and a handful of other Jehar, as well as some of Javed's pit-fighters.\n\n'Have you tried throwing an axe and making its blade hit the target first?' Corban asked.\n\n'I have,' Dath said. 'It's not as easy as it looks.'\n\n'No, it is not,' Corban smiled. 'There is great skill in throwing an axe.'\n\n'Aye, there is,' Dath agreed. 'But tell me, is there more skill involved in a well-thrown axe or a well-cast spear than there is in a well-aimed arrow?'\n\n'No, I suppose not,' Corban murmured.\n\n'Wulf and his warriors - they use their axes in battle, sometimes a whole line of them, Wulf has told me. If there were enough of them it would be devastating against an enemy charge.'\n\n'Aye, it would. Apparently a similar thing brought down a bear at Gramm's hold,' Corban said.\n\n'Exactly!' Dath was becoming animated now. 'I often think of Camlin,' he continued. 'Remember how he organized our ambushes - always me and him shooting first, thinning the numbers, making our enemy scared, making them rush. Well, imagine ten archers doing the same, or a score, two score, three score. Chances are we're going to be heavily outnumbered in any battle we fight against this Black Sun - Brina said so herself - so why don't we do something to even the odds a little?'\n\nA silence settled between them, Corban looking thoughtfully at Wulf and his axe-throwers, Dath shuffling his feet.\n\nA sound drew all of their attention, a loud thud that Coralen felt through her boots.\n\nBalur had buried his practice axe in the ground again, this time against Haelan's shieldman, Tahir. As Balur tugged on his axe Tahir spun around the giant, slashing his practice blade at the back of the giant's leg, sending him toppling to one knee. Another spin and the edge of Tahir's sword was rested against Balur's neck.\n\n'Balur, I think you've just lost your head,' a giant shouted, laughing.\n\nBalur stood and scowled at the young warrior.\n\n'You've done that before,' Balur said.\n\n'Aye, that I have,' Tahir said. 'I served with the Gadrai of Isiltir. Giantkillers, we were - no offence intended - fighting the Hunen out of Haldis.'\n\n'None taken, little man,' Balur said. 'I _hate_ the Hunen.'\n\nThere was more laughter at that, both men and giants.\n\n'What do you think about Dath's idea then, Cora?' Corban asked.\n\n'I think it makes a lot of sense,' Coralen said. 'And it could mean the difference between winning and losing.'\n\n'All right then,' Corban said, turning back to Dath. 'See how many would like to join you - I'll not be telling anyone to do it, but if they're willing . . .'\n\n'You won't regret it.' Dath grinned, clapping Corban on the arm.\n\nCoralen rode out of the west gate with Enkara, Teca and Yalric of Gramm's hold. Gar was halfway up a ladder that leaned against the stone arch of the huge gates, Balur and a handful of giants with him. They were setting the skulls of the Kadoshim they had slain into the stone of the archway. Gar had said it would send a fine message to the Kadoshim when they arrived here.\n\nCoralen grinned at the thought of it.\n\nThe group headed north, skirting Drassil's outer wall. The area around Drassil was alive with activity, the hundred or so paces of land that had been already cleared doubled in a moon by close to a thousand willing hands. Trees were being cut down, branches lopped off and the timber dragged inside the walls of Drassil, the ground around the felled trees cleared of underbrush to create  an  open space around the entirety of the fortress. It was back-breaking work, as Coralen had learned first-hand.\n\n_I 'd rather be out scouting than chopping up trees and doing battle with thorns as long as my fist._\n\nThey left the walls of the fortress behind them, following the broken remains of an ancient road, mostly reclaimed by the forest now, riding up a gentle incline that slowly steepened, trees felled as far as a high ridge. When they crested it, Coralen looked back.\n\nThe great tree of Drassil rose like an organic tower in the midst of the fortress, branches fanning out and framing everything. The sky was a pale glow far above, visible through leafless branches that scratched together in a strong wind. For a moment Coralen thought she saw a lone figure on the fortress walls staring back at her, then it was gone and she was kicking her mount over the crest, down the hill into a wall of trees, Enkara and Teca following.\n\nThey headed north the whole day, going slowly, stopping often to make notes on parchment. They were trying to map the outlying area of Drassil, concentrating on the swathes of land that spread between each of the six great tunnels. Coralen had put people in place in the tunnels, so that each had a small team manning the exit points along the way, horses changed every day so that if the approaching enemy was sighted word would reach Drassil on swift hooves. Their biggest threat came from the stretches of land between the tunnels, widening with every league that the tunnels bored beneath the forest. She only had so many scouts and couldn't watch everywhere.\n\nIt took them six days to travel twenty leagues, zigzagging through the forest whilst they filled reams of parchment, using the remnants of the old road as a marker, although that was faint enough, a raised embankment here, a crumbled flagstone  there. Twice they found waypoints on the tunnels fanning out from Drassil and spent those nights in the tunnel with the teams posted there. It was dark, musty and dank, but far safer than sleeping above ground in Forn. One night the ground trembled above them as something huge passed through the forest.\n\nOn the nights where they had no choice but to sleep above ground they made no fire - it attracted moths the size of Yalric's shield, and a host of far more unpleasant creatures that watched them from the edge of the firelight's reach, their presence betrayed only by the reflection of eyes.\n\nOn the eighth day out they were riding through an area dominated by wide-spaced golden-wood; it was like an ocean of orange bark and red leaves. The trees were as straight as spears, with few low branches amongst them, and the ground was spongy with leaves, making the riding easier than it had been for days.\n\nCoralen winced as a strange smell drifted through the forest, pungent and acidic. She looked at the others and they were all pulling similar faces.\n\n'Do you recognize that?' Coralen asked Yalric - hailing from Gramm's hold he was the only one of them that had any experience of Forn.\n\n'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'But I have never travelled deep into Forn. Strange things live beyond its fringes.'\n\n_As you 've told me before._ Yalric was deeply superstitious and always making the ward against evil, but Coralen had come to find him an intuitive tracker and as brave as Storm when he could see that he was fighting flesh and blood and not a demon from the Otherworld.\n\n_Wait until he meets the Kadoshim._\n\nThe smell became progressively worse. Coralen's horse started shying, the mare's ears flattening to her head.\n\n'Perhaps we should stop, go back,'  Yalric  muttered,  wrestling with his reins and snapping a command at his horse. 'Whatever is making that smell, it's nothing good.'\n\nCoralen frowned at him. _We need to know what 's causing them to behave like this._\n\nIn the end Coralen slid from her saddle, the others doing the same. Teca stayed with the horses and Coralen led Enkara and Yalric on. The smell was so intense now that she was fighting the urge to gag.\n\nAbout fifty paces ahead something appeared on the ground - a series of mounds, more of them coming into focus, Coralen counting thirty or forty as they drew closer. She paused before the first one, a mound about chest high. It was steaming - a few of them were, others were hard-crusted and frozen with the cold. The stench was overwhelming, crawling up her nostrils, coating the back of her throat. Coralen prodded the mound in front of her. Beetles seethed out from it, covered in viscous slime.\n\n_It 's dung._\n\nSomething was poking out of it. Not seeming able to stop herself, Coralen grabbed it and pulled; a knobbly bone emerged from the pile of steaming dung.\n\n_This is not good._\n\nJust beyond the dung piles there was a dip in the land, invisible until you were this close. Coralen crept to its edge and peered down a long, gentle slope. At its base there was a hillock, its peak not quite as high as the ground Coralen was standing upon, made of craggy black rock coated with thin soil and patches of grass. Caves dotted it, eight, ten, more than Coralen could see, dark openings that bored into the black rock.\n\nEnkara touched her shoulder and indicated that they should leave.\n\nCoralen nodded and started to inch backwards when in the darkness of one of the caves something moved. A hulking shadow emerged, lizard-like but huge, its squat body low to the ground, legs splayed and ending in clawed feet, a long thick-muscled neck with a broad, flat muzzled head and sharp fangs.\n\n_A draig._\n\nThe three of them stood frozen a moment, desperate to move, too scared to make a sound.\n\nThe draig raised its head, a long tongue flickering from its jaws, tasting the air. Abruptly it went still, completely motionless, then its head snapped up and it stared straight at them.\n\nIt roared.\n\nLike a release from a spell the three of them were sprinting back towards the horses.\n\nCoralen skirted a tree and saw Teca a hundred paces away.\n\nShe glanced over her shoulder, saw the draig explode over the slope, all fangs, muscle and jaws kicking up earth as its claws raked the ground.\n\nTeca's eyes bulged and she leaped into her saddle, tried to lead the horses towards Coralen and the others but the horses were neighing wildly, rearing and kicking.\n\nThere was a huge crack behind Coralen, the draig ploughing into a tree in its haste to reach them. It roared, making the world shake. It sounded as if it was almost upon them.\n\nThen Coralen was swinging into her saddle, her horse almost mad with fear. She saw Yalric yelling curses at his horse as it powered away past her, heard hooves pounding behind her, then a collision, a horse screaming, bones crunching.\n\nFear had her in a grip she'd never known before. She was too scared even to look back. _Ride, just ride, get away._\n\nAnother scream from behind her, this time human.\n\n_Enkara._\n\nShe heaved at her reins, her mount slowing, skidding to a halt, and looked back.\n\nThe draig was crouched over a horse, one claw upon its neck, pinning it as it bucked and writhed, the draig's jaws slick with blood as it tore bloody holes in the animal's side. Enkara was squirming on the ground, one leg trapped under the fallen horse.\n\nBefore she could think Coralen was kicking her horse into movement, swearing and cursing at it when it resisted, eventually acquiescing to its rider and moving hesitantly back towards  the draig. Teca appeared from the left, her bow nocked, Yalric riding back to them, an axe in his hand.\n\n_We can 't fight it_ - _look at the power of it. But maybe . . ._\n\nCoralen shouted to Teca and Yalric and then she was picking up speed, a trot to a canter, her mount back under her control now.\n\nEnkara was still pinned, the weight of the draig upon the horse grinding her leg into the forest litter. Teca and Yalric rode at the draig, both of them sighting their weapons and loosing while their mounts were moving. Teca's arrow sank into the soft flesh between its foreleg and torso, Yalric's axe bouncing off of its head with a dull thud.\n\n_Thicker skull than a bear, then._\n\nThe draig swung its head about, confused for a moment, then bellowed, shifting its weight momentarily off of the horse. In an instant Enkara had pulled free and was on her feet, lurching into a hobbling run. Coralen guided her horse close and grabbed Enkara's forearm, swinging her into the saddle  behind  her  and  then  she was off, kicking her horse hard, letting it do exactly what it wanted most in the world - gallop as fast as it possibly could away from the draig. A hasty glance over her shoulder and Coralen saw that Teca and Yalric were following behind, the draig obviously deciding that more chasing was not necessary when it had a tasty meal under one claw.\n\n'Can we go back to Drassil, now?' Enkara shouted in Coralen's ear.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin felt a sharp pain in his back, Braith's sword-tip prodding him, directing him to walk on. The snow had stopped falling now and was turning to slush under his boots. Vonn trudged before him, blood matting one side of his face, his hands bound behind his back, just as Camlin's were. Braith's companion, a lad holding a long spear, was leading the way, two grey hounds at his heels. They were tall and sleek, and they looked hungry, too.\n\n_Long as I 'm not the meal. Wouldn't put it past Braith. He's probably been starving them and promising them me for dinner._\n\n'You made it back home, then,' Vonn addressed the lad with the dogs. He turned and looked at Vonn.\n\n'I did, no thanks to you.'\n\nCamlin recognized him, then. The prisoner Coralen had caught in the hills of Domhain, the one who had told them about Cywen and Conall both being alive.\n\n'Strange, Rafe, that we've ended up on different sides, when we were once such good friends.'\n\n'Were we?' Rafe asked.\n\n'I thought so.'\n\n'Well, friends or no, I chose to stand by my oath - the one I swore to your da.'\n\n'That's strange, too,' Vonn said, 'because I chose to stand by my oath - the one I swore to my King.'\n\nRafe looked back and scowled at Vonn then, one of the hounds doing the same and growling.\n\n'Family should come before kings, or queens,' Rafe said.\n\nVonn frowned, staring at Rafe's back, and said no more.\n\nThey were walking down to the stream where two men waited for them, one of whom was sitting with his back to a tree, blood drenching his belly, soaking into his breeches, staining the white snow about him. He was screaming.\n\n_Might have something to do with my arrow in his gut._\n\nBraith made an irritated sound behind him, though Camlin wasn't sure if it was aimed at him for shooting one of his men, or at the man on the ground for making so much noise.\n\n'Sit,' Braith ordered Camlin and Vonn as he dumped both of their sword-belts and Camlin's bow and quiver against  the  tree, next to the straw man. When he was happy that Camlin and Vonn were both secure, Braith went and sat beside the wounded man. He unstoppered his water skin and gave the man some. He drank in short sips, panting in between with the pain.\n\n'Madoc, this is going to taste sweet as heaven in your mouth,' Braith said to the warrior, 'but when it reaches your gut it's going to hurt like every demon in the Otherworld is trying to claw their way out of your belly.'\n\nMadoc nodded, sweat slicking his face, his shirt sticking to his body.\n\n'My boot,' Madoc breathed. 'Some coin for my Rhian.'\n\nBraith nodded. 'I'll see it gets to her.' He lifted the water skin to Madoc's mouth and with his other hand drew a knife from his belt.\n\n'You ready?'\n\nMadoc nodded and Braith cut his throat.\n\n'That's seven  of  my  men, now, by  my  counting,'  Braith said, wagging his knife at Camlin.\n\n'Aye, that's what I make it,' Camlin agreed. He shrugged. 'It's war.'\n\n'So it is,' Braith said, wiping his knife clean and sheathing it. He came and sat close to Camlin.\n\n_Not so close that I can reach him, though._\n\n'But this is more personal than that, between you and me.'\n\n'I was afraid you were going to say that.'\n\nBraith barked a laugh.\n\n'You see, Cam, despite everything, you can still make me laugh. You've poisoned me, cut me open with this blade on your belt.' He paused, pulled back his shirt at the neck and showed Camlin an ugly white ridge of scar tissue. 'Hurt, that,' Braith said.\n\n'Aye, well, I've a scar of my own from you.' He pulled his shirt open. 'See. You shot me. The arrow had to be pushed through. That hurt a bit, too.'\n\nBraith shrugged. 'Not that this is a contest, but you did dump me into the ocean for the fish to gnaw on.' He shook his head.\n\nCamlin smiled grimly. 'If it helps, I did think you were dead at the time.'\n\nBraith chuckled. 'But the  thing that hurts most, Cam, is the _betrayal_. I thought we were friends.'\n\nCamlin laughed at that. 'So did I,' he said, still chuckling. 'Perhaps we can be reconciled, eh?'\n\n'I don't think so,' Braith said. The smile disappeared from his face. 'But I can even the score.'\n\nHe stood, looking about the marshes at the endless  banks  of reeds, willow and alder.\n\n'Where is she, Cam? Your new Queen?'\n\n'If you think I'm going t'be telling you that,' Camlin said, 'then you don't know me.'\n\n'If you think you _won 't_ tell me,' Braith said, moving closer to Camlin, 'then it's you who doesn't know me.'\n\n_I 've seen Braith put people to the question. He tries to be their friend first, gets what he can that way, then lights a fire under their feet, just to make sure._\n\nThere'll be no torture here,' a voice said. Vonn, sounding just about as commanding as Camlin had ever heard him. 'You will take us to my father. We will not talk to men such as you.'\n\nBraith smiled at Vonn, walked over to him.\n\n'Get him up,' Braith said, the warrior behind Vonn yanking him to his feet.\n\n'My father is the regent of Ardan, representative of Queen Rhin and--'\n\nBraith punched Vonn in the gut, doubling him over. He grabbed a fistful of Vonn's hair and yanked him upright.\n\n'Your father is not my king,' Braith snarled. 'I answer to Rhin, no one else, so your precious father can go kiss my arse. And you'll not be giving out your orders to me, or any of my crew. Is that clear?'\n\n'All two of them,' Camlin murmured.\n\nVonn dribbled spittle.\n\n'I said, is that clear?' Braith repeated, bunching his fist.\n\n'Aye,'  Vonn  muttered.\n\n'Good,' Braith said, letting go of Vonn's hair, the young warrior dropping to the ground.\n\n_You tried, lad, I 'll give you that._\n\n'Don't you worry, Vonn, I'll take you to your da soon enough. Not sure what kind of welcome you'll get, but at least you'll live to find out, which is more than I can say for my old friend Camlin.'\n\nBraith spun around and kicked Camlin in the face. He fell back, pushed himself onto one elbow and spat blood, and a tooth.\n\n'I'm going to leave you with that thought for the night. Come morning I want answers to my question. Where is the bitch, Edana? Answer true and I'll end it quick. No pain. If I don't believe you, well, I'll be taking this knife,' he drew it from his belt, the one he'd used to cut his man's throat. 'And I'm going t'start taking body parts off you. Think I'll start with the fingers on your bow hand.'\n\nCamlin lay close to the stream, his arms stiff and the skin on his wrists rubbed raw. Beside him lay Vonn - sleeping, he thought, from the steady rhythm of his breathing.\n\nSomething had woken him.\n\n_Maybe the cold._ He was shivering enough for his teeth to rattle. There were no clouds above now, the sky a panoply of stars, the thin crust of snow on the ground had frosted to ice and was glittering in the starlight. Trying not to make any noise, he rolled over, the snow crunching, sounding loud enough to wake the dead.\n\nBraith was sitting against the tree, his head drooped to one side, his surviving warrior curled in a blanket while Rafe was standing on the stream's edge, spear in his hand, staring out into the darkness.\n\n_His watch, then._\n\nOne of the two hounds growled, its ears pricked. There was a rustle amongst the riverbank and they were both bounding forwards, snuffling amongst the reeds. Rafe followed them, spear levelled, then the hounds came out, tugging at something between them. Camlin heard the wet ripping sound of amphibian flesh.\n\n_Some poor frog 's having a bad night._ He thought of his fate approaching with the rising of the sun. _I sympathize._\n\nThe hounds finished tearing apart whatever it was they'd found and settled to wolfing down their respective pieces. Rafe lowered his spear and went back to stamping his feet and blowing into his hands.\n\nCamlin  looked  at  Braith,  felt  a  wash  of  hatred  for  the  man, swiftly tempered by the knowledge that he was just a man, like him, who'd made his choices and was seeing them through.\n\n_Sometimes they lead to a pot of gold, other times they get you bitten on the arse, or see you watching your fingers go under the knife, one by one. What I 'd give to take him with me, though . . ._\n\nHe heard a _thunk_ , behind him, between him and the stream. He looked about but no one else seemed to have heard it, Braith still with his chin on his chest, Rafe staring in the opposite direction. Even the two hounds now seemed to be sleeping  deeply,  chests rising and falling. He rolled over slowly, saw something sticking in the turf and snow. A glint of iron, a leather-wrapped hilt.\n\n_I love it when a plan comes together._\n\nSlowly he rolled over again, his back and bound hands to the knife, shuffled backwards a handspan, stopped as Braith muttered in his sleep. Another wriggle backwards, then waiting, eyes checking Rafe, the hounds, Braith, the other warrior. Another wriggle, checking again. Eventually, as a grey pallor seeped across the sky, he felt leather brush his fingertips.\n\n'Wake up,' Braith said and kicked Camlin's boots. With a groan Camlin squirmed onto his knees, holding the rope that had bound his hands tight behind his back.\n\n'You're like a landed fish,' Braith said. 'Which is an appropriate analogy, because today I shall be gutting you, like a fish.' He smiled, no humour in it. 'But let it not be said that I am a cruel man. Dai, help him up.'\n\n_For all of his bluster Braith is a careful man. He will not step within arms ' reach of me. I should be flattered that he thinks so highly of my prowess._ He glanced at Vonn, who had clambered to his knees.\n\nRafe was calling the hounds but they lay still on the stream bank.\n\nCamlin caught Vonn's eye, looked over his shoulder, wiggled the knife in his frozen hands. Vonn's eyes widened for a moment, then he looked away.\n\n'No funny business,' Dai muttered, put a hand under Camlin's arm and hoisted him upright.\n\n'Something's wrong with my dogs,' Rafe said, an edge of worry in his voice.\n\n'What do you mean?' Braith asked, suspicious.\n\n_There 's a reason he's lived this long._\n\n'Look.' Rafe prodded one of the hounds with his spear-butt. 'Scratcher,' he called. It didn't move, though its chest still rose and fell, breath misting about its muzzle. Rafe fell to his knees, dropping the spear on the ground beside him and shook both of the hounds.\n\nBraith's eyes snapped to Camlin.\n\n'Hello,' a voice called behind them. Braith and Dai spun around; a figure stood on the snowy ground, surrounded by morning mist.\n\n_Meg._ She looked more like a ghost than a person of flesh and blood. She stepped back into the mist, disappearing.\n\nBraith reached for his sword and rushed after her. Dai let go of Camlin and took a step after Braith, then the knife in Camlin's fist was punching into Dai's back, through fur cloak, leather and wool into flesh, between ribs and into a lung. Camlin's other hand clamped around Dai's mouth, stifling the hiss of exhaled air. He pulled the knife free, stabbed again, and again. Dai slumped and Camlin let him go, grabbing his sword hilt as he dropped, the rasp of it sliding from its scabbard stopping Braith in his tracks.\n\n'Almost had me,' Braith snarled as he stared at Camlin, hands free, a sword in one hand, bloodied knife in the other. It didn't seem to put Braith off as he charged at Camlin, shouting to Rafe, who was oblivious, still shaking the hounds, looking as if he was crying over them.\n\nCamlin rushed to Vonn, slashed and sawed at the ropes binding his wrists, painfully aware of the crunch of boots on snow as Braith sped to skewer him with his sword.\n\nWith a gasp, Vonn's hands were free and then Camlin was turning, dropping the knife in the snow, for Vonn, Braith hacking at him, iron clanging as Camlin raised his blade in a hurried parry, staggering back, blocking a flurry of powerful blows.\n\nHe sidestepped, sweeping Braith's blade away, the rage in Braith's attack adding to his momentum, sending him stumbling off balance for a moment. Camlin hacked at him, chopped into Braith's hip, blood spraying.\n\nThere was shouting behind him, Camlin shuffling backwards to see what was happening while keeping Braith in his vision. Vonn and Rafe were circling one another warily.\n\nThen Braith was coming at him again, blood sluicing from the wound in his hip. Another flurry of blows, high  chops,  swinging loops, all merging into a fluid assault, and a rushed retreat. Eventually they parted, a red line leaking blood across Camlin's shoulder.\n\n'Last time you had to poison me to beat me,' Braith said, face pale from blood loss, but his eyes were sharp, voice steady and calm. 'What are you going to do this time, Cam? You're not my match with a blade, we both know that.'\n\n'I'll  just  have  to  think  of  something,'  Camlin  muttered  and darted in, his sword-point lunging straight at Braith's heart, dropping the blade as Braith sideswiped a block, carrying on his lunge to score  a  red  line  across  Braith's  ribs,  cutting  through  leather  and wool, blood seeping as he leaped back, away from Braith's backswing.\n\n'Maybe I'll just bleed you to death,' Camlin said, circling Braith warily.\n\n_I 've blooded him twice. Can't believe I've done that. If only the Darkwood boys could've seen it. But luck doesn't last long against Braith, and he's right, he is better'n me. What I could do with is some help._\n\nCamlin risked a quick glance at Vonn and Rafe, saw they were still circling one another. Camlin frowned. It sounded as if they were talking to each other.\n\n'Vonn,' Camlin barked, 'less talking, more killing.' Then Braith was coming at him again. Camlin retreated before a withering combination of blows, his heart thudding in his ears, too fast to feel fear, just reacting, retreating, muscle and sinew straining as his whole body strived to avoid death. He held his blade two-handed, blocked another powerful blow that reverberated through his arms into shoulders and back, each blow weakening him a little more,  his breath coming harder, his reactions a fraction slower. He saw a grim smile twitching Braith's lips, knew the end was coming.\n\nSomething moved in the corner of Camlin's eye, a stick spinning out of the mist and smacking into Braith's head, the wood shattering in an explosion of splinters.\n\nMeg emerged from the mist, threw another piece of rotted wood at Braith, striking him on the shoulder. It didn't hurt Braith much, but it did give Camlin the opportunity he needed.\n\nHe turned and ran.\n\nFor a heartbeat, two, three, four, there was no sound of pursuit from Braith, then a snarl and heavy footsteps. Without looking, Camlin hurled his sword behind him, heard a clang as Braith struck it from the air, a curse as he stumbled, then Camlin was diving, rolling, one hand grabbing his bow, the other scrabbling for an arrow from his quiver. He came out of the roll on one knee, looking back, saw Braith bearing down upon him, sword raised high over his head, six paces away, four, Camlin's death in his eyes.\n\nHe nocked his arrow, drew, two paces, the sword swinging down in a glittering arc.\n\nRelease.\n\nThe arrow punched into Braith's gut, stopping him like a kick from a mule, sending him staggering back a handful of paces, sword swinging wild, hissing through the air before Camlin's eyes.\n\nAnother arrow from those scattered from his quiver. Braith snarling, cursing him, lurching unsteadily towards him.\n\nNock, draw, release. This one slammed into Braith's chest, sending him crashing onto his back, blood erupting.\n\nCamlin stood, breathing hard, still wary.\n\nBraith rose to one elbow, then to one knee.\n\nAnother arrow, nock, draw, release, throwing Braith flat on his back again.\n\n'Stay down,' Camlin yelled, relief starting to seep through him. Another arrow.\n\n'He's finished,' Vonn said, walking close. Camlin saw Rafe's back as the lad crashed through reeds and long grass, sighted his arrow, gazed along the feather and smooth shaft, iron tip to Rafe's back, raised it, adjusting for distance, to the left for the wind, all a process that was as natural as breathing, done in a handful of heartbeats.\n\n'Let him go,' Vonn said in his ear. 'He's a misguided, scared boy, nothing more.'\n\n'He's sat his Long Night, made his choices as a man,' Camlin growled, but he hesitated and then Rafe was gone, claimed by the mist and marshes.\n\nCamlin lowered his bow and strode over to Braith, who was still trying to get up. Camlin made sure he stopped out of arm's reach of the woodsman.\n\nBraith's woollen shirt was soaked with blood, leather vest stained dark with it, the snow around him churned pink.\n\n'Looks like our score's settled,' Camlin said, looking down at his old  chief.\n\n'Not supposed to end like this.' Braith wheezed as he made a final effort to rise. Only his head moved. He coughed blood and lolled back into the snow.\n\n'We don't always get what we want,' Camlin muttered and stood there, watching Braith's chest rise and fall, the gap between each breath growing longer. Blood bubbled from Braith's mouth and Camlin waited for another breath.\n\nIt never came.\n\nCamlin looked about, saw his sword and picked it up.\n\n'This time you're staying dead,' he said to Braith's corpse and he hacked down once, twice, the third time Braith's head rolling free from his body.\n\nMeg emerged from the reeds and ran to him, throwing her arms about his waist, hugging him tight. He ruffled her hair.\n\n'You did good, girlie, think I might just owe you my life, there.'\n\n'There's no _think_ about it,' she said, grinning up at him.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE\n\n#### HAELAN\n\nHaelan searched the stables, Pots running at his heels, his tail wagging furiously. He looked inside every single stall - and there were literally hundreds of them, over half of them occupied with horses.\n\n_She won 't be in one of those._ He slammed another door shut, frowning. _An empty one._ By the time he reached the last stable he was sweating, despite the cold that seemed to seep through even walls of stone.\n\n_Winter is upon us._ It was the Snow Moon and winter was holding Drassil in its tight and frozen grip.\n\n_Where is she?_\n\nHe was looking for Storm, had overheard Corban talking of his wolven, how she was heavy with cubs, and if the birth cycle for a wolven was anything like a hound's then she should be whelping any day now. And then she'd disappeared.\n\n_She 's in her den, ready to whelp_, Coralen had said to Corban.\n\nHaelan had been running chores in Cywen's hospice, a huge building situated to the west of the fortress, close to the herb gardens that grew within the walls. Coralen had been sitting beside one of the Jehar, a dark-haired woman lying in a cot with her leg in a splint and bandages. Slowly the conversation had drifted towards Storm, and the fact that she was missing.\n\n_That 's what I thought_, Corban had said. _I need to find her. I remember Da helping a bitch whelp; there can be all kinds of problems._\n\nCorban had sounded so worried that Haelan had decided on the spot that he would find Storm and her den, and had been searching ever since.\n\nHe  left  the  stables  disappointed;  he'd  been  convinced  they would make the perfect hideaway for Storm, and began to wander the fortress aimlessly.\n\n_I 'll never find her in this place. Someone could hide for a moon, every single person here searching for them._\n\nSlowly he walked through ancient stone streets, past windows with the glow of warm fires filling them, then through courtyards and streets with empty buildings and dark windows. He pulled his cloak tighter about him, his breath misting, before eventually stopping in a courtyard.\n\nHe sat on a huge twisted root that broke through the stone of the courtyard like the spine of a great sea beast and fished around in his pockets for some food. He found half a biscuit, broke it, throwing half to Pots, then chewed on the rest.\n\nHe'd come to a strange conclusion. For most of the time that he had lived at Gramm's hold his thoughts had ever returned to his mam, to Jael, to the throne of Isiltir, and he remembered spending days plotting his vengeance upon Jael, or how things would be different when he was king, or how he would make someone else do his chores. He didn't think like that any more, couldn't remember the last time anything like that had crossed his mind. After much thought he'd decided that there was only one conclusion to be reached about that.\n\n_I 'm happy._ At first he'd felt guilty about that realization,  his mam's face springing instantly to mind. _I shouldn 't be happy. She gave her life for me, so that I could one day be king._ But he didn't want to be king any more, not really. He wanted Corban to be king instead. Never had he come upon a man whom he thought so highly of. From his first words Corban had made him feel himself, made him feel that he didn't have to pretend to be anything. And he liked that. And Corban was everything that he imagined a king should be. A skilled warrior, courageous - he'd heard the tales about him, fighting demons, wyrms and wolven, setting slaves free, and he'd saved Wulf and the others at Gramm's hold. Despite all this, and the demands on him, he made sure he had time for everyone  who sought him out, always listening to their problems, big or small.\n\nPots whined behind him and he threw the dog some more biscuit.\n\nAnd  when  Haelan  spoke  to  Corban,  he  felt  that  he  listened, really listened to what he had to say. No one else had ever treated him like that, even Tahir, whom he loved like an older brother. He always looked at Haelan as if he was a duty he had to fulfil.\n\n_Which I suppose I am, to Tahir. To a shieldman._\n\nHis happiness had been tarnished with the recent news, though. A warband had been spotted, creeping in from the north-west, building a road. They were almost on a direct course for Drassil, though of course moons away as they had literally to cut their way through the forest.\n\n_It 's Jael, I know it is. Am I never allowed to be happy while he draws breath?_\n\nTahir had told him that Corban had led a few raids on the enemy camp, using the trapdoors situated along the tunnels - not large attacks, but hunting down their scouts and stragglers, and Tahir said that Corban and those with him had dressed in wolven furs, killed with their gauntleted claws.\n\nPots whined again behind him, scratched at something. Haelan rooted around for some more biscuit but couldn't find any.\n\n'Sorry, boy,' he said as he turned around to stroke the dog, then saw what he was whining at.\n\nBeneath the curve of the root was what looked like a pool of shadow, but as Haelan looked closer he saw that it was more than that. It was a hole.\n\nPots was digging in a mound of loose earth spread before it.\n\nHaelan crawled up to the hole, saw that it was bigger than him, bigger than a full-grown man. He stuck his head inside, saw the root twisting and boring its  way into the dark  earth. Then the ground crumbled beneath him and he fell in, head first, sliding and rolling, soil getting in his face, his mouth. He came to a crunching halt, falling onto the root, the earth around it eroded away by rain and frost so that it made a kind of cavern, large enough for him to stand, if he stooped. Daylight seeped into the hole, enough for him to see that the root branched left and right. Pots was looking down at him, tail wagging.\n\n'It's not a game,' he muttered, then, figuring he may as well explore while he was down here, he crawled to the left, following the root. Abruptly the root took a sudden twist, arcing down, almost vertically, and Haelan stopped. A strange smell leaked up from the hole here, strong and acidic, like rotting vegetables mixed with . . . something else. Whatever it was, he wanted to get away from it, the smell feeling like fingers clawing their way into his mouth. He shuffled back along the root; the smell receded, and soon he was at the point where he'd fallen in. Pots started barking at him when he came into view. He decided to go the other way now, enjoying the thought that he'd found something new in this ancient fortress, something that only he knew about.\n\n_It could be my den_ , he thought, _my secret place._\n\n_Den?_\n\nThen, from the darkness in front of him, he heard a low, terrifying growl. He froze. The growling rumbled on, then faded, and behind it he heard something else. A squeaking sound.\n\nHe shuffled back along the root as fast as he could, stood on tiptoes to climb out, jumped and caught hold of the edge, pulling and scrambling to get out. Leaping to his feet, he sprinted around a corner and saw Tahir marching purposefully towards him, pointing at him.\n\n'I've been searching everywhere for you,' Tahir said as Haelan ran past him.\n\n'Can't stop,' he blurted, not even slowing, heard the sound of slapping feet as Tahir ran after him.\n\nHe found Corban in the weapons court, holding sword and shield and sparring with Wulf. Gar stood watching them, his arms folded across his chest and a frown upon his face.\n\nHaelan skidded to a halt, desperate to tell Corban his news, but saw he was in the middle of something with Gar.\n\n'I'm not saying you should not train with a shield,' Gar said, 'only that I will not.'\n\n'Why don't you like using a shield?' Wulf asked him.\n\nWithout saying anything Gar strode to Wulf, grabbed the shield rim wide with both hands and twisted. Wulf yelled in pain.\n\n'If I twist this shield another handspan your arm will break,' Gar said matter-of-factly. 'For a weapon that is supposed to protect you, it can be easily used to defeat you.' He let go and Wulf stepped away, wincing. 'The best defence is a good offence.' Gar shrugged. 'I've seen a shield used well when it is strapped tight to your back.'\n\n'Halion,' Corban said.\n\n'Aye,' Gar nodded. 'It can be well used if you use a spin to manoeuvre around your foe, to protect your back and come out of the spin with some momentum for an attack.'\n\n'Show us,' Wulf said.\n\nCorban glanced away and saw Haelan, almost jumping up and down beside the weapons court in his excitement.\n\n'What is it?' Corban asked him.\n\n'Storm,' Haelan gasped. 'I've found her.'\n\nHaelan stood  in  the courtyard  with  the tree  root,  a small  crowd about him.\n\nCorban slipped into the hole, his hand appearing and Gar passing him a torch, then Gar disappeared into the hole as well. Haelan heard a muffled protest from Corban followed by Gar's flat refusal, then silence. More silence, then a rumbling snarl that mutated into a snapping, slavering growl that made the ground vibrate and Pots whine and hide behind Haelan's legs.\n\nA moment  later Gar's  head  appeared out  of  the hole  and he climbed out.\n\n'Don't think she wants me down there,' Gar said with as much dignity as he could muster as he stood, dusting himself down.\n\n'What about Ban?' Coralen asked.\n\n'Oh, he's fine, Storm's licking him like she hasn't seen him for a moon.'\n\n'And is Storm all right? Has she had cubs?'\n\n'Oh aye,' Gar said. 'She's right as rain. And she's had six cubs. She's even letting Corban touch them. Me, on the other hand, she wanted to rip my head off just for looking at them.'\n\nTahir pulled Haelan away and looked at him sternly. 'What if you'd got stuck down there?' Tahir asked him.\n\nHaelan knew the shieldman was angry with him, but proud of him too. He'd been brave, and he'd done something no one else had been able to do.\n\n'I didn't, though,' Haelan said.\n\n'What if you had?' Tahir frowned at him.\n\n'Fools worry, the wise do, as your old mam used to say.'\n\nTahir blinked at him.\n\n'You're getting too clever for your  own good,' the shieldman muttered.\n\nHaelan grinned.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO\n\n#### FIDELE\n\nFidele gazed in wonder at the trees shadowing both sides of the road she was riding on. They dwarfed anything she had ever seen before, thick as a house and high as a tower, their dense layers of branches reaching above and over the road, weaving and interlocking to form a latticed archway above them, weak sunlight occasionally breaking through to dapple the ground with pools of light.\n\n_So this is Forn._\n\nIt had been a long, hard journey, taking them almost  three moons to reach Forn Forest. First they had crossed the Agullas Mountains into Carnutan, then ever northwards, across great plains, through rolling hills and snow-swept valleys until they crossed from Carnutan into Isiltir. A ten-night gone they had reached Mikil, only to find that Nathair had ridden east towards Forn a moon before them. So they followed him. All six thousand of them, give or take the few score that had died along the journey, succumbing to the bitter cold. She glanced over her shoulder, glimpsed Maquin riding amidst a circle of eagle-guard.\n\n_Not him, though. I knew he would not die._\n\nAt first Maquin had lain in a wain, semi-conscious and delirious from the pain of his wounds, Alben tending to him while they travelled, but he had been on the back of a horse for over a moon now. Their eyes would meet frequently, though always briefly, both of them mindful of Alben's advice and the charges that she was accused of. They were never allowed close enough to speak, Veradis' eagle-guard rigorous in their duties. Fidele did not mind so much, as she knew the same devotion to duty would keep Lykos and his Vin Thalun away from Maquin.\n\n_What they have done to him._ She could still see the burns when she closed her eyes, could remember the smell of charred flesh as she'd entered Maquin's chamber back in Jerolin. Not for the first time a swell of rage filled her, coalescing about an image of Lykos in her mind. In it he was smiling at her.\n\n_I will see him dead. I will convince Nathair of the Vin Thalun 's crimes._\n\nPart of her was desperate for this journey to be over, so that the long-prolonged and avoided justice that Lykos deserved could finally be meted out, but part of her dreaded the journey's end, because then Maquin would stand judgement for his crime, and she could not see any other outcome than death for him, even with the mother of the high king pleading his cause. She felt a fist of worry clench in her belly just at the thought of it.\n\nThe road curved, and a building appeared ahead, framed by the arched branches. A grey-stone wall about a squat tower, thick with creeping vine, and beyond it the sound of running water.\n\n_We have reached Brikan and the River Rhenus, then. Am I about to see my son finally, after so long?_\n\nShe was close to the head of the column, riding with the men of Ripa - Krelis and Ektor, Alben and Peritus and almost the full strength of their warband, more than eight hundred men. Veradis had suggested he only bring an honour guard, but Krelis had refused. Fidele knew it was because he trusted no one on this journey, not even Veradis.\n\n_Even with eight hundred, if the Vin Thalun turned on us we would be sorely outnumbered. And whose side would Veradis stand upon?_\n\nAhead of them Fidele could see Veradis, sat upon a white horse, his young captain Caesus at his side, eagle-guard marching in disciplined ranks behind them.\n\n_He has changed, been changed by this war, but there is something I still trust about Veradis, something solid at his core._ In truth it was Veradis who gave her a glimmer of hope about the outcome of all of this. He clearly tried his best to remain neutral whenever Fidele spoke to him of Lykos or Maquin, impartial and objective, but  she  knew, could sense, that deep down he agreed with her. And that he and Maquin shared an old friendship did not hurt.\n\n_There is hope. If Nathair will not listen to the counsel of his mother, surely he will listen to that of his oldest and closest friend._\n\nThe chamber was high in the tower, a fire and torches crackling both to warm the room and to brighten the constant twilight of the forest; they were only partly successful at both tasks. Fidele sat upon a long bench; an open space lay before it, then a raised dais, a tall, high-backed chair empty upon it. Beside Fidele sat Krelis, Ektor and Peritus. None of them was in chains or bound in any way, but Fidele felt as if they were captives on trial, with eagle-guard scattered around the room, along with the black-eyed Jehar watching them dispassionately. There had been hundreds of them in the courtyard of this old giant tower, gathered around a great wain that sat in the courtyard like some brooding beast. Once upon a time the Jehar had made her feel safe, the thought of them about her son comforting her through dark nights of worry for Nathair. Now, though, with their flat black eyes and dead stares, they scared her.\n\nVeradis was also in the room, standing with his back to Fidele beyond the empty chair, staring out of a window at the forest and wide river beyond the tower, the noise of wains creaking, auroch bellowing, whips cracking,  drovers  yelling  orders.  Fidele  had glimpsed a wide swathe cut into the far side of the forest, beyond a stone bridge. A road cut straight as an arrow through the trees, heading north-east, a steady flow of traffic travelling both ways.\n\nA door creaked open, cold air washing into the room, and Nathair strode in.\n\n_My son._\n\nFidele felt her heart lurch at the sight of him. He had lost weight, making the bones of his face more apparent, and there were shadows under his eyes, though he still walked with purpose and confidence, more, if anything. And beneath it all, still her boy, the child she had held and comforted and laughed with. She took a step towards him and stopped herself.\n\n_This is a trial and I must be strong. Be seen to be strong. My son is two people: my son, and the high king of these Banished Lands, as I am two people, his mother, and the regent of Tenebral._\n\nCalidus and the giant Alcyon walked at Nathair's heels, Jehar behind them, moving with the grace and contained power of predators at the top of the food chain.\n\nAnd behind them all, Lykos, walking with head down, eagle-guard either side of him. He was led to the bench Fidele was sitting on and ordered to sit. He did so without any complaint or hesitation. Fidele had never seen him so submissive.\n\n'Mother,' Nathair said, and she looked up. Nathair had paused on his way to the empty chair, was staring at her with a faint smile upon his face. Then she was moving towards him, arms rising to enfold him, but something in his look caused her to falter and she stopped before him. He took her hand and kissed it.\n\n'It is good to see you, Mother,' he said. He gazed into her eyes, studied her face as if he had forgotten what she looked like. 'You have changed.'\n\n'As have you,' she replied. 'We have much to tell one another.'\n\n'And to not tell,' he snorted with a twist of his mouth.\n\n_What does that mean?_\n\n'Nathair,' Calidus called, a tone  in  his  voice  that  Fidele  had not heard before, and one that she did not like. Commanding. Impatient. She thought of Ektor's chamber of scrolls deep beneath Ripa's tower, of the hints she had read about Ben-Elim and Kadoshim. As she returned to her seat her eyes met Ektor's.\n\nNathair strode towards the empty chair, saw Veradis and smiled, something of the young man Fidele had bid farewell to returning to his features. The two men embraced, and then Nathair was sitting in the chair, Calidus and Alcyon standing either side, the Jehar spreading behind them.\n\n'We await two more,' Veradis said as Nathair opened his mouth to speak.\n\n'Who is that?' Calidus asked.\n\n'Some strange prisoners I encountered in Tenebral,' Veradis said.\n\n'What?' Lykos now, looking concerned, scared even, staring at Calidus.  'I  told  you  that  Calidus  must  see  them  privately.  They cannot come h--'\n\nThe door opened once  more,  eagle-guard  entering  first,  then the giants Raina and Tain behind them. Iron collars were about their necks, their hands bound.\n\n'Stop!' Calidus shouted, the eagle-guard snapping to a halt, the giants stumbling behind them.\n\nThere was a frozen moment, the whole room staring at Raina and Tain, the two giants looking around the room with disdain at those gathered there.\n\n'Raina?' a voice grated. 'Tain?'\n\nIt was Alcyon. His face had drained of all colour, skin as pale as if he'd been dead a ten-night.\n\nThen he smiled.\n\n'Raina, Tain,' he repeated.\n\n'Alcyon,' Raina whispered.\n\n'Get them out of here,' Calidus hissed.\n\n'No,' Alcyon said, taking a step, reaching a hand out.\n\n'Now,' Calidus yelled.\n\nThe eagle-guard behind the giants must have tugged on their collars, for they were both jerked backwards.\n\n'No,' Alcyon snarled, reaching for his hammer. Then the strangest thing happened.\n\nHe froze, his arm part-raised, then, slowly, tremblingly, he lowered his arm, his face smoothed of all emotion and he passively watched Raina and Tain as they were dragged shouting from the room.\n\nThe door slammed shut, the giants' cries fading down the corridor.\n\nCalidus said something to Alcyon and the giant took a step back, resuming his position behind Nathair's chair.\n\nFidele frowned. She noticed that Veradis was looking concerned at the turn of events as well.\n\n'So,' Nathair said, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingers, appearing as if nothing unusual had just happened. 'Tenebral. Our home. There can be no conflict, no state of war within my own realm. Veradis has spoken to me briefly of the various grievances and accusations between you, but for the sake of clarity I will have him recount the disputes now, for all to hear. Then, if any disagree, they can speak up now. Once we have dealt with this I will not go back to it.' He looked at them all, then nodded to Veradis, who tore his frowning gaze away from the  now-mute Alcyon and stepped forward.\n\nVeradis stood between them and began to talk. He spoke of the rebellion within Tenebral, the factors that he thought had contributed - the insensitively handled influx of the Vin Thalun and their ways, including the legalizing of fighting-pits, the order of Peritus' execution, the wedding of Fidele to Lykos, clearly unpopular amongst the people of Tenebral, especially so when Fidele's first husband Aquilus had ruled the realm for so long and was a figure of such great popularity and respect. Veradis criticized Lykos' handling of the power given to him, his hasty resort to violence rather than negotiation, his inability to politick.\n\nFor a while Veradis' words filled the room, an ebb and flow to them as he recounted the facts as he understood them.\n\n_The reality was worse, far, far worse than you even begin to touch upon._\n\nFidele realized Veradis had stopped talking and was looking at her. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for battle.\n\n'Lady Fidele has accused Lykos of terrible things,' Veradis said, 'misuse and abuse of power, manipulation, murder . . .' He paused again, took another deep breath. 'Sorcery.'\n\n'Sorcery?' Calidus said. 'What exactly does that mean?' His mouth twitched as he spoke, a contained smile. 'Specifically?'\n\n'The control of another's mind, and their body,' Veradis said.\n\n_He is trying to spare me._\n\nAll in the room looked at her now. She felt the desire to leave, to run from the room, to get away from their eyes. _I will not feel ashamed. I fought him with all that I am._ She raised her head and looked only at Nathair.\n\n'Mother, that is a grave accusation.'\n\n'Accusation? It is no accusation,' she said, feeling her anger stir. She wished she were back in the wild with Maquin, where you faced an enemy face to face with sharp iron, and where you trusted the man at your side. There was a simplicity to that, both appealing and utterly absent in this room. 'It is a statement of fact.'\n\n'Fact?' Calidus said, frowning. 'It is a vague accusation which is open to  a multitude  of interpretations.  Control of  your  mind? So Lykos somehow invaded your mind by his sorcerous powers.' There was a snigger to her left.\n\n_Lykos._\n\n'And he forced you to do . . . what?'\n\nFidele just stared at Calidus, at that moment felt an overwhelming hatred for the man. She forced her gaze back upon Nathair.\n\n'I would talk with you of this in _private_ ,' she said to her son.\n\n'No, Mother. This must be open. I cannot, will not, be accused of nepotism.'\n\nFidele closed her eyes, bowed her head. 'Very well then. What I mean when I say that Lykos used sorcery to control me is that he _raped_ me.' She looked away, swallowed, fought the tears. Saying it aloud seemed to give it a new power. She composed  herself  and looked back to Nathair.\n\nEmotions swept across his face. Outrage.  Anger  escalating  to fury. He glared at Lykos, then his head turned to stare at Calidus, who returned his gaze dispassionately. The old man said something, too low to hear, and slowly, incrementally, the emotion drained from Nathair's face. He cocked his head, as if listening to another voice, then screwed his eyes shut, some kind of internal debate consuming him.\n\nWhen he opened them he regarded Fidele with a deep sadness, mingled with something else.\n\n_Pity?_\n\n'Oh, Mother,' Nathair said, and she felt a glimmer of hope that he would now set things right, that justice would be done.\n\n'The loss of Father has hit you so much more than I ever conceived.'\n\n'What?' _What does he mean, why . . . ?_\n\n'Your grief has overwhelmed you, I fear. I  should  never  have given you the responsibility of a realm, and so soon after Father's death.'\n\nFidele felt those strong walls that she had built within, layer upon layer of will and strength to protect her from the hurt Lykos had inflicted upon her beginning to crumble. She filled her lungs, slowly blew out. 'This has nothing to do with your father's death. Lykos--'\n\n'Is a Vin Thalun sailor, a ship's captain, lord of his people. Not a sorcerer. Look at him.' Nathair waved his hand. 'He is a man of many talents, but a sorcerer?'\n\nMore sniggers, louder.\n\n'His thirst for power drives him,' Fidele said, her voice sounding reed-thin in her ears. 'Whatever he has, he wants more.'\n\n'Power?' Nathair said. 'I had already given it to him, appointed him regent of Tenebral, made him one of the most powerful men in the Banished Lands.'\n\n'It was not enough for him,' she said, almost a whisper, feeling her strength and will fading away, draining from her.\n\n'Mother, please,' Nathair said, still regarding her with that maddening pity in his eyes. 'It is clear to me that you are grief mad, and that in that madness, out of it, you have brought Tenebral to the brink of civil war. But I cannot punish you for it. You are not to blame. If anyone is, it is me, for placing too great a responsibility upon your shoulders. There will be no punishment for you, but you will retire, to somewhere safe and calm, away from all of the pressure and strain of these dark times.'\n\n_Am I really hearing this? Can my own son be saying this to me? It is some terrible nightmare._ She wanted to say something, to convince him, but her mind was a blank.\n\n'Now,' said Nathair, 'as for the rest of you, I can hardly believe what I have heard. Tenebral, my home, the realm of the high king of the Banished Lands, has collapsed upon itself like so many squabbling children.'\n\nKrelis muttered at that, Peritus sitting straight and tense.\n\n'The right of the situation clearly lies in Lykos' favour.'\n\nKrelis made to stand, but Peritus and Ektor both held him.\n\n'Ripa chose to defend a man sentenced to death - you, Peritus - and to take up arms against my appointed representative. I appointed Lykos - Mother, you saw my letter with my seal, and Veradis reported my sanctioning of him as regent of Tenebral. What you have all done is treason, and I could have you all executed.'\n\n'This is outrageous,' Krelis exploded, lunging to his feet, Peritus following, trying to calm him.\n\nJehar were suddenly circling Krelis, swords half-drawn from scabbards. Krelis froze.\n\n'Sit. Down,' Nathair commanded.\n\nKrelis just stood, glaring rage at Nathair. 'My da was slain,' he growled.\n\n'Please, Krelis,' a voice said - Veradis. 'Please, brother, take your seat.' And slowly, with a final glower, Krelis did.\n\n'I could have you executed for treason,' Nathair repeated, holding Krelis' gaze, daring him to move. Krelis didn't.\n\n'But I _won 't_. I want peace in my realm, order, trust in those ruling so that I may focus on the real task at hand. The defeat of the Black Sun. What we are discussing is petty by comparison.'\n\nFidele's mind was swirling, a turmoil of shock and pain, that her own son would disregard her so utterly and completely . . .\n\n_I do not recognize the man he 's become, do not know him. How could someone change so completely._ Nathair was still speaking, though his words were a blur in her head now. Fragments began to coalesce, spinning together, like a broken window reforming, and slowly she began to see.\n\nSee Calidus meeting with Nathair, all those years ago, introducing him to Lykos, advising him to leave Tenebral, to chase after the cauldron, whispering in his ear, as he was even now. She glanced at Ektor, saw him frowning, gaze flitting between Calidus and Nathair, remembered his giant scrolls that spoke of the high king's counsellor being Kadoshim, a demon of Asroth. At that time they had been talking of Meical, who had been Aquilus' counsellor, but Nathair was high king now, and Calidus his counsellor . . .\n\n'What have you done to my son?' Fidele heard herself say, loud and clear as she stood and pointed at Calidus.\n\nFor some reason she shocked everyone to silence.\n\n'What do you mean?' Veradis said, looking between her and Calidus.\n\n'I have done nothing but give good counsel, my lady,' Calidus said, his voice calm, reassuring. Suddenly she knew, beyond all doubt, every fibre of her being screaming the same thing.\n\n'You are _Kadoshim_ ,' she said. Quietly, but seeming to impact everyone in the room.\n\nCalidus pulled a face, part surprise, part sneer. 'You are mistaken, my lady,' he said.\n\n'And if we needed any more evidence of her madness, there it is,' a voice shouted, Lykos, laughing.\n\n'You are Kadoshim,' Fidele said, louder.\n\n'What are you talking about, my lady?' Peritus called to her.\n\n'Nathair, tell me it isn't so,' she pleaded with her son.\n\nHe stared at her, blinking, almost startled.\n\n'Be silent, Mother,' he mumbled.\n\nShe looked around the room, Calidus regarding her as if she were an insect to be crushed, Veradis was confused, looking from her to Nathair, Alcyon the giant - hulking, solemn, sorrowful - the Jehar just staring with their dead eyes. A hand touched her wrist, Ektor.\n\n'Not here, not now,' he hissed, shaking his head. She shook him off and looked back to Nathair, who was still staring at her.\n\n'What have you _done_?' she whispered.\n\n'Take her away,' Nathair said, looking away as if he'd been slapped. 'Her madness is deeper than I feared, she must be protected from herself.'\n\nEagle-guard moved forwards, Krelis and Peritus standing to protect Fidele. Swords were drawn.\n\n'No,' Fidele said furiously to Peritus and Krelis. 'You will die here, for nothing.'\n\n'You dare draw your blades, before _me_?' Nathair said, his voice rising from a shocked hiss to strangled yell.\n\n'I have offered you all kindness and mercy, and you throw it back at my feet. Draw your swords in my presence. Well. I. Say. This.' Nathair was on his feet now, fists bunching. 'My word is law, and you will abide by it, whether you be my ancient friend or my closest kin, else you will lose your heads.' Spittle was flying now.\n\n'Take them away,' Calidus said.\n\n'Aye, that's right,' Nathair cried, voice still charged with emotion. 'Get them out of here, all of them, take them below. I want them under lock and key.'\n\nEagle-guard swept forwards now, firm hands steering Fidele towards the door; Krelis, Peritus and Ektor herded along with her.\n\nAs she reached the door she looked back and saw Calidus staring at her, eyes flat and dead, like one of the sharks in Ripa's bay.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE\n\n#### VERADIS\n\nVeradis  watched  the  door  close  behind  Fidele,  Peritus  and  his brothers.\n\n_What have I just witnessed?_\n\nA silence  fell upon  the room, Nathair  slumped  back into his chair, for some reason staring at the palm of his hand.\n\n_At the scar from our oaths to each other._\n\n'Well, that could have gone better,' Lykos said.\n\n'Shut up,' Calidus replied, almost absently, eyes still fixed upon the door.\n\n'Your mother,' Calidus said to Nathair.\n\n'Yes?'\n\n'She is a remarkable woman.'\n\n'She is,' Nathair agreed.\n\n'What is going on here?' Veradis said.\n\nNo one answered him. Nathair was still staring at the palm of his hand.\n\n'Nathair, Alcyon?'\n\nThe giant looked at him with sad eyes. 'I cannot say.'\n\n'Nathair?' Veradis said, anger leaking into his voice.\n\nCalidus'  eyes  rolled  away  from  the  door,  fixed  onto  Veradis. 'A confusion,' he said to Veradis. 'Fidele is confused. Her grief--'\n\n'She sounded lucid enough to me.'\n\n'She--'\n\n'Enough,' Nathair said. 'Calidus, Alcyon, all of you.' He finally looked up from his hand. 'Leave us.'\n\n'Is that wise?' Calidus murmured.\n\n'I say it is,' Nathair said. 'You have hidden things from me. Lykos and my mother . . .' His face twisted as if with a surge of pain and he screwed his eyes shut.\n\n'For the greater good,' Calidus said quietly.\n\nNathair's eyes snapped open. 'I will talk with Veradis now. It is time.' He locked gazes with Calidus. They stayed like that long moments. 'I must tell him,' Nathair said, almost pleadingly, a hand going to his temples, 'I need to tell him, else I go  insane.'  Still Calidus said nothing, then eventually nodded.\n\n'As you wish,' he said and ushered everyone from the chamber, including the eagle-guard and Jehar, leaving Veradis alone with Nathair.\n\n'What just happened?' Veradis asked.\n\nNathair stood and paced to the window, looked out of it.\n\n'They look like ants from here,' he said tiredly. 'All those men working on the road to find Drassil, no bigger than ants. Do you remember, in the forest during my father's council?'\n\nVeradis did. They had seen a host of ants on the march, millions of them, each as big as a thumb. Seeing them had been the seeds of Nathair's inspiration for the shield wall.\n\n'I do,' Veradis said, joining Nathair at the window.\n\n'Gods above and below, but it feels like a different lifetime.'\n\n'It does,' Veradis agreed. He thought back. 'Nearly four years.'\n\nNathair fell silent, staring.\n\n'Nathair, what your mother just said. About Calidus . . .'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'Why did she say that?'\n\n'Perhaps because she's grief mad.'\n\n'I don't think so.'\n\nNathair sucked in a deep breath. 'History is a peculiar thing, is it not? Take the giants, for  example.  Our  histories  tell  us  that they are the enemy. That they were wicked - evil, even - and that our ancestors' war against them was righteous. That right was on our side. Is that not what our histories say?'\n\n'Aye,' Veradis said, wondering where this was leading, 'that is what our histories tell us.'\n\n'What if it was a lie?'\n\n'It isn't,' Veradis said without thinking.\n\n'How  do  you   _know  _that?'  Nathair  asked  him.  'We  were  not there. No one whose word we value was there. We only have the ancient record, and that was written by our ancestors, the victors. The people that fought the giant clans and took their land.'\n\n'What of it?' Veradis asked. He had an unpleasant feeling in his gut, part sickness, part fear.\n\n'I do not think that all giants are evil. Alcyon, for example. You would consider him a friend, even.'\n\n'I do,' Veradis said.\n\n'So, perhaps those that wrote our histories were biased. Twisted the truth to suit their perspective, even.'\n\n_I 'm sure Ektor would have an opinion on this but Krelis and I were always more comfortable with a blade in our hands than a book._\n\n'Why are we talking about this?' Veradis asked.\n\n'What if those who wrote about the Scourging, about Elyon and Asroth, were equally as biased?' Nathair looked at Veradis now, eyes bright with fervour. 'What if the Ben-Elim were not the righteous ones, the Kadoshim not evil? What if they were just like the giants and us, two peoples fighting a war for their own ends, and the defeated were portrayed as the villains?'\n\n'No,' Veradis said.\n\n'What if Kadoshim and Ben-Elim are just names.'\n\nVeradis' mind was reeling. He wanted Nathair to stop, the words feeling like a sudden flood in his mind, a river bursting its banks, changing the world as he knew it.\n\n_Or as I want to know it. What if Nathair 's right, all that we know a mixture of truth and lies._ He mind was swept on by the thought, more and more truths coming into question.\n\n'Wait,' he said aloud, shaking his head to try and bring some focus back. 'What are you saying, Nathair? Are you telling me that Calidus _is_ Kadoshim, not Ben Elim?'\n\nNathair  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  him,  then nodded.\n\n'I am.'\n\n'Then all that we have done, believed, fought for . . .' He looked into Nathair's eyes. 'A lie?' He felt dizzy suddenly, his legs weak.\n\n'No,' Nathair hissed. 'Think, man. Nothing has changed. Right and wrong, they are just ideas in our heads, meaning that we give to our actions. Our friendship is still the same, our oaths to one another still stand. That is what we must cling to. Our goals and our vision are still the same. Nothing of import has changed.'\n\n'Nothing has changed,' Veradis echoed.\n\n'Apart   from   the   names,'   Nathair   shrugged.   'Ben-Elim, Kadoshim, Elyon, Asroth.'\n\n'Bright Star and Black Sun,' Veradis said.\n\nNathair froze at that, his mouth a bitter twist. 'Aye, that too.' He shrugged. 'We must accept the hard truth, even if it hurts at first.'\n\n'But what of Calidus? We _saw_ him; he had wings. He is Ben-Elim.'\n\n'Oh, he  has  wings,  but  they  are  not  made  of white  feathers,' Nathair snorted. 'What we saw in Telassar was a glamour.'\n\nVeradis  ground  his  palm  into  his  forehead.   _This  cannot  be. Everything that we are has been devoted to this cause, and it is a lie._\n\nHe looked at Nathair, saw his face was a kaleidoscope of battling emotions. Scorn, shame, hope.\n\n'You are the Black Sun,' Veradis said.\n\n'Whatever men call me, I shall rule, and rule well. You know that. I am still the same person, still your friend, and your king. Nothing but the titles we have imagined have changed.'\n\n_But that 's not true, is it?_\n\n'Show me your hand,' Veradis asked.\n\n'What?'\n\n'Your _hand_.' Veradis held his own palm up, the scar of his oath to Nathair.\n\nSlowly Nathair held his hand out, uncurled his fingers.\n\n'You have two scars now,' Veradis observed. A seed of doubt and anger growing larger by the moment.\n\n'Aye. A man can make more than one oath.'\n\n'Who was it to?'\n\nNathair didn't answer, made to pull his arm away, but Veradis gripped his wrist, held the palm open.\n\n'Who did you swear this oath to?'\n\n'Asroth,' Nathair whispered.\n\nVeradis threw Nathair's arm as if it were a viper.\n\n_Betrayal, it is all betrayal. And lies upon lies. How can he not see that? What else has he hidden from me?_\n\n'And you say nothing has changed,' Veradis snarled, pulling away from him. ' _Everything_ has changed.'\n\n'Think on what I have said,' Nathair pleaded, 'on what is truth and lie. On our _friendship_.'\n\n'I need to get out, some air,' Veradis mumbled. He was so furious he couldn't even look at Nathair as he made for the door, slammed it open to see Calidus striding towards him. Beside him walked a strange figure, a girl, tall, fair-haired and long-limbed. Something about her reminded Veradis of Tain, the giantling, though she appeared travel stained, half-dead, skeletally thin and shivering uncontrollably. They passed each other, Calidus' eyes fixing Veradis as he went by.\n\n_He is Kadoshim._ His skin goose-fleshed.\n\nCalidus steered the girl into Nathair's chamber.\n\nA dozen paces along the corridor Veradis swayed, reached a hand out to the wall to steady himself. He heard Calidus' voice.\n\n'You told him, then.'\n\n'Aye. It was time.'\n\n'He didn't look as if he took it too well.'\n\n'What did you expect?'\n\n'Perhaps I should bring him back,' Calidus said.\n\n'No, leave him. Where can he go? We are in the middle of Forn Forest. All will be well, he just needs some time to think it through, to readjust. He will be back of his own accord.'\n\n'We shall see.'\n\n'He must come back to me, our friendship is too strong. And I need him . . .' That last was only a whisper.\n\n'And who is this?' Nathair said, firmer again. 'Answer your high king, child,' Calidus said.\n\n'My name is Trigg, my lord,' a frail voice replied.\n\n'And tell your King what you told me, Trigg,' Calidus said. There was a new note in Calidus' voice that Veradis had not heard before. Excitement.\n\n'I can take you to Drassil,' the girl said. 'I saw their secret way.'\n\n'And why should I trust you?' Nathair asked her.\n\nA silence settled, broken finally by the girl's voice. 'All my life I thought them my kin, my family,' she muttered. 'But they betrayed me, sent me away.'\n\n'What are you talking about, be clear, girl,' Nathair snapped. 'Why should I trust you?'\n\n'Because there are those in Drassil that I would see dead,' the girl snarled.\n\nVeradis pushed himself from the wall and strode away.\n\n_Traitors._ It seemed the world was full of them.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR\n\n#### MAQUIN\n\nMaquin sat in a cold cell with iron bars, off a corridor deep in the bowels of Brikan.\n\n_Life is strange, and cruel_ , he thought. _It was not so long ago that I sat in the halls above, and ate, laughed and sang with Kastell and my Gadrai brothers. Orgull, Tahir . . ._\n\n_The world has gone mad._\n\nHe was not alone in these cells. Earlier the giantess Raina and her bairn had been herded in and shut away at the very end. Maquin had heard them talking in giantish, like  two  landslides  grating back and forth, and he had heard a sniffling sound which he had presumed was weeping. That had all ended some time ago, though, and since then the only sound had been the steady drip of water from walls.\n\nA key rattled in a lock, the door at the end of the corridor swinging open and feet slapping on stone, splashing through puddles in the dank corridor, voices protesting. One of them making him stand and run to the bars.\n\n_Fidele._\n\nShe was being escorted into the corridor by eagle-guard, along with Krelis, Ektor and Peritus. At a glance it was clear that they were prisoners, their scabbards empty of swords.\n\nThe eagle-guard filed towards his cell, one of them muttering and rifling through a ring of keys. He stopped and opened the first cell, a few doors before Maquin's, thrust Ektor into it, the young man spluttering at the indignity, moved on to the next cell, where Peritus was thrown, then the cell the other side of Maquin, placed Fidele in there, and finally the last one for Krelis.\n\nThe eagle-guard filed out without a word, looking somewhat shame-faced and confused at having locked their own Queen away.\n\n'Didn't think I'd be seeing you down here,' Maquin said, as close to Fidele's cell as he could get.\n\n'As dark as things have become, my heart still skips to see you,' her voice came back to him.\n\nHe reached a hand out through the bars and felt her fingers lace with his.\n\n'What happened?' he said.\n\n'Nathair is a madman, that's what happened,' Krelis yelled, slamming his cell bars, sending a cloud of dust puffing into the corridor.\n\n'Something terrible,' Fidele said, and proceeded to tell Maquin of the meeting with Nathair.\n\n'More like a sentencing, not even a trial,' Krelis growled. 'We should have fought in Tenebral, killed Lykos when we had the chance.'\n\n_I remember advising that exact course of action._\n\n_You are blinded by your thirst for revenge,_ Ektor had said. _You 're not seeing clearly,_\n\n_Not blinded. Driven._\n\n_Mind you, in light of the events in the tent, he does have a point._\n\n'And we should never have walked into that tent, then father would still be alive . . .' Krelis was muttering.\n\n'Ifs and buts will not help  us  now,'  Ektor  said  from  his  cell. 'We must think of a way out of this, else we'll all end up in a group execution alongside Maquin.'\n\n_Comforting._\n\n'And Fidele, perhaps you should not have accused Calidus of being Kadoshim,' Ektor said.\n\n'It is the truth.'\n\n'Like as not, you are right. I have suspected the same. But to stand and point a finger when you are surrounded by what, six, eight thousand men sworn to him and Nathair?'\n\n'Aye,' Fidele muttered, 'the timing could have been better, I'll give you that.'\n\n_Kadoshim? The God-War that Orgull spoke of. Is there no escaping it? Will it suck us all into its jaws._\n\n'So what do we do?' Krelis said. 'How do we get out of here?'\n\n'We bide our time,' Peritus said. 'Hope for an opportunity, and if one presents itself, we seize it.'\n\n_If there is one._\n\nThe conversation went back and forth amongst them, daylight through a grate high in the wall slanting and fading to darkness. They spoke of Calidus, Ektor telling them of the giant scrolls and the hints they gave about the God-War, about Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, prophecies of fabled Drassil and the Seven Treasures.\n\n'Drassil. That is why they are here,' Fidele said. 'That is why they are tearing down trees and building roads through this forest. They are searching for it.'\n\nMaquin heard something, a grunt, maybe. Then the key in the corridor's door. It creaked open, footsteps, then Alben's face was looking into their cells. He held the ring of keys in one hand, an array of swords under his other arm.\n\n'I found these in the guardroom,' he said with a nod of his head. 'Thought you might be needing them.'\n\nHe was greeted with a chorus of thanks.\n\n'We must be quick,' Alben said, trying keys in Peritus' door, the first not fitting, nor the second.  The  third  did,  the  door  opening with a click. The ageing battlechief stepped out and slid his sword into his scabbard.\n\n'Why are you doing this?' Ektor asked from his cell. 'With an apology we would most likely be forgiven in the morning. Now we will be fugitives.'\n\n'If that is so then why are gallows being built in the courtyard?'\n\nThere was a stunned silence at that.\n\n'That cannot be,' Ektor breathed.\n\n'You're welcome to stay in here and see,' Alben said, 'but I'd advise you to come with us.' With another click Ektor's door swung open.\n\n'I do not know what you did to fall so far from favour,' Alben continued as he moved to Maquin's cell, 'but something is happening here.' Alben tried keys in Maquin's lock. 'It is the middle of the night and warriors are mobilizing, thousands of them. Nathair's warband are already beginning to march across the river.'\n\n'I named Calidus as being Kadoshim,' Fidele said.\n\nMaquin expected a shocked response from Alben.\n\nThe silver-haired healer paused with the keys and looked at Fidele.  'Did  you?'\n\n'I did. Please, Alben, before you call me mad, listen to--'\n\n'I believe you,' Alben said.\n\n'What? How?' Fidele stuttered.\n\n'I am a friend to Meical,' he said. 'I have been waiting for this day for many years. The sides have formed, the line is drawn. The time to act is here.'\n\nThere was a thud behind him - Peritus falling to the floor. Alben spun around, the sword aimed for his head stabbing him between the shoulder and chest, blood erupting. He slid to the ground, Ektor tugging the blade free, standing over Alben, blood-spattered and breathing heavily.\n\n'What are you doing?' Fidele screamed. Maquin lunged a hand through the bars, his fingers snaring around Ektor's wrist, and heaving him into the cell bars. Ektor's face crunched against iron, blood spurting from his nose, the sword dropping with a clang from his fingers. Maquin slipped his other arm through the gap, trying to get a grip around Ektor's throat, but Ektor squirmed and lunged, panic fuelling him, and he tugged himself free of Maquin's grip, staggering back, choking.\n\nAlben reached for the sword but Ektor kicked him and snatched it up again, pointing the tip at Alben's chest. Alben crawled backwards, away from him. He was bleeding heavily, looked to be on the verge of passing out.\n\n'Don't worry, Alben, I'll not kill you now. Calidus will be very interested in having a conversation with you, I think.'\n\nEktor looked at them all now, each standing at the bars of their cells, a self-satisfied smile spreading over his face.\n\n'I knew Meical had got to one of you,' he breathed, wiping blood from a cut above his eye. 'It has taken me years of patience to reach this moment. Calidus will reward me well for this.'\n\nHe stepped away from Alben and casually thrust his blade down into Peritus' body.\n\nKrelis screamed, 'Ektor, you pale-faced little bastard . . .' and hurled himself at the bars, tears running down his cheeks. 'When I get out of here.' He grabbed a bar and heaved, twisted, veins popping in his neck. The bar creaked in its setting, started to bend. Ektor  chopped  at  Krelis'  fingers,  the  big  man  throwing  himself backwards just in time.\n\n'Shut up, you oaf,' Ektor snarled.\n\n'Ektor, what have you done?' Fidele said.\n\n'Chosen wisely,' Ektor sniffed, curling a lip at her. 'You could have joined me. You still could.'\n\nShe spat at him through the bars.\n\n'You have sold your soul to the devil,' Alben said from the floor.\n\n'Perhaps,' Ektor shrugged. 'That I can live with, but I think I have chosen the winning side.'\n\n'Why?' Krelis asked, calmer now, anguish leaking from his voice.\n\n'You  wouldn't  understand,'  Ektor  said,  'you  who  have  everything.'\n\n'So did you,' Krelis growled. 'You want for nothing.'\n\nEktor shook his head. 'I. Had. _Nothing,_ ' he hissed bitterly. 'No respect, no loyalty, no future, outside of my scrolls. I was laughed at, mocked with whispers as I walked by. Father did not respect intellect, only brawn. Well, I showed him.'\n\n'What?'\n\n'How did you think he ended up on Veradis' sword, you idiot. _Someone_ pushed him.' He smiled. 'It was not the only favour I have gifted to Calidus. How did you think the Vin Thalun scaled Ripa's cliffs?'\n\n'I will _kill_ you for this, I swear it,' Krelis said, a coldness in his voice more daunting than his rage.\n\n'Unlikely,' Ektor shrugged, picking up the bunch of keys from the floor. 'Time to call some guards, I think.'\n\nFootsteps sounded behind him, echoing down the corridor, the iron crack of eagle-guard boots on stone.\n\n'Perhaps naming does call,' Ektor smiled.\n\nMaquin peered down the corridor, saw a lone  warrior  in  the black cuirass of an eagle-guard striding towards them. He passed under torchlight and Maquin saw who it was.\n\nVeradis.\n\n_Nathair 's first-sword_, Maquin thought, bowing his head. All hope left him.\n\n'Good timing, brother,' Ektor called out, 'though to be honest I could have done with your help a little earlier.'\n\nVeradis paused when he saw Peritus' body, glanced between the fallen warrior and the sword in Ektor's hand, then stepped over Peritus and punched Ektor in the face.\n\nEktor staggered back, dropping sword and keys. Veradis followed and punched him again, flush on the chin. Ektor's eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed, unconscious.\n\nVeradis hurried to Peritus, crouched beside him, feeling for a pulse. He stood, shaking his head.\n\n'What has happened here?' Veradis said. His voice was changed, the misery Maquin had heard in it the last time they spoke magnified a thousandfold.\n\n_What has happened to him?_\n\n'Ektor is an agent of Calidus, was thwarting Alben's attempt to rescue us,' Fidele said.\n\nVeradis looked at them all. His eyes were red-rimmed, face pale as bone.\n\n'Veradis, what has happened to you?' Maquin asked him.\n\n'Fidele, you spoke the truth. Calidus is Kadoshim.' He hung his head, grief and shame dripping from his voice. 'And Nathair is . . .' He trailed off.\n\n'The Black Sun,' Alben breathed from the ground.\n\nVeradis sucked in a deep breath, looked down at Alben, at the keys on the ground. He bent and picked them up, put an arm under Alben and lifted him to his feet.\n\n'I have been a fool, but no longer. You must leave here, now, under cover of dark,' Veradis said as he ripped a strip of material from Ektor's shirt, bound Alben's wound as well as he could and then set about unlocking their cells.\n\nMaquin put his arms around Fidele and pulled her close, felt her sink into him and hug him fiercely.\n\nKrelis pushed past him and retrieved his sword from  where Alben had placed it. With no warning he swung it high and chopped down into Ektor, severing his head with one blow.\n\n'No,' Veradis yelled. 'He was _still_ our brother.'\n\n'He killed our da,' Krelis said, nostrils flaring. 'He pushed him onto your sword. He confessed it.'\n\nVeradis stared at Krelis, those words sinking in, then just nodded.\n\n'Good, then,' he said.\n\n'What do we do now?' Fidele asked.\n\n'The warbands are making ready to leave,' Veradis said. 'Eagle-guard, Jehar, Vin Thalun. Many thousands of them. Dawn is still a long way off; it is chaos, your best chance is to escape in the confusion.'\n\n'My men,' Krelis said. 'There are eight hundred men of Ripa up there. I would not abandon them.'\n\n'They are ready and waiting for us,' Alben said. He was still pale, but Veradis' bandage had stemmed the flow of his blood and he seemed to have a little more strength about him.\n\n'Can you ride?' Veradis asked him.\n\n'I'll damn well ride away from here,' he said.\n\n'But where?' Fidele asked.\n\n'We must get to Drassil,' Alben said, as if it were a simple task. 'It is where Meical is, and the Bright Star.'\n\n'You will have to race Nathair and Calidus,' Veradis said.\n\n'Then that is what we will do,' Alben replied.\n\n'It's a plan.' Maquin shrugged. 'But first we need to get away from this tower. I lived here, once. I know the pathways, I can lead us out. We should travel with those others leaving, at first, leave them once we're away from this tower.'\n\nHe looked about at them, their faces stern and solemn.\n\n'Agreed?' he asked.\n\n'Agreed,' they replied.\n\nThey made ready. Maquin took Peritus' sword, unstrapping the dead warrior's belt and scabbard.\n\n'You have a good man's blade there,' Krelis said.\n\n'I will kill many of his enemies with it.'\n\nKrelis smiled, a grim and fierce thing. 'May that knowledge go with him across the bridge of swords.'\n\nThey were about to leave when Maquin stopped.\n\n'There are more prisoners in here,' he said, looking to the end of the corridor.\n\n'Who?' asked Veradis.\n\n'The giantess and her bairn.'\n\nVeradis frowned a moment.\n\n'Calidus wanted them locked away, and that is a good enough reason for me to set them free. Can you hide them, take them with you?'\n\n'Hide them?' Krelis snorted. 'Not the easiest task.'\n\n'We can try,' Alben smiled.\n\nVeradis strode to the end of the corridor and unlocked their cell. Tentatively the two giants stepped out.\n\n'Raina, Tain,' Fidele said, 'we are fugitives in this place, fleeing, in danger of losing our lives, but you are welcome to join us, if you wish.'\n\nRaina looked from Fidele to the end of the corridor, the door open, torchlight inviting.\n\n_She is scared_ , thought Maquin. _Has been a captive so long, the alternative is a thing of fear._\n\n'It is a chance at freedom,' Alben said. 'You should seize it.'\n\n'Better to die free than to live in chains,' Maquin said.\n\n'Is it?' Raina asked, glancing between her son and Maquin.\n\n'Aye, it is,' Maquin said with conviction. 'And no one knows the truth of that better than I do.' He felt Fidele's hand brush his back.\n\n'We will taste freedom,' Raina said, 'even if it is only for a short while.'\n\nThey all strode down the corridor into a square room before a set of stairs. Two guards were sprawled on the floor. Alben shrugged. Krelis took their cloaks and gave them to the giants.\n\n'Probably won't help much,' he muttered.\n\n'I'll go up first, make a distraction for you,' Veradis said. 'When you hear it walk fast, turn right at the top of the stairs and--'\n\n'I know the way,' Maquin said.\n\n'Veradis,' Fidele said. 'You're not coming with us?'\n\n'No,' Veradis said. His eyes flickered between them all.\n\n'What?' blustered Krelis. 'But you must come with us.'\n\n'No. I have something to do.'\n\nMaquin recognized that look. Had seen it many times in his own reflection.\n\n_Honour. Or death. And sometimes one follows the other._\n\n'Come with us, friend,' Maquin said, stepping close to Veradis.\n\nVeradis just shook his head.\n\n'We'll see you again, then,' Maquin said, squeezing Veradis' shoulder.\n\n'Aye,' Veradis nodded grimly. 'This side or the other.'\n\n'What are you staying here for?' Krelis called after him.\n\nVeradis paused and looked back.\n\n'Brother, please. Come with us,' Krelis pleaded.\n\nVeradis shook his head. 'I cannot. But I will join you if I can.'\n\n'Why? Why will you not come with us now?'\n\n'Because I am going to kill Calidus.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas reined his horse in, Dag beside him. He had ridden back from the  front  line  to find  Jael,  passing  over two  thousand  men filling the road they had carved through the heart of Forn Forest. He felt a thrill of pride at seeing the road receding as far as his eye could see, branches arching over it as if they bowed to some royal procession.\n\n_Quite a feat._\n\nHe felt another thrill of excitement at what he had just discovered, or more accurately been told by Dag. He wanted to give the news to King Jael himself.\n\n_We started out with closer to three thousand men_ , Ulfilas thought as he rode through the throng. Hundreds had been lost to the cold and the predators of Forn.\n\n_And some of them have walked away on their own two feet, I am sure._\n\nMany  of  the  losses  Ulfilas  and  Dag  had  attributed  to  enemy raids. They had kept their thoughts to themselves, not wanting to fuel the rumours that the Black Sun and his demons were hunting them at night. Nevertheless the fear had spread. The only thing that had stopped men deserting in large numbers was the fact that those who did desert were usually found dead within a day of leaving, victims of Forn's denizens.\n\n'There he is.' Dag pointed, and Ulfilas saw Jael standing before his tent, watching it being raised for another night in the forest. Winter was breaking now, the cold air fresh rather than bitter, the ground softer underfoot. All about them branches were flourishing with the green of new leaves. Days were lasting longer, allowing them to work later each day. Ulfilas jerked his reins and guided his horse down the embankment the road was being built upon, great lengths of timber laid over the crumbling stone of this ancient giants' road. Jael was surrounded by his usual guards, Fram and a dozen men, they in turn circled by a score of the Jehar warriors, Sumur close to Jael.\n\n_He is always close to Jael. A permanent reminder of Nathair and his threat, or promise, no doubt._\n\nJael looked up as Ulfilas and Dag approached.\n\n'You have news?' he asked.\n\n'We do, my King,' Ulfilas said.\n\n'Come, then, tell me over a cup of wine,' Jael said and marched into his tent; servants inside were lighting torches, laying out furniture, food and drink.\n\nWithin short moments Ulfilas was handed a cup of wine that had been warmed over a fire. He drank, allowing Jael to settle himself into his fur-draped chair.\n\n'Well?' Jael asked when he was comfortable, a jewelled cup in his hand.\n\n'We've found Drassil,' Ulfilas said.\n\nJael blinked at that, the words seeping in.\n\n'You're sure?' was the first thing he said.\n\n'Aye,' Dag said. 'Seen it with my own eyes.'\n\n'What's it like, man?' Jael asked, leaning forward. That had been the first question Ulfilas had asked of the huntsman.\n\n'It's big,' Dag said. 'Like nothing you've ever seen.'\n\n'How long?' asked Jael, looking both excited and scared.\n\n'Half a day,' Dag replied. 'We can stop building the road now, make a base camp here, use the old road to get there on the morrow.'\n\n'The old road? Is it fit for purpose?'\n\n'Good enough. We'll  have to  walk, not  ride.  But clearing  the way and laying the new road would cost another half a ten-night.' He shrugged. 'Depends how desperate you are to get there.'\n\n'We are the first, then,' Jael said.\n\n'Oh aye, there were no other warbands camped outside the walls.'\n\n'So I shall be ruler of Carnutan and Helveth. Gundul and Lothar will be my vassals.' He smiled viciously.\n\n'Do you think they'll just allow that to happen?' Ulfilas said, not able to keep the scepticism from his voice.\n\n'Do you think Nathair lacks the ability to enforce it?' Jael replied.\n\nUlfilas remembered the display of Sumur against Fram, thought of a hundred like him. A thousand.\n\n'No, I don't, now that you mention it.'\n\n'Neither do I,' Jael said. 'So we shall march with dawn and attack on the morrow.'\n\n'Would it not be wiser to wait?' Ulfilas said. 'Now that we have found Drassil. We could scout it out and wait for the others to arrive?'\n\n'No,' a voice said behind them. Sumur, who had entered the tent silently. 'Meical is there. His puppet is there. I will taste their flesh before the sun sets on the morrow.'\n\nThey all looked at him in silence.\n\n_Taste their flesh!_\n\n'We have not carved our way through Forn to sit and wait,' Jael said, trying his best to ignore Sumur and avoid the flat stare of his eyes. 'Haelan is in there. I will not give him a chance to flee once again. And what of Gundul or Lothar? If we wait and they arrive from the south and west they will likely dispute my claim as first here! No. We shall be standing upon Drassil's walls by the time they arrive.' His grin widened. 'This is a good day. And the morrow will be better. Now, let's discuss how we are going to win the coming battle.'\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX\n\n#### VERADIS\n\nVeradis stood on the spiral of the tower steps and stared out of the window.\n\nBelow him was the courtyard of Brikan, where great iron pots blazed and crackled with fire, creating pools of light amidst the darkness. He watched as Fidele and the others, the giants stooping like ancients, ludicrous to any eyes that lingered upon them, made their way through the busy chaos. Horses were stamping and whinnying, men calling out, marching or mounting up. Making it worse, the cauldron's wain filled a large section of the courtyard, Jehar forming an unforgiving perimeter around it.\n\n_I have done all I can for them. My task here is too important to accompany them._\n\nWith relief he saw the escaping group pass through the arched gates that led to the encampment beyond, where - according  to Alben - the men of Ripa were awaiting them.\n\n_Good._\n\nHe turned and strode up the stairs, grim-faced and determined.\n\nCalidus' chamber was situated on the first floor of the tower, with two Jehar standing guard. Flies buzzed languidly around one of them.  It  didn't  seem  to  bother  him.  They  regarded  Veradis  with their black eyes as he knocked on the door and entered, not waiting for an invitation.\n\nCalidus was bending over a small chest, silhouetted by a huge fireplace built into the wall. Unaware of Veradis' presence he was focused on placing something - a doll-like figure with crude arms and legs - into the chest.\n\nAlcyon  was  standing  to  the  left,  before  a  huge  unshuttered window that looked out onto the river as it curled tight to the rear of the tower.\n\n_Focus on your task._\n\n'Ah,' Calidus said. He closed the lid of the chest with a snap. 'I was starting to think you had abandoned us.'\n\n'That is not who I am,' Veradis said. He glanced at Alcyon, saw the giant regarding him with sombre eyes.\n\n'No, it is not,' Calidus said. 'But a man of your mind-set. I imagine it is hard to come to terms with such a shift in reality, almost like the ground changing beneath your feet.'\n\n'I have had to think long and hard on it.'\n\n'Indeed,' said Calidus, head cocked to one side, studying Veradis intensely, like one of the vultures that circled a battlefield. Veradis walked to a table and poured himself a cup of wine, unable to meet Calidus' gaze.\n\n'Have you visited Nathair first?' Calidus asked him.\n\n'No,' Veradis said, sipping dark red wine and taking a step towards Calidus.\n\n'That is unexpected,' Calidus frowned.\n\n'I had some questions,' Veradis said and took another step closer. 'For you.'\n\n'I would be happy to answer them for you, Veradis. You are a valued part of our campaign. Deeply talented at what you do. There is much you can accomplish for us.'\n\n_What I do. Kill people. A blunt instrument of war. And, oh, how many I have killed for your cause already . . ._\n\nHe felt shame and self-loathing rise up like a wave, threatening to engulf him. With an act of will he forced it back down.\n\n_But can I kill him, standing before me without a weapon in his hands? It may be murder . . . but in this case I 'm willing to make an exception. Maybe then Nathair will see sense._\n\nAfter leaving Nathair, Veradis had found an abandoned stairwell and sat in solitary silence, thinking over, reliving every  moment since he'd met Nathair. Their first meeting with Calidus and Alcyon, when he'd leaped through a wall of fire to defend Nathair, the council of Aquilus, the ants, sailing to Tarbesh and fighting giants and draigs, Telassar and Calidus' unveiling . . .\n\n_And all of it is lies. I have been such a fool. And what more has been done without me by his side that I am unaware of?_\n\nAnd then the hunt for Mandros, Veradis leading a warband into Carnutan to hunt its King. He remembered Mandros' words in the glade, just before Veradis had slain him.\n\n_Nathair killed your King, not I._\n\n'I understand that all is not black and white, that difficult choices must be made in war. I am no infant to expect anything other.' He drew in a deep breath. 'However, there is one thing I _must_ know.' He looked up now and met Calidus' eyes. 'Truth now is all I ask. Did Nathair slay Aquilus?'\n\n'Of course he did.' Calidus snorted. 'He had no choice. It was--'\n\n'For the greater good,' Veradis finished for him, nodding. 'As is this.' He threw his cup of wine at Calidus' face, at the same time leaping forwards and drawing a knife from his belt. Calidus staggered back a step, right before the roaring fire, his arms raised, flailing. Veradis heard Alcyon moving, the table between them being overturned in Alcyon's rush, but he was too late. Veradis stepped in close to Calidus, ducked his flailing arms and buried his knife to the hilt in Calidus' belly, twisted and ripped, blood slicking his fist.\n\nThen Alcyon's huge hand clamped upon his arm. Veradis kicked Calidus in the chest, sent the Kadoshim stumbling backwards, tripping over the chest and falling into the huge fireplace.\n\nCalidus screamed as flames exploded in a roar about him, engulfing him. Alcyon hauled Veradis back a pace, twisting his arm, forcing him to his knees, pain screaming through his arm as tendons tore and sinew ripped, the shoulder close to dislocating.\n\n'Do what you will to me,' Veradis snarled. 'Your master is dead.'\n\nAlcyon just stared grimly at the fireplace and blazing flames.\n\nA figure appeared amongst the roaring flames, man-like, for a moment the likeness of dark, shadowy wings unfurling about him. Then Calidus staggered out from the fire's embrace, stepped onto the cold stone of his chamber. His cloak was ablaze, his silver hair scorched black or burned away, and the flesh on his face was peeling and charred.\n\nHe undid the brooch of his cloak, let it slip to the ground, swatted at a flame on his sleeve. Annoyed and almost amused.\n\n'As you can see, I am quite hard to kill,' Calidus  said,  voice deeper, harsher.\n\nVeradis just stared at him in horror, his eyes drawn to his knife still buried deep in Calidus' belly.  Calidus  wrapped  blistered  fingers  around  the  hilt  and  pulled  it  out,  growling  with  pain  like a wounded animal. He held the blade up between two fingers, grimaced and threw it over his shoulder.\n\n'Well done,' Calidus said. 'It takes a rare man to get past my guard - and my guardian.' He shot a black look at Alcyon.\n\nVeradis glowered at him, felt a surge of pure hatred for this man, this creature before him. The one who had corrupted everything, his friend, his whole world.\n\nCalidus met his gaze and sighed.\n\n'I can see we're not going to get anywhere with you,' he said. 'A shame.' He shrugged. 'Alcyon, kill him.'\n\nVeradis stared into the giant's eyes, part of him wanting death, welcoming  it.\n\n_I deserve it. The wise man lives a long life, the fool dies a thousand deaths._\n\n'I am sorry, True-Heart,' Alcyon whispered and slowly raised his war-hammer.\n\n'Who were those giants to you?' Veradis asked him.\n\nAlcyon paused.\n\n'Kill him,' Calidus hissed.\n\n'What?' Alcyon rumbled.\n\n'Those giants during the trial. Who were they to you?'\n\nAlcyon's face twitched, muscles spasming. His lip trembled. A tear rolled from one dark eye.\n\n'My wife. My son.'\n\n'They are free,' Veradis whispered.\n\n'You lie,' Calidus sneered, though an edge of doubt showed in his voice.\n\n'I set them free,' Veradis said, fixing Alcyon with his gaze. 'Saw them walk out through Brikan's gates.'\n\n'Alcyon, kill him.'\n\nAlcyon's arm hovered over Veradis. It shook, as if caught by an invisible force.\n\n'No,' the giant whispered.\n\n'No?' Calidus frowned. He and Alcyon glared at one another, beads of sweat breaking out upon both of their brows. Time passed - a dozen heartbeats, a hundred, Veradis did not know. Eventually Calidus turned away, threw open the lid to the chest before the fire and reached inside. Veradis saw more of the clay figures contained within and suddenly remembered Fidele's explanation of Lykos' enchantment.\n\n_All I know is that he had a doll, a clay figure, a strand of my hair set within it_ , she had said _. When Maquin fought Lykos at the arena it was crushed underfoot, destroyed, and immediately the chains within my mind were broken._\n\nVeradis swept a leg out and kicked the chest into the fire. The flames flared about it, smoke billowing, the smell of burning hair wafting about them.\n\n'You fool,' Calidus snarled, a feral rage twisting his face, and he drew his sword.\n\nAlcyon swung his hammer into Calidus' chest, hurling him back against a wall. He slid to the ground, the wall cracked, fragments of stone falling about him. Slowly Calidus stood, shook his head.\n\n'Legion,' he roared, his voice like a storm wind, and the door burst open, the two Jehar surging in. Veradis heard the buzzing of flies.\n\nVeradis stood on shaky legs, the pain in his shoulder still screaming at him. He reached for his sword hilt.\n\nThen a huge arm was wrapping about his waist, lifting him and carrying him across the room in great bounding strides. Towards the open window, Alcyon's foot on the sill, launching them out into open air and darkness. Then they were falling, tumbling, wind snatching his breath away, still held tight in Alcyon's iron grip, the black waters of the river below rushing up to meet him.\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN\n\n#### EVNIS\n\nEvnis sat in the tower on the northern border of the marshlands and brooded.\n\nThere had been no sign of Braith.\n\n_He left over a moon ago, and still no word._ Yet Evnis trusted Braith - when it came to hunting, anyway. It was not the finding of Edana and her little band of rebels that concerned him, it was what he would do once he knew where they were. Once he had them.\n\n_Edana 's easy, of course. She has to die. And apparently the bitch-wife of Eremon is with her, and her idiot son, who has a claim to the throne of Domhain. Rhin won't like the thought of him still breathing, so he'll have to die as well._\n\nNo, they were all simple.\n\n_All of it is simple, in fact. Kill everyone. Except . . ._\n\nExcept his son.\n\n_What will I do with Vonn?_\n\nHe loved his son, of that there was no doubt. And if there ever had been any doubt of that he had resolved the situation when against all judgement he'd stood up in a field full of enemies and called out his son's name.\n\nBut now men were talking about him. He knew by the looks as he passed, the whispers. _They are saying I am weak. That my love for my son is a vulnerability, that I am a risk, a danger. What if it happens again, they say, and our position is revealed?_\n\n_I must prove them wrong. Show them my strength. A ruler 's power is his reputation. I cannot afford to be considered weak. Rhin hears all, and if she hears that . . ._\n\nHe sipped from a small cup of usque, the  liquor  smooth  and sweet, warming his belly, the glow spreading.\n\nThere was a knock at his door, it was Glyn his shieldman.\n\n'Someone comes from the marsh, my lord.'\n\n_About bloody time. Braith at last._\n\nIt was Rafe.\n\nEvnis stood on the wall above the gates, watching a boat slip through the marsh waters, a man inside leaping ashore and tying the boat off. A bag was slung across his back, which he set on the ground while he saw to the boat. Two hounds ran along the riverbank.\n\n_Why is he alone?_\n\nEvnis decided that he no longer liked waiting - _it feels as if I have been waiting my whole life_.\n\nEvnis was almost at the riverbank when Rafe started walking towards him. The lad had been squatting beside his boat, patting his two hounds.\n\n_Sentimental boy. Not like his father._\n\nRafe's expression sent different signals to Evnis. He was feeling too impatient to work them out himself.\n\n'Tell me,' he said simply.\n\n'Braith's dead,' the young huntsman said, 'and all the others. We were hunted down by that Camlin.'\n\nEvnis felt a muscle twitch in his cheek.\n\n'So, a complete disaster, then.'\n\n'Not exactly. I escaped, then followed them back to Dun Crin. I know where it is, can guide you there.'\n\nEvnis grinned. 'That, my lad, is wonderful news. You said _them._ You followed _them._ '\n\n'I did,' Rafe said. 'Camlin had help. Vonn.'\n\n'Vonn helped hunt Braith down and kill him?'\n\n'Aye. But he let me go. He could have killed me, always been better with a blade than me. He let me go.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'He asked me to give you a message.' Rafe looked at Glyn.\n\n'Go on, lad, Glyn's good at keeping secrets.'\n\n'Said when you come for Dun Crin, and he knows you will, that he wants to talk to you.'\n\nEvnis felt a rising hope.\n\n'Did he now? Did he say what about?'\n\n'He said he wants to talk to you about the God-War, the Seven Treasures, and the necklace of Nemain.'\n\nEvnis was stunned to silence, almost took a step back at that.\n\n'Someone is coming,' Glyn said into the silence, looking back up the hill. 'I think it's Morcant.'\n\nIt  was,  the  young  warrior  striding  with  his  usual  grace  and arrogance, a handful of warriors behind him.\n\n_More peacocks, like their master, though with lesser plumage._\n\n'What news?' Morcant asked as he approached.\n\n_How is it that he even makes a question sound arrogant?_\n\n'Edana and her rabble have been found. We will set out on the morrow,' Evnis said, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.\n\n'Good,' Morcant said, rubbing his hands together. 'I'm overdue a good fight.'\n\nEvnis sat near the head of a long barge, thirty warriors about him. It was early, the sun not yet burning off morning's mist, wisps of it curling about the river, coiling up and over the side of the barge. Evnis shivered.\n\nMorcant sat in the boat behind him, looking every bit the hero in his black and gold war-gear.\n\n_How I despise him._\n\nAnd behind Morcant the boats of their small fleet were filling; fifty vessels, bought, stolen, built, not all of them as big as the one he was sitting in, but they carried over five hundred men between them.\n\n_More than enough to crush this rebellion._\n\nThe sensible voice in his head told him to wait for the extra men to arrive from Dun Carreg, a few hundred at least. Enough to make the outcome of this conflict a foregone conclusion. He knew that this was riskier, but had justified it, claiming that they must strike hard and fast now, before Edana's rabble grew, and that if they did not strike now there would be a high risk of Edana's rebels just moving base, and then they would never find them.\n\n_So it has to be now,_ Evnis had argued.\n\n_Good arguments, and true, to a point. But they are not the reason I am ordering an immediate strike._\n\n_I need to see my son, and resolve this once and for all._\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban woke to a knocking at his door. For a moment he did not know where he was. Then he remembered.\n\n_Drassil. And today we fight._\n\nAn enemy warband had been spied in the forest some moons ago, identified as Jael and the warriors of Isiltir. Kadoshim had also been seen amongst them. Since then Coralen and her scouts had kept track  of  it,  and  many  night-time  raids had issued from the tunnels in an attempt to whittle down the numbers and spread fear amongst the survivors. Yet still they had forged on, a few thousand swords, coming to Drassil to kill them.\n\n_And today they will be here. At the gates of Drassil._\n\nThe knocking sounded on the door again and he rose, shivered as his bare feet met the cold stone floor.\n\nIt was before dawn, grey light seeping through windows, the orange glow of embers in  his  fire  seemingly  the  only  colour  in the room. He pulled his breeches on and padded to the door.\n\nBrina was stood outside with a bowl in her hand, other faces behind her: Cywen, Dath, Farrell, Gar and Coralen. Buddai's  tail thumped on the floor at the sight of him. Without waiting for Corban to say anything Brina pushed past him, the others following. They were all dressed in their war gear, gleaming with iron and leather and wood.\n\n'Eat this,' Brina said, pushing him into a chair and passing him the bowl filled to the brim with steaming porridge.\n\n'Has it got honey in it?' He frowned. 'I don't like porridge without honey.'\n\n'Told you,' Cywen said as she picked up one of Corban's boots and began hunting for the other.\n\n'Yes, it has,' said Brina, unusually patient.\n\nHe tasted some suspiciously, then smiled and ate.\n\n'Almost as good as Mam's,' he said as he finished, scraping the bowl. 'Now, what's this all about?'\n\n'We just wanted to see you, before . . .' Cywen said, who had collected a pile of clothes together and laid them upon his bed.\n\n'Before people start stabbing each other,' Brina finished for her.\n\nThey all came and sat around him.\n\n'We've come a long way, eh?' he said.\n\n'Aye, we have,' Gar nodded gravely.\n\nHe looked at all of their faces, so many memories rushing up with each of them, warming his heart. Too many memories to begin to mention. 'I don't know what to say,' he said.\n\n'Neither do I,' said Brina, her eyes shining.\n\n'That's a first,' Dath whispered, too loudly, as always.\n\nBrina glared at him.\n\n'Apart from one thing,' Corban said. 'And it is that I love you all. Would give my life gladly for any one of you.'\n\nGar stood and leaned forward, put his hands on Corban's cheeks and kissed his forehead. 'We love you too, Ban,' he said, the others murmuring agreement. 'And we are proud of you. And your mam and da would burst with that pride if they could see you now.'\n\n'Well,' Corban said, sniffing, 'I did not think I would start the day with tears.' He smiled as he rubbed at his eyes.\n\n'Me neither,' Brina said, wiping her own eyes. 'Now come on, best get you dressed; we haven't got all day.'\n\n'Dressed?'\n\n'Aye. Farrell's brought you a nice shiny new shirt, Coralen's sharpened and polished your wolven claws, I even got my stitching needle  out.'\n\nThey helped him dress for war.\n\nFarrell smiled when Corban put his arms and head into the shirt of mail.\n\n'It's lighter than the one I've been training in,' Corban said as he rolled his shoulders, 'and it fits better. Much better.'\n\n'Laith helped me,' Farrell confessed. 'She's an amazing smith.' He patted Corban on the back, staggering him as Brina slipped his arm-ring over the shirt-sleeve, Farrell squeezing it tight around Corban's upper arm. A leather bracer was buckled around his right forearm, sewn with strips of iron, then Gar unfolded a black surcoat, an emblem upon its front. A white star with four points, like the north star.\n\n'Brina made this for you,' Gar said.\n\n'In case you forget you're the Bright Star, which I wouldn't put past you,' Brina muttered.\n\n_How can she manage to call me the Bright Star of prophecy and insult me with the same breath?_\n\nCorban just looked at them as Gar slipped it over his head and Cywen  buckled  his  belt  around  it,  adjusting  his  sheathed  sword. 'I remember me and Mam making that scabbard, and we wound the leather on your sword hilt,' she said.\n\n'Aye, you did.' Corban felt a lump in his throat stopping any more words coming out.\n\n'Da made your sword,' Cywen continued, 'and your torc.' Brina slipped that around Corban's neck, the two wolven-head ends a comforting weight.\n\nCoralen lifted his  left  hand,  slipped  the  wolven-claw  gauntlet on and buckled it tight. 'Don't try and scratch your chin with this hand,' she said as she adjusted the buckles over the mail shirt-sleeve, 'I've sharpened your claws. Think they'd cut iron right now.'\n\nShe slipped his wolven cloak about his shoulders, fastening the brooch and pausing to look in his eyes, smiling at him.\n\n'We made you this, as well,' Dath said, slipping out of the doorway and grunting as he lifted something in the hall. He came back in carrying a shield, iron-rimmed, painted with black pitch, the same white star upon its centre as was upon his surcoat.\n\n'I know you rarely use a shield,' Gar said, 'but you've trained hard with one in the weapons court, and it's better to have one and not need it, than to need one and not have it.'\n\n'That sounds like something Brina would say,' Dath commented.\n\n'And you can always use it like I showed you,' Gar said, strapping it onto Corban's back. 'So that your back is shielded in a melee. Which may happen today.' He shook it, made sure the strap was tight.\n\nThey all stepped back and looked at him.\n\n'Thank you, all of you,' Corban said.\n\n'You look almost like a hero, if I don't say so myself,' said Cywen.\n\nBrina looked up at the window, sunlight streaming in now.\n\n'Time to go,' she said.\n\nThey filed out of the room, Corban walking last, Buddai rising in the corridor to greet them. As he reached the doorway Coralen turned back  to him,  stopped  him with  a hand  on  his chest.  She gripped a fistful of his surcoat and pulled him hard towards her and before he knew what was happening her lips were against his, warm and fierce. The world shrank to the two of them, for a few heartbeats all else fading as he kissed her back, then she was pushing away from him, turning her back, taking long strides to catch up with the others.\n\nHe stood there a moment, breathless, blinking, the faint taste of apples from her lips lingering, then he shook his head and followed after her.\n\nStairs wound about Drassil's trunk and they walked in silence down to the great chamber's stone floor, boots echoing. Gar and the rest of them paused, letting Corban walk ahead, and they followed close behind him.\n\nBalur One-Eye was standing before the throne of Skald, the ancient King's skeleton transfixed by the spear a constant reminder of the centuries of war that had spiralled from that one moment. Balur's tattoo of thorns wound dark about both of his bare forearms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of a chainmail shirt; the starstone axe lay black and brooding upon his back. Ethlinn and the might of the Benothi stood behind him, grim and dour in leather, fur and iron. War-hammers and axes glinted. Even the giantlings were there, all ready for war. Corban saw Laith amongst them, her belts criss-crossing her torso, like Cywen, bristling with knives. Balur nodded to Corban and they followed silently behind him.\n\nThe great doors opened before Corban, light streaming in. A handful of the Jehar waited for him there, led by Hamil, dressed in black shirts of mail, swords strapped to their backs, each one wearing a black surcoat with a white star upon their chests. They parted for Corban and, as he strode through their midst, closed up behind him. He saw children standing in the shadows, running along with them. Haelan was one of them, his white ratter at his heels, and Corban beckoned him over, not breaking his stride.\n\n'I have a task for you, if you would help me,' Corban said to the lad.\n\n'Of course,' Haelan breathed, his face shining with pride, 'I'll do anything to help.'\n\n'Good. Follow me, then.'\n\nCorban led them through the streets of Drassil, not straight to the gates, but eastward, through a less-inhabited part of the fortress, finally stopping in a courtyard where the ground was ruptured by thick roots.\n\n'Storm,' Corban called out as a silence fell in the square. His voice echoed back from the stone walls all about, and before it had faded Storm leaped out from the hole beneath the tree root  and padded up to Corban, nuzzling his chest with her scarred muzzle. He buried his face in the fur of her neck.\n\nMore shapes emerged from the darkness of the hole: six cubs, running and bouncing to their mother's legs, standing in the shadow beneath her bulk. They were close to three moons old now, more balls of fur with teeth than anything else.\n\n'Storm, I need you with me today. So I'll leave some friends to guard your cubs.' Corban looked at Haelan. 'Think you can do that for  me?'\n\n'Aye,' Haelan beamed, scooping one of the cubs up in his arms.\n\n'I thought so, as I've seen you visiting these cubs every day and luring them out with scraps of food. Thought they might be happiest with you.'\n\nHaelan's smile grew, if that was possible. 'Think I might need some help, though,' he added as he tried to scoop another cub up and missed.\n\n'Wulf's bairns will help you,' Corban said, then turned to leave.\n\n'Not you, Tahir,' Haelan said. 'I give you permission to go and fight today, not stand around in here watching me.'\n\nTahir smiled and ruffled Haelan's hair.\n\n'Storm, with me,' Corban said and strode from the courtyard. Storm hesitated a moment, looking between Corban and her cubs, then padded after Corban.\n\n'And, Tahir,' Haelan called out after them, 'bring me Jael's head.'\n\n'I'll do my best,' Tahir muttered behind Corban.\n\nThe rest of the warband were waiting for Corban before Drassil's great gates, the converted bear pens edging the courtyard. Although the plan was to remain inside the walls, horses were saddled and harnessed, prepared for any eventuality. Corban heard Shield whinny when he entered the courtyard, calling out to him.\n\nA great host stood before the gates, every last man and woman who could wield a sword, and standing in front of them was Meical. Today he looked like one of the Ben-Elim from the tales of the Scourging, tall and commanding in a coat of gleaming mail, his dark hair tied back in a severe knot. He half-bowed to Corban as he led his followers to the gate.\n\n'The Bright Star,' Meical called out, his voice ringing from the stone walls, drowned by a great roar from the warband.\n\nCorban climbed a dozen steps on the wall, then stopped and looked about at them all, hundreds of faces staring back at him. A mixture of fear, of pride, of determination. Brave men and women, all touched, scarred in some way by Asroth and his servants.\n\n_I am dreaming. How has life come to this?_\n\nHe took a deep breath.\n\n'We have been hunted, hounded, our kin slain, our friends murdered. We have travelled hundreds of leagues, fled the dark tide that is sweeping this land. But no more. Today we stand. Today we fight. Now that's a tale our kin will be proud to tell.'\n\nThe courtyard rang with cheering. It slowly faded to an echo.\n\n'Win or lose, live or die, I am proud to stand beside you.'\n\nA great roar rose up from the courtyard then, feet stamping, spears banging on shields, swords on bucklers. As it died a new sound rang out. Horns blasted from the walls above.\n\n_They are here._\n\nCorban felt a jolt of fear, his guts turning to water for a few heartbeats. He ground his jaw, refusing to let it rule him.\n\nHe drew his sword and held it high over his head. 'Truth and courage!' he yelled, punching the sky, then turned and strode up the steps to Drassil's wall. The courtyard rang with the echo of a thousand voices yelling the same battle-cry as they all went to find their places.\n\n'That's a lot of men,' Dath commented in Corban's ear.\n\n_It is._\n\nThousands of warriors were pouring out of the trees to the north-west of the fortress, spilling into the open space like blood from a wound, gathering into a thick pool, edging forwards.\n\nFrom this distance Corban could make out little detail, just a mass of iron and leather, red cloaks and fur. Most of the warband were on foot, and the disconcerting thing was that they just kept on appearing, more and more of them emerging from the shadows of Forn. Eventually riders appeared, a banner held aloft, a lightning bolt with a pale serpent wrapped around it.\n\n_I like my banner better,_ thought Corban, looking up to see the bright star on a black field snapping from the gate tower above him. Slowly the warband moved southwards, skirting the edge of the land cleared over the last few moons, until they were massed about a thousand paces from Drassil's only gates. Then they began to edge closer,  a  semi-organized  line  stretching  the  width  of  the  western wall, ten men deep at least. Corban began to make out details, the most troubling of which was the number of long timber ladders he spied being carried amongst their ranks.\n\n'Two and a half thousand swords,' Gar whispered behind him.\n\nFive hundred paces out and horn blasts rang from the cluster of riders, the warband rippling to a halt, a silence settling heavy upon them all.\n\n'Is it just me, or is there a lot of waiting in war?' Dath muttered.\n\n'Aye, you're right,' Farrell replied. 'Usually followed by a lot of dying.'\n\nDath took a deep breath.\n\n'That's  comforting.'\n\n'Here to help,' Farrell muttered.\n\nHearing Dath and Farrell's bickering actually helped to calm Corban's nerves, something familiar in this most unfamiliar of circumstances.\n\n_The other battles seemed to just happen_ - _Dun Carreg, Murias, Gramm 's hold. This waiting and watching is worse._\n\nFour riders separated from the others, riding at a steady pace towards the gates of Drassil, one clearly the leader, his horsehair plume tugged by the wind - _must be Jael, the self-appointed King of Isiltir_ - another held Isiltir's banner, the third appearing to be a shieldman, obviously a warrior, sitting his saddle with an easy grace and clothed similarly to the other two, in red cloak, black cuirass and iron helm, sword at his hip, spear in one hand. The fourth appeared elderly, hunched over his saddle and wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood pulled up.\n\n_A loremaster, perhaps, come to tell me that I have no legal claim to be fighting against the King of Isiltir._\n\nThey rode steadily closer.\n\n_At least it looks as if the waiting 's over._\n\n#### CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\nUlfilas rode one side of Jael, his first-sword Fram upon the other, their cloaked and hunched companion close behind them. As they drew nearer Ulfilas looked up at the walls of Drassil, the great tree towering behind them, its branches unfurling like some giant organic shield that touched the clouds.\n\nThe gates were huge, constructs of weathered oak and iron, as tall as a house from Mikil, and looked as thick as a wall. On the wall above, warriors stood in silent rows, peering down on them. Here and there Ulfilas saw the huge proportions of a giant.\n\n_Never  thought  I'd  wish  for  the  company  of  Ildaer  and  his  Jotun. Where is he, the traitorous coward?_ Over a dozen messengers had been sent north into the Desolation in search of Ildaer and his giants. Not a sight or sound had been heard of them since the disaster at Gramm's hold, and eventually Jael had tired of sending messengers.\n\nOn  one  of  the  gate  towers  a  banner  rippled;  as  Ulfilas  drew nearer he was able to make out a rayed white star upon a black field.\n\nIn the crook of his arm Ulfilas held the banner of Isiltir, the wind trying to rip it from his grip.\n\n_White star against the storm and serpent._\n\nThey were three or four hundred paces from the gates now, still closer to their warband than to the walls of Drassil, but nevertheless Ulfilas was starting to feel a little intimidated by the sheer scale of them.\n\n_Are our ladders even tall enough?_\n\n'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Ulfilas asked Jael, who sat straight and confident in his saddle.\n\nJael reined his horse in and cupped his hands about his mouth.\n\n_Too late._\n\n'Who leads this rabble?' Jael called out, voice sounding small and insignificant as it battered against Drassil's walls. No answer came back to them.\n\n'I've heard a name, and a title,' Jael called. 'Corban. Bright Star. Are you up there, Corban, but too scared to speak with me. '\n\n_He 's always had a natural ability to get under the skin, has Jael._\n\n'I'm here,' a voice came down to them.\n\n'I've a proposition for you, Bright Star,' Jael shouted, managing to make the title sound like an insult. 'I've a lot of men under my care, and no doubt you've a fair few with you inside those walls. How about we decide this the old way, and spare the blood of thousands of men. Spare their lives.'\n\nSilence.\n\n'You against my champion. Winner takes the field.'\n\nMore  silence.\n\n'I'd wager that that has set the cat amongst the wood pigeons,' Jael whispered to Ulfilas.\n\n'You lie,' another voice drifted down.\n\n_I recognize that voice._\n\nA face peered over the wall. Wulf.\n\n'Ahh, the son of Gramm,' Jael called out. 'How are your hands?'\n\n_I think he 's genuinely enjoying this._\n\n'You will die today, Jael. As will your lackey, Ulfilas.'\n\n_Well, I did spill his da 's guts before his very eyes. I'd be surprised if he wasn't angry._\n\n'Be quiet, you insignificant oaf,' Jael called back. 'I'm talking to your leader, not you.'\n\nCurses drifted down and then Wulf's face disappeared.\n\n'I do not lie,' Jael said. 'I swear an oath, before my people and any powers that deign to listen. If you defeat my champion I shall withdraw and leave you in peace.'\n\n'I'll fight _you_ ,' the first voice came down to them.\n\n'Ahh, tempting,' Jael said, 'but, no. I am a king. I have a champion, whereas you are no king, but profess to _be_ a champion. The champion of Elyon, no less; or am I mistaken? That is what the prophecy says, does it not?'\n\nMore silence.\n\n'So if you are the champion you claim to be, then come down here. Fight my champion, and spare the lives of your followers.'\n\nJael turned and grinned at Ulfilas. 'Either way, we win here. If he refuses, he loses the respect of his warband - they will not fight so fiercely for someone who had an opportunity to save them and chose not to. And if he comes down here, he dies. Their Bright Star. That will rip the heart out of this warband. They may even surrender after that.'\n\n_I 'll give it to Jael, he is a canny one._\n\n'But what if he comes down here and wins?' Ulfilas said.\n\nJael just pulled a face at him. 'Win? Please.' Then he frowned as he thought about it a few moments, finally shrugging. 'If he wins we'll just kill him, anyway. He won't get back to those gates before my mounted shieldmen could catch him.'\n\n'That may inspire some anger amongst his warband, rather than dishearten them.'\n\n'It may, you're right. But he'd still be dead, and that is the most important goal here, Ulfilas. To kill a snake you cut off the head.'\n\n'I'm coming down,' the Bright Star's voice drifted down to them.\n\nThe gates opened with a grating of iron and oak and a lone figure stepped out. They closed behind him with a booming thud as he strode purposefully towards them.\n\n'He looks quite confident,' Jael remarked.\n\n'He does,' Ulfilas agreed.\n\nThe four of them waited in silence as the lone  warrior approached them.\n\n_So this is the Bright Star that Nathair is so scared of. Corban. He is younger than I expected._\n\nHe was young, his face smooth-skinned apart from the short dark stubble of a beard. He walked with the easy gait of a warrior, of average height, broad at the shoulder, thick at the chest, slim at the waist, built more like a blacksmith, to Ulfilas' mind.\n\n_He 's well dressed, though_, Ulfilas thought, admiring his war gear. A well-fitting coat of mail, leather and iron on his wrists and feet, shield slung across his back and a large hand-and-a-half sword at his hip.\n\n_A big sword, too big to use single-handed. Strong but slow._\n\nUlfilas had seen this type many times before, strong but slow, their strength often their worst enemy, relying upon  it  to  batter their opponents into defeat. He saw a strange weapon strapped to Corban's left hand, like a three-pronged knife bound into a leather gauntlet.\n\n_Like claws._ Ulfilas remembered the wounds on many of those who had been slain in the night-time raids during the journey through  Forn.\n\nSomething glinted on his arm, an arm-ring spiralling around his bicep, gleaming with silver.\n\n_Jael will want that once this man is dead._\n\nHe stopped about fifty paces from them, regarding them with dark, serious eyes.\n\n'I am here, then.' Corban drew his sword almost without having seemed to move, his feet shifting, balance perfect. He rolled his shoulders.\n\n_Maybe not so slow, then._\n\n'Brave of you,' Jael commented, 'and trusting.'\n\n_Not so trusting, that 's why he stopped over fifty paces away from us._\n\nCorban shrugged. 'Let's get on with this.'\n\n'Not a conversationalist, then,' Jael said. 'As you wish.' He pulled on his reins and kicked his horse, turning to ride back to the warband. Ulfilas and Fram followed. Ulfilas looked back over his shoulder, saw the surprise on Corban's face as Fram rode away, then saw his expression change as the fourth member of their party slid from his horse and dropped his cloak.\n\n_This will most likely be over before we are back amongst our warband._\n\nIt was Sumur.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nFor a heartbeat Corban froze, numb, shocked, then a jolt of fear hit him.\n\n_Sumur. Kadoshim._\n\n_I 'm going to die._\n\n_I should have listened to Gar and Meical and not accepted Jael 's challenge._ Gar had insisted on accepting the duel, said that he was Corban's champion, that he had stood guard over him since birth, and it wasn't going to change now.\n\n_You can do much for me, Gar, but you cannot_ be _me. Jael is right, I am Elyon 's champion, no other._ Gar had just stood there, looking into Corban's eyes, his face twitching with frustration.\n\nMeical had grabbed Corban, ordered him not to go, and then when it became clear that wasn't going to work, almost begged. It was the most emotion Corban had ever seen from the Ben-Elim.\n\n_But I had no choice. How could I let so many die when I could have done something to stop it?_\n\n_You tell me I am the Bright Star_ , Corban had said as Meical had gripped his arm. _I_ must _do this._ Meical had regarded him with sad eyes, then nodded and let go.\n\nAs those behind him recognized who he faced they broke out with shouting and cursing. He recognized Gar's voice, Dath's swearing. Could imagine the look of fear on Cywen's face.\n\n_I have to put it out of my mind_ , he told himself. _If I want to last more than a few heartbeats I must put_ everything _out of my mind except his sword._\n\n'Surprised?' Sumur said, having crossed over half the distance to Corban, only twenty or thirty paces separating them now.\n\n'A little,' Corban muttered, taking a few steps backwards as Sumur strode towards him, inevitable as time.\n\n_It seems the Kadoshim have learned a little humour since they entered this world._\n\n'I am going to carve out your heart and eat it,' Sumur said, the gap closing between them.\n\n_Now that 's not so funny._\n\n'Are you Sumur, or something else?'\n\n'Sumur is still in here,' the Kadoshim said, walking closer, his black eyes boring into Corban. 'All of his knowledge, his skill, the instinctive responses of his body.' He rolled his wrist as he approached Corban, his blade twirling a slow circle. Corban recognized the movement, remembered seeing him do the same thing back in Dun Carreg, when Gar had faced Sumur, trying to purchase Corban time to escape.\n\n_Strange - the body and movement is Sumur's, but the voice is someone else's. Not someone, something. And if Gar couldn't beat him, how in the Otherworld can I?_\n\n'But Sumur does not rule in here, any more.' The Kadoshim put fingertips to heart and head. 'I am Belial, captain of Asroth.'\n\n'I think I'll just stick with Sumur,' Corban said, shuffling back another few paces.\n\nSumur shrugged and continued striding forwards. 'Will you run from me?' he asked, his head cocked to one side. 'I can smell your fear.'\n\n_He is not trying to goad me, is just speaking the truth._\n\n'All men feel fear,' Corban snarled and surged forwards.\n\nPartly he was just sick of running and wanted to fight, but there was more to his attack than simply a knee-jerk anger. He had half-hoped to catch Sumur by surprise, maybe have half a heartbeat within which to find an opening.\n\nThat did not happen.\n\nCorban's first strike was a two-handed chop at the head, using all his strength, from feet and ankles, through legs into his back, shoulders and arms.\n\nSumur met the blow easily, almost lazily shrugging it off. Corban's second, third and fourth blows - a combination that he was sure Gar would have stopped and applauded him for - all met with hard iron. He did manage to stop Sumur's advance, though, the Kadoshim planting his feet and gripping his blade two-handed. Corban swirled around him, one blow merging into the next, trying to move onto Sumur's left side.\n\nThen, without any warning, no visible tell that Corban spotted, Sumur was pushing forwards, almost opening Corban's throat with his first blow, the blade-tip scraping off Corban's torc, the second strike glancing off his mail-covered shoulder, the third met with Corban's blade, the fourth deflected by the iron strips in Corban's bracer, the sixth avoided by a leap as Sumur tried to cut his feet from under him. Three more blows came at Corban's head in sharp succession, each one powerful enough to take his head off if not deflected. Corban rolled and rotated his wrists, elbows, shoulders, shifted his weight, sending the blows slipping a finger's width wide of his head each time.\n\n_It is like fighting a giant, his strength is incredible._\n\nSumur's blade came at him faster and faster, the strength building with each blow; the Kadoshim starting to move in circles about him, halting Corban's steady retreat back to the gates of Drassil.\n\nInstinct overcame Corban's fear then, his mind shrinking to the man and blade before him, reading the shift of his feet, the contraction and extension of muscle, the tilt and bunching of balance. At first it was enough that he managed to block each blow, but slowly his body began working faster than thought, the constant drills of Gar and the sword dance flowing through his limbs without conscious direction, and he began to counter Sumur's blows. First one in three or four, then every other blow against him and he was striking back.\n\nThey exchanged another flurry of blows, Corban using every form within the sword dance, and while he managed to push Sumur back a dozen steps and defend against his attacks, he could not break through the Kadoshim's guard.\n\nThey parted, Corban breathing heavily, muscles and tendons strained and screaming for respite, bruises throbbing beneath his mail shirt where blows had sneaked through his guard, blood trickling down one leg from a shallow cut above his knee. Sumur was unmarked but looked . . . irritated.\n\n_I 'm still alive_, Corban thought. It came as quite a shock to him.\n\n_He knows the sword dance as if he were it, can strike with every conceivable combination, can counter the same. If that is all I can meet him with I am going to die - sooner or later I will tire, will slow down, and his strength and stamina are not changing. If anything his strength is growing with his anger._ A memory flashed through his mind, of Gar standing over Akar in the weapons court.\n\n'What's the matter?' Corban breathed with a forced grin. 'Can't you kill me?'\n\nSumur snarled at that, powered in at him, blows coming from every angle. Corban blocked them all, just, then forced his body to change course, stepped in instead of obeying instinct and swirling away. He headbutted Sumur full on the bridge of the nose, punched his sword hilt into Sumur's face as he staggered back a step, slammed his wolven-claws into the man's belly, punching through chainmail links deep into soft flesh, ripping the claws free as he swept away.\n\n_Thank you, Coralen._\n\nSumur paused, looked at him with his head cocked to one side, dark drops of blood smearing his lips, dripping from his mouth. He did not seem to notice the wound in his belly, even though blood was dripping, pooling about his feet.\n\n_I have to take his head. I can hardly touch him, and when I do, I deal a blow that would kill any other man and he does not even notice it._\n\nThe uselessness and frustration of it threatened to overwhelm him.\n\n_No._ Gar's words from a million training sessions came back to him, ordering him on. _I endure. I try again._\n\n'Surprised?' Corban said. 'Perhaps I'll get to add your head to those of your kin that are decorating Drassil's gate.' He gestured behind him towards Drassil and then followed in before Sumur could respond. Their blades rang, a concussive, harsh rhythm, echoing off Drassil's walls.\n\nAbruptly pain ignited along Corban's  thigh,  a  line  of  burning fire, a downwards glimpse showing him a red line, bleeding heavily, soaking into his breeches. Sumur spun out of reach, Corban blocking a backswing with his wolven claws, taking too  much  of  the power from Sumur's blow, a pain stabbing through his wrist.\n\n_This is how the end comes. The slow creep of a myriad small wounds, blood draining away, muscles bruised, worn, weary, tendons stretched too far, too many times, exhaustion squeezing in upon your mind and body, all combining to slow you by a heartbeat for that one fatal blow._\n\n_No_ , he screamed at himself.\n\nSumur smiled at him. 'Your heart, I can almost taste it.' He licked his lips.\n\n_If I 'm going to die I'll make a song of it, at least. Don't want Tukul waiting for me on the bridge of swords without a smile on his face._\n\nHe hefted his sword, taking the weight in one hand, striking like a smith at the forge with both arms, blade and claw, on his fifth or sixth stroke he felt his blade slam into Sumur's chainmail, caught Sumur's sword between the blades of his claw, punched him in the mouth, pulled away, pivoted on a heel, taking two blows in quick succession upon the shield across his back, as he spun, catching fragmented glimpses of the world around him - men in red cloaks, silent and staring, a horse stamping a hoof - as he came out of the spin swinging his sword low at Sumur's calf, Sumur jumping over it, Corban using the brief moment Sumur was weightless to step in close, hook his foot behind Sumur's ankle as he landed and push with all his strength against the Kadoshim's chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Corban swept forwards, his sword rising and chopping down, into the churned dirt as Sumur rolled away, rising smoothly to his feet. Corban could hardly breathe, the exertion of that last attack draining him of all energy and will. He stood staring at Sumur, leaning on his sword, tip buried in the ground, heart thumping in his chest, mouth hanging open as he sucked in great lungfuls of air.\n\n_He is too good, too fast, too strong. They call me Elyon 's champion? Where is he now?_\n\nSumur walked towards him. His left arm and shoulder were hanging oddly, his clavicle was clearly broken, but it did not alter his movement, the pain not even registering upon the Kadoshim's face.\n\n'You've done well,' Sumur said, his voice a demonic rasp, 'better than I'd ever have imagined, but the end is, has always been, inevitable.' Corban saw the coiling of muscle in his legs, the bunching of tendons in his wrist as Sumur prepared for the death lunge and knew exactly what the once-Jehar was going to do; he also understood that he could not stop him. At the same time he remembered another duel, one he'd watched so long ago, in a feast-hall on Midwinter's Eve.\n\n_Tull._\n\nAs Sumur moved, so did he, flicking his wrist to spray dirt from his blade-tip into Sumur's face, blinding him for a moment. Sumur took a step back, raising his sword in front of him to defend against the blow that he presumed would come at his head, at the same time Corban spun in a circle to his right. He came out of his spin to Sumur's left, ending up almost behind the Kadoshim, Corban's sword chopping into the back of Sumur's neck, landing perfectly at the spot where the skull ends and the back and shoulders begin.\n\nThere was the wet sound of an axe splitting damp wood and Sumur's head flew through the air, a trail of dark blood arcing in its wake. The body collapsed, feet twitching, and a great black mist poured from the open wound, forming into a winged creature above the corpse.\n\nCorban stood, feet planted wide, chest heaving, not quite believing what had just happened. What he had just done. Then he noticed the silence, heightened all the more by the thump and roll of Sumur's head as it hit the ground and came to a rolling stop.\n\nThe winged shadow above Sumur's corpse screeched in fury, its wings appearing to beat in an attempt to reach him, then the wind was tearing at it and in moments it became a tattered, shredded banner, and then, nothing - less than a sigh upon the air.\n\nCorban looked up, saw Jael staring open-mouthed, behind him his warband, every last one of them silent in  disbelief.  Then  he heard a roar from the walls of Drassil, rolling down to him like a great cascading wave, engulfing him, the sheer shock and joy of the moment making him grin. He punched his sword into the air and added his voice, exulting in his victory.\n\nAs the cheering died down Corban walked to Sumur's severed head, reached down and held it high by its hair.\n\n'Keep your word, Jael,' Corban yelled. 'Your champion is defeated. Go back to Isiltir.'\n\nJael stared at him, something between awe, fear and rage flitting across his features, then he snapped a command to the mounted warriors around him. They looked  at  him,  seeming  to  hesitate, but  Corban  guessed  what  was  going  to  happen.  Jael  barked  his command again and first one warrior kicked his horse and snapped his reins, then another and another, until a score of  them  were riding towards him.\n\nCorban looked back  at the gates  of Drassil, knew  he'd never make it in time, so he set his feet and held his sword high with two hands.\n\n'Come on, then,' he said. And then, louder, he bellowed, 'TRUTH AND COURAGE,' more rage spilling from  his  voice than he knew he felt.\n\nThe enemy hooves pounded towards him, warriors  bent  low over their saddles, spears and swords pointing his way. The ground trembled. Dimly he recognized the sound of Drassil's gates opening, heard the enraged, frantic yells of warriors as they raced from the gates to his aid.\n\n_You will be too late_ , he thought calmly. _Go back._\n\nHe concentrated on the closest rider, no more than two hundred paces away now, two score heartbeats, maybe less, focused on the rhythm of the hooves, the rise and dip of the spearhead in the warrior's fist. A part of his mind registered that it was one of the warriors who had ridden out with Jael, not the one with the banner, but the one he had thought was Jael's champion.\n\nStrangely, out of nowhere, he remembered Coralen's kiss in the doorway to his chamber, could almost taste a hint of apple.\n\n_I wish I could see her one more time, if only to tell her . . ._\n\nA new sound had crept into his awareness, the rumble of hooves from behind him, closer than those in front, and mixed with it the thump of something else, something as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.\n\nThe sound of wolven paws.\n\nAs if to confirm it, he saw fear spread across the face of the closest rider bearing down upon him.\n\nHe looked back, saw Storm pounding towards him, her fangs bared, muscles rippling with each bound of her powerful legs, and beside her Shield, his mane whipped by the wind, hooves a hammer blow, the two of them matching pace. Behind them a swarm of warriors were pouring from the gates of Drassil, Balur and the Benothi forging ahead of them.\n\nBefore him the riders were closing, a score of warriors intent upon his death.\n\nThen he knew what he had to do.\n\nHe sheathed his sword and turned his back on the enemy riders, took a deep breath,  focused  on  Shield's  hooves,  the  rhythm  of his gallop, and he set his feet as the stallion approached. He bent his knees, went onto the balls of his feet, began to move, to run and then Storm and Shield were almost upon him, Shield a mountain of muscle and mane so close he could smell him, see the sweat streaks in his coat, and he broke from a run into a sprint, Storm pounding past him, both Corban and Storm's muscles bunching, leaping at the same time, Corban's heart thumping in time with the pounding of Shield's hooves. He reached out, grabbed a fistful of the stallion's mane, and used the horse's momentum to hurl himself into the air.\n\nThere was a heartbeat that felt like an eternity as he was weightless, flying, legs scissoring, then, with a solid _thump_ he was in the saddle, hands reaching for the reins and Shield was angling away, pounding through a gap in the approaching riders and then he was free, galloping across open space along the front of Jael's warband, wind whipping his black hair out behind him like a banner.\n\nSome of Jael's warband were actually cheering him.\n\nBehind him the sound of screams rose up as Storm  tore  her target from his saddle and ripped him apart.\n\nHe guided Shield in a loop, slowing to a canter, glimpsed Storm leaping and snapping amidst the riders sent to kill him, saw spears rising and falling and felt a hot rage bubble up. From Drassil warriors were still pouring, Jehar on horseback amongst them, hundreds charging across the open space. Horns were blaring along the lines of Jael's warband and suddenly they were lurching into movement, stuttering forwards.\n\n_The plan was to stay atop the battlements, let their warband break upon the walls of Drassil. Guess we 'll need a new plan._\n\nHe heard Storm growling and snapping, saw horses rearing and plunging around her.\n\nWith a snarl he drew his sword and urged Shield back to  a gallop.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE\n\n#### ULFILAS\n\n_I have a bad feeling about this._\n\n'Charge them, charge them, _kill them_!' Jael was screeching close to Ulfilas' ear.\n\nThe warband was moving, but sluggishly.\n\n_They are still reeling from what we have just witnessed. And in truth I do not blame them for being hesitant about joining battle with these people._\n\nUlfilas was still coming to terms with what he'd seen.\n\n_The greatest duel between two men that I have ever witnessed_ - _maybe that has ever happened. I cannot believe that Sumur lost._ It had been like witnessing two storms collide at sea, a maelstrom of furious, deadly movement, utterly beautiful to watch. At first it had seemed an inevitability that Corban would die - he was an exceptional warrior, clearly, but Sumur had seemed too  perfect,  too  clinical,  too  fast and powerful, but then, slowly, almost by sheer, dogged will and determination, Corban  had  edged  back  into  the  fight, gone from just trying to stay alive for a few moments longer to having a slim chance, and finally, mostly by a combination of heart and wits and a general stubborn refusal to die, had taken Sumur's head.\n\n_And what the hell was that thing that came out of Sumur?_\n\n'What are you DOING?' Jael was screaming at him, almost apoplectic with rage. 'Lead the warband forward; you are my bannerman.'\n\n_Don 't you think you should be leading them? You're our King._\n\nUlfilas ignored the sense of foreboding growing in his belly, grunted at Jael and kicked his horse forwards, warriors on foot behind him lurching after him. Horns were blaring. The score of riders  that  Jael  had  set  upon  Corban  were  dead  or  dying,  that wolven the size of a horse ripping half of them to pieces and still running amok just a few hundred paces ahead.\n\n_And the first man that beast tore apart was Fram, Jael 's first-sword; after Sumur, that is. So that's his two finest warriors down before the battle is even joined. Not the most inspirational of starts._\n\nUlfilas was rapidly losing heart for this conflict, but a voice in his head was shouting at him that to turn and run would be the end of him. _And that 's true enough, I don't doubt. If we are broken here any that survive the battle will then have to survive the long march through Forn. Don't fancy that much, so we'd better get on and win this battle._\n\nThe men of Isiltir were responding to the horn blasts and Jael's screams urging them on, sweeping forward and curling in upon the lesser numbers that had swarmed out from the open gates of Drassil.\n\n_That at least is a stroke of good fortune. At least they are coming out here to fight so we don 't have to try and climb those walls. Our numbers may still win the day._\n\nUlfilas felt a warrior's respect for Corban, even if he was his enemy. That running mount had been a thing of beauty, undertaken with sharp iron bearing down upon him, mere heartbeats separating him between life and death. It was as if the running mount had been distilled into that one moment, learned and practised by every warrior in every realm throughout their youth for that exact purpose.\n\nWarriors on foot swept past him, running into the battle, the score of Jehar the same as Sumur, which gave Ulfilas a flare of hope - _all of a sudden I 'm wishing Nathair had forced a hundred of them upon us, like he did on Gundul and Lothar._\n\nHe saw the Jehar slam into a knot of enemy warriors only fifty paces ahead of him, a mixture of giants and men who looked remarkably similar to the Jehar that were with him, except that they wore surcoats with the white star blazing upon their chests.\n\nUlfilas had a sudden memory of the warriors at Gramm's hold who had cut him  and his  riders down  so easily.  Instinctively he pulled on his reins, but the press of men behind him was too great and he was forced on.\n\n_I am no coward, but I am no fool either, and I have no death-wish upon me._\n\nHe saw that he was about to enter this battle whether he wanted to or not. He slipped Jael's banner into the leather cup on his saddle that usually held his spear, drew his sword and kicked his horse on, choosing a warrior who looked like one out of Gramm's hold.\n\n_Someone normal to fight._\n\nHis horse's shoulder ploughed into the man, sending him reeling, Ulfilas' sword rising and falling, crunching into the warrior's helm, dropping him instantly.\n\nHe kicked his horse on, swinging left and right with his blade, leaving a wake of bloody wounds and dying men. He started to think that they could still win this battle, though all was chaos and blood around him. It was almost impossible to tell how the battle was faring. He hacked at a spear jabbing at him, snapped the shaft, stabbed into the face of the warrior wielding it, heard a scream, saw the man go down, and dug his heels into his horse.\n\nFor a moment there was a lull around him. To his left he saw Corban, still upon his horse, hacking at men of Isiltir with maniacal energy; close to him there was a flash of white fur and fangs, and about the young warrior a knot of fighters gathered to protect him - a huge man with a war-hammer, a red-haired woman with wolven claws like Corban's, dripping with gore, and one of the Jehar mounted and trailing arcs of blood with his sword - he looked remarkably like the warrior who had unhorsed Ulfilas at Gramm's hold, only younger and more battle-frenzied.\n\n_Not going that way, then._\n\nHe yanked upon his reins and suddenly there was one of the Jehar in front of him - one of his Jehar - fighting a silver-haired giant with one eye and a black axe. The Jehar was fast, darting in and cutting at the giant's leg, eliciting a howl of pain or rage, but then a huge knife smashed into the Jehar's chest, hurling it from its feet. The injured giant lumbered forwards and swung his axe, taking the Jehar's head off as it tried to rise, and then there was a screeching shadow-demon materializing in the air right in front of Ulfilas, his horse screaming and rearing. He managed  to  control  his  mount, saw another giant striding forwards, smaller, slimmer - _female? It 's so hard to tell the difference_ - but still clearly a giant, two belts criss-crossing her chest with an abundance of those oversized knives sheathed in them. As Ulfilas watched, she bent down and recovered her knife from the chest of the decapitated Jehar and then looked about for a new target.\n\nHer eyes settled upon him.\n\nThe bad feeling that Ulfilas had ignored reared up now, a flare of fear and foreboding, and he ducked low in his saddle as the air whistled over his head and something sharp missed him by a hand-span. He kicked his horse on. It was well trained and it stepped agilely to the left and leaped away, sending those about it reeling, friend and foe alike. For a handful of insane moments the horse rose and fell, forging its way through the battle like a leviathan through stormy seas, then it burst into clearer ground.\n\nBattle still raged here, but it was islands of violence upon the plains surrounding Drassil, rather than a constant sea. Everywhere Ulfilas looked the red-cloaked men of Isiltir were falling to giants and to sword-wielding Jehar. He saw a tall dark-haired warrior in blood-spattered mail, at first thought him a giant, but then realized he was a little too short, and too slim and elegant, too graceful in his death dealing. Even as Ulfilas watched, this warrior cut down three men of Isiltir in as many breaths.\n\nFurther away he saw more of those shadow-demons appearing in the air, hovering like a dense mist as they screamed their rage and then drifting apart in the wind. He knew by now that their appearance marked the death of one of Nathair's Jehar.\n\n_Whatever they are - and I'm not sure I want to know - I do know that this battle is lost._\n\nAlways the pragmatic man, Ulfilas looked to the north, saw the remnants of the old road they had followed here. The prospect of fleeing through Forn was becoming more appealing with every red-cloaked death around him.\n\n_Run, live a little longer; stay and die very soon._\n\nIt wasn't much of a choice.\n\nHe lifted the banner of Isiltir from its harness on his saddle and dropped it to the ground, then spurred his horse to the north, moving at a trot, calling men to him as he went. Within a hundred paces he had close to two hundred men following him, then another hundred. He reined in as the land began to rise and looked back over the battlefield.\n\nThe  warband  of  Isiltir  was  breaking  apart,  men  beginning  to turn and run, heading towards the perceived safety of the trees of Forn. Soon it would become a rout. He glimpsed Jael on the far side of the conflict, still in his saddle, a knot of warriors about him as he moved steadily southwards towards the treeline.\n\n_Looks as if he has the same idea as me._\n\nWith a shake of his head Ulfilas spurred his mount up the slope, towards the trees.\n\nThen the ground in front of him exploded.\n\nFifty paces or so up the slope turf and dirt erupted into the air, beneath it something dark and round emerging from the ground.\n\nUlfilas swayed in his saddle, jerked away, then realized what it was.\n\nA huge trapdoor.\n\nMen and women with long bows in their hands - ten, twenty, thirty, more - were surging out of the ground. Even as Ulfilas stared in frozen shock they formed a line, drew arrows from quivers, nocked, drew and released. Straight at him and the warriors about him.\n\nHe threw himself backwards, out of his saddle, heard the soft _thunk_ of arrows sinking into flesh, his horse rearing and crashing to the ground, legs kicking, all about him men falling with feathered shafts buried in their flesh.\n\nUlfilas thrashed on the ground, one foot caught in a stirrup, flicked it free, rose to one knee in time to see the archers drawing and shooting again. He threw himself flat on his face, heard more screaming around him, dragged himself upright and stared frantically around.\n\nThe men who had followed him were wavering, though they still outnumbered the archers at least three or four to one.\n\n_Those archers stand between me and freedom. A good charge should see to them_ , Ulfilas thought, dragging his sword from his scabbard, waving it in the air, yelling to his warriors. He took a few steps forward, heard the boots of men following behind him, saw the archers in front snatching for arrows, saw panic stirring in some. He singled out one in the centre of the line, slim, small, resolutely drawing another arrow from his quiver, something about him saying that he was the leader of these archers.\n\n_I 'm going to take your head_, Ulfilas thought, the need to kill, to vent his frustration at this most disastrous of days rearing up within him. He started to run.\n\nThen someone else climbed out of the hole, a lone Jehar warrior, small, a woman. She saw him charging at the archer and her eyes narrowed. She drew her sword. Behind her more men were appearing from the hole in the ground, men clothed in leather and fur holding single-bladed axes in their fists.\n\n_Gramm 's men._\n\nTwenty or thirty of them as well, forming a line and throwing their axes. Ulfilas threw himself to the ground again, a mouth full of dirt, a body crashing down beside him, face a bloody ruin with an axe-haft poking from it.\n\nAs Ulfilas looked up he saw the axe men start to run down the slope, pulling fresh axes from their backs, and behind them another wave of warriors pouring from the hole, these dressed strangely, scraps of leather armour wrapped around forearms and shoulders, most of them carrying bucklers and short swords or knives.\n\n_Bollocks to this._\n\nEver the pragmatist, Ulfilas scrambled to his feet and ran the other way.\n\nSomething thudded into his back, a hard punch that sent him sprawling and knocked the air from his lungs. He tried  to push himself up but found his arms weren't working as well as they should, felt a dull ache in his back, a tingling numbness. He managed to get his right elbow under him, push up, but his left arm wasn't doing what it was told.\n\n_Must get up. To stay is to die._\n\nHe coughed, saw blood speckle the ground close to his face.\n\n_What?_\n\nThen there was a pressure upon his back - _someone 's boot?_ - an unpleasant tugging sensation, closely followed by a wet ripping sound. The pressure on his back disappeared, replaced by a tingling pain, a boot slipping under his chest and flipping him over.\n\nHe gasped, looked up into a bearded face.\n\n'Well, well,' the face said, 'I was hoping I'd run into you.'\n\nIt was Wulf, and he was smiling.\n\nHe was holding an axe in his fist, blood dripping from its edge. He raised it high, above his head, and Ulfilas screamed.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO\n\n#### HAELAN\n\nHaelan watched the battle from the walls of Drassil.\n\nIt had been Swain's idea, but Haelan had not been difficult to persuade. He felt proud that Corban had asked him to watch over Storm's cubs, but as the horns rang out from Drassil's walls, announcing the arrival of Jael's warband, he had felt a desperate need just to see. So when Swain suggested a way of him doing both of those tasks. Well . . .\n\nSo here they were, Haelan, Swain and Sif, standing upon a deserted patch of the western wall, each of them with a wolven cub under either arm, Pots was sitting at his feet, looking up at him like he felt a little left out. They'd put the cubs in a wide, deep basket of willow, the three of them carrying it all the way to the battlements. The cubs had become restless, though, so they'd  decided  to  get them out for a while and let them watch the battle too.\n\nThey liked it, or at least seemed to, they were quiet enough.\n\nHaelan was finding it hard to breathe, at various moments had felt that his heart was lurching out of his chest, that despair would overwhelm him, closely followed by sheer joy that he was sure would cause him to explode.\n\nThey'd reached the wall just as Corban had begun his duel with the black-clothed warrior, one of the  Jehar  obviously. Within moments Haelan was certain that Corban was going to die. Tears had blurred his eyes long before the end, and then he had cried fresh tears, these ones of joy when Corban had sent his enemy's head spinning through the air.\n\nAnd then such treachery, Jael setting his shieldmen to ride Corban down, after what he had just survived, just achieved.\n\nAnd then the running mount.\n\nWhen he saw Shield and Storm pounding across the open space he had cheered, screamed, exhorted them to greater speed, the voices of Swain and Sif mingling with his own.\n\nIf there had been any doubt in Haelan's mind that Corban was the greatest hero the Banished Lands had ever known, that succession of events had confirmed it beyond all question. He'd fight anyone who dared to say differently.\n\nAnd now the whole plain along the western wall boiled with battle.\n\n'We're going to win,' Swain was yelling, putting his two cubs back in the basket and leaping up and down.\n\n_Of course we are._\n\nAfter Corban's duel and escape from Jael's shieldman, it seemed that victory was inevitable. He was only worried now about who might fall along the way.\n\n_Tahir is down there, fighting for me._\n\nHis eyes scanned the field, but it was so hard to make out individuals amongst the press and heave of battle. Giants were easy enough to follow, Balur One-Eye particularly, with his silver hair and black axe, swathes of blood consistently bursting around him, from this distance looking like droplets of dew on morning grass. And Corban he could see, still mounted, with Storm always close to him, leaping and tearing.\n\nThe cubs under his arms began to squirm so he put them back in the basket, stroking his favourite, a brindle bitch with a face as black as night.\n\nHe saw Jael's banner flying in the centre of the battle, then it moved steadily northwards, a single rider breaking out from the heart  of  the  battle,  a  steady  motion  towards  the  northern  flank. Then the banner disappeared, the rider still visible, heading further and further out, men of Isiltir gathering in a great mass about him.\n\n_They are fleeing._ Hope swelled in his chest, something telling him that the battle was coming to its last stages now.\n\nThen he saw Jael, his white horsehair plume blowing  in  the wind, still upon his horse, a knot of warriors with him. They headed steadily towards the southern edge of the battlefield, reached the treeline, then stopped as a handful of giants stormed through them. Haelan gripped the battlement walls, knuckles whitening, praying, begging for Jael to fall. All was confusion, flesh and iron and blood merging in a chaotic explosion for a dozen heartbeats. A giant fell, of that Haelan was sure, and then figures were disappearing into the trees. Jael was nowhere to be seen.\n\nFrom Haelan's vantage-point it looked as if the whole battlefield paused for a moment, then rippled, like the death-spasm of a dying animal.\n\nThe trickle of those fleeing turned into a flood now, red-cloaks falling away from the mass of combat in tens and twenties, and then they were all fleeing, the warband of Drassil following, slaying with impunity.\n\nThen a sudden thought struck Haelan.\n\n_Those men fleeing are men of Isiltir. My people._\n\n'Watch the cubs,' he blurted to Swain and Sif, 'and don't let Pots follow me.' And he was running down the wall's stairwell, leaping steps two at a time.\n\nIn the courtyard before the main gates he climbed into  the saddle of a fully tacked horse. It was a little big for him, the stirrups too long, but it was the most suitable of what was left and he was a good rider, had been sat in a saddle as far back as he could remember. Without any more thought he clicked his tongue and rode out through the gates.\n\nIt was a different world down here, the battle from above seeming to have something serene about it, playing out like the swirls of sea and sand as the tide comes in. Down here it was loud, filled with the screams of the dying and the yelling of the living, and it stank, of blood and metal and excrement. Everywhere was chaos. He scanned the field for Corban, could see men of Isiltir fleeing, giants striding amongst them wielding their axes and hammers, then he caught a flash of bone-white fur and headed for it.\n\nBefore he'd covered a hundred paces he heard running to one side, felt a flash of fear. _I am part of the reason Jael came here, led a warband of thousands through Forn Forest with the goal of seeing me dead._\n\n'What are you doing down here, laddie?' a voice called out, and relief swept him.\n\n_Tahir._\n\nRelief at both Tahir being alive and the fact that it was not a warrior coming to separate his head from his shoulders.\n\n'I've an idea,' Haelan said, 'and I need to find Corban.'\n\nTahir looked at him, was clearly wrestling with the idea of marching him straight back to the safety of Drassil.\n\n'All right then. Shift along then, and I'll climb up there with you.'\n\nThey found Corban drinking from a water skin, drenched in blood, his hair plastered to his head. A handful of people were gathered around him, Gar and Meical, Coralen and Farrell and Laith, as well as Balur One-Eye and Ethlinn. And of course Storm.\n\nThe battle had moved away from them, or rather the chasing of the broken and fleeing warband, only here and there the sound of iron marking real combat, a few knots of men fighting rearguard actions and retreating in a more orderly fashion.\n\n'Little one's got something to say to you,'  Tahir  said  as  they rode up.\n\nHaelan looked at the fierce bloodstained faces around him and quailed a little. He swallowed his fears, knowing what needed to be said.\n\n'These are my people,' Haelan told them. 'Jael is fled, I think, or maybe dead. I saw him from the battlements, over there.' He pointed south to the trees. 'The rest of them, they might stop if I ask them, if they are offered mercy.'\n\n'Mercy?' growled Farrell.\n\n'Yes, mercy,' Haelan said, holding his chin high. He looked at Corban. 'Some of them, many of them, were just following the orders of their King, yet still they cheered you . . .'\n\nCorban looked back at him, dark eyes thoughtful, and behind that Haelan saw a well of exhaustion that Corban held in check.\n\n'You're right,' he said. 'No need to go on killing. It's just how exactly we're going to do this.'\n\nHaelan dangled in the air, Balur One-Eye  holding  him  up  high over his head, like a human banner. On one side of him rode Tahir, on the other Corban. Balur was calling out in a booming voice, proclaiming Haelan King of Isiltir and pronouncing mercy upon all those who would lay down their arms.\n\nOver seven hundred men surrendered.\n\n'Well,' Farrell said to Corban and Haelan when they were gathered before the gates of Drassil, 'I would imagine that it's rare to end a battle with more men than you started with.'\n\n'Aye. I think  it's safe to  say we can call  this a victory, then,' Corban said.\n\n'That we can, Ban, that we can,' Gar said with a weary smile.\n\nJust then a group of men and women approached from the northern end of the battlefield - Dath and his archers, as well as Wulf with his axe-throwers and Javed and his pit-fighters. Wulf held up a severed head as he drew near, and threw it at Corban's feet.\n\n'Ulfilas,' he said. 'Jael's high captain, and the man that killed my da.'\n\n'I am glad for you,' Corban said wearily. 'A day where much justice has been done, and injustices set right.'\n\n'Aye,' murmured many voices around them.\n\nHaelan noticed that Dath was looking up at Corban, the widest smile upon his face. One of the Jehar stood close to him, a small, pretty young woman, or so Haelan thought. She was smiling too.\n\n'What are you smiling about?' Corban asked Dath.\n\n'I'm getting married,' Dath said, his grin growing even wider.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin sat and waited.\n\n_Feels as if I 've spent half my life waiting for men to kill. Not sure which part is the worst. The waiting, or the killing._\n\n_Depends on who I 'm waiting around to kill, I suppose._\n\nHe was sitting upon a raised knoll amidst a thick bank of reeds, a space flattened at its centre for him. From here he could peer out through the reeds and have a commanding view of the surrounding area, watching over a dozen streams and rivers that fed from the lake, flowing in the direction that he reckoned Evnis and his warband would come. Looking the other way he saw the  lake,  the village that had grown up along its banks deserted now, still and silent apart from the odd chicken. A moorhen pecked about in what had once been a fire-pit, claiming it for her own. At the heart of the lake Dun Crin reared from its still, black waters. If Camlin stared hard enough he could make out warriors along its ancient walls, standing in the shadows of its crumbling towers.\n\nThe sky above was a pale blue, a fresh wind welcome in this stagnant place, and bringing with it the scent of spring.\n\n_Least the bad weather 's broken. Waiting's always better without the rain and snow._\n\nHe heard footsteps close by, peered through the reeds to see Edana's fair hair, Roisin, Lorcan and Pendathran with her, their shieldmen as well - Halion and Vonn, Cian and Brogan. He pushed through the reeds to join them.\n\n'All's ready, then?'\n\n'Ready as we'll ever be,' Pendathran said. 'You up to this?' the big general asked Camlin.\n\n'Course,' Camlin grunted.\n\n'Of course he is,' Edana snapped.\n\n'Aye,   you've   proved   yourself,   that's   for   sure,'   Pendathran growled. 'Don't mind me, I just get nervous before a fight, that's all.'\n\n'Surely not you,' Roisin said, a purr in her voice that Camlin didn't like.\n\n'So do I,' Edana said, eyes scanning the marshes with its countless streams and rivers and hidden approaches.\n\n_Don 't we all?_ Camlin thought. _I 've been in a hundred scrapes, more, probably, and my mouth still goes dry and my palms sweaty 'fore a fight._\n\n'It's the prospect of death,' he said matter-of-factly. 'No matter how many battles you live through, doesn't mean you'll see the end of the next one.'\n\nThey were all silent at that.\n\n'Indeed, well, on that cheerful note,' Roisin said.\n\nThere was a flapping from above and a black speck dropped out of the sky.\n\n' _Men, boats, spears_ ,' the crow squawked, alighting in the branches of a willow. They all stared at him.\n\n_I 'm glad Edana talked him into sticking around, now._\n\n' _CLOSE_ ,' Craf squawked, giving his wings an extra flap to emphasize his point, making them all jump, even Pendathran, who swore.\n\n'This is it, then,' Edana said, looking at them all. 'You all know what to do.'\n\n'Aye,' Pendathran said. He looked in their eyes, then grinned.\n\n'For Ardan and Domhain, for kin and friends, for our Queens.'\n\nThey parted, Camlin walking back to his bank of reeds.\n\n'Camlin,' a voice called after him, Halion striding after him. 'I'll see you again,' the warrior said. He held his arm out and Camlin took it in the warrior grip.\n\n'Aye, brother,' Camlin said. 'This side or the other.'\n\nAgain, the waiting.\n\nCamlin checked his bow, his string, lifted his blade in its scabbard to check it wasn't sticking, let it slide back with a _click._ Checked his arrows, the tips wrapped with foul-smelling linen. Flint and a pile of tinder and kindling set neatly to one side, not damp, not spoiled.\n\n_Good._\n\nThe reeds rustled and a head poked through them, scruffy red hair and a dirty face.\n\n'Hello, Meg,' Camlin said. 'You shouldn't be wandering around at a time like this.' There was no force in his reprimand, though - he'd learned by now that the girl would damn well do as she pleased, no matter what he said about it.\n\n'Don't need to worry about me,' she said.\n\nHe frowned. 'You happy with what you've got to do?'\n\nCamlin had adopted a new strategy with Meg. He'd learned that if he kept her out of things in an effort to keep her safe she'd just follow him and get involved anyway. So now he was finding tasks for her to do, even in the most dangerous of situations. That was what he had done with the hunt for Braith.\n\n_And thank the stars it turned out about as well as it could._\n\nEvery night he put his head on his pillow he felt a sense of relief that Braith was no longer out there, hunting him.\n\n'I am,' she said. 'I just came to see that you were all right.' She looked at him intently, then smiled. 'And you are.' With that she spun around and disappeared into the reeds.\n\n_Strange child. P 'raps that's why she fits in so well around us. Around me._\n\nThen he heard the creak of wooden boats, weight shifting within them, the sound of oars and paddles in water, quite but not silent.\n\n_Here we go, then._\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR\n\n#### EVNIS\n\nEvnis sat at the head of his boat and blinked as the lake opened up before him. Beside him Glyn swore.\n\n_Whoever would have thought that such a place existed?_\n\nThe lake was vast, its waters dark and still, and at its centre stone walls and towers reared, as if the lake were a black field about a broken fortress. Except that green algae and creeping vines grew upon this fortress, silent, sinuous things swirling in the waters about the walls. Birds clustered upon crumbling towers, taking flight and squawking their protests at the arrival of Evnis and his warband.\n\nRafe was in the first boat leading the way, his two grey hounds sitting in it as still as stone, like figureheads. Warriors behind Evnis rowed them deeper into the lake, more boats following, others filtering from a series of streams and rivers along the north-eastern bank of the lake. Before half of them had emerged from the marshland streams a boat appeared from between two towers that loomed out of the lake. It rowed towards them.\n\n'Hold,' Evnis said, raising a hand, his men backing water, the motion continuing through the boats behind him.\n\nThe lone boat rowed closer, four or five figures within it, the first with long fair hair.\n\n_Surely not . . ._\n\nOars backed water and the boat stopped, drifting for a moment until it was side-on to Evnis' boat, maybe fifty paces away. Half of Evnis' fleet were spread behind him, the other half still backed up in the streams and rivers.\n\nEdana stood in her boat. Evnis smiled to see her. She was dressed plainly, looking more like a woodsman than a queen, in woollen breeches, a linen shirt and black leather vest, though she wore the grey cloak of Ardan around her shoulders, something that Evnis hadn't seen for a while. And she wore a sword at her hip.\n\nHe almost laughed at that.\n\n'There does not need to be bloodshed here today,' she called out, her voice carrying across the still waters of the lake.\n\n_It 's unlikely to be our blood_, Evnis thought. _Perhaps you mean your own._\n\nEdana looked at the warriors in their boats, taking her time to meet their eyes. Men behind Evnis fidgeted.\n\n'There are men of Ardan amongst you, true-born warriors of Ardan who fought for my father.'\n\n_Aye, there are, and now they fight for me. Most of them have always fought for me._\n\n'Men of Narvon, maybe, Owain's men. And warriors from Domhain, perhaps, who once served Eremon.'\n\nTwo figures stood in Edana's boat, one dressed as a warrior, dark-haired, though Evnis could see he was little more than a lad, beside him a woman, tall and dark-haired, her chin lifted proudly.\n\n_A rare beauty_ , Evnis thought.\n\n'This is Roisin of Domhain, wife of Eremon, and her son Lorcan, rightful King of Domhain.'\n\n_Excellent. This is most helpful of you, Edana, gathering all of the rats into one boat. You are making my life so much easier._\n\n'You are fighting as pawns for a woman with a black heart, a manipulator, deceiver, a betrayer. Rhin is not a queen; she is a tyrant, a disease that must be cut out.'\n\nMuch to his surprise Evnis found himself _listening_ , as if Edana actually had something to say. He pulled his eyes away from her, looked at the others in her boat, sitting at the oars. One of them was Halion, the warrior sitting calmly, his eyes scanning the boats behind Evnis. He looked to the other rower and started.\n\nIt was Vonn.\n\nHis son was staring straight at him.\n\nA long silence passed between them, something unspoken communicated, and then, finally, Evnis nodded to Vonn, a small incline of the head, nothing more. Vonn saw and looked away.\n\nEdana was still talking, something about peace and good men banding together.\n\n'Can someone please kill her,' a voice shouted from behind Evnis.\n\n_Morcant, of course._\n\n_And I think I should oblige._\n\nEvnis roared an order, oars and paddles splashing into water and they were moving again.\n\nEdana, Roisin and Lorcan were all sitting down in their boat now, Halion and Vonn rowing hard, a sprint for the sunken fortress. From gaps in walls and towers other boats appeared, men in them, but for each boat with people in there was one that they towed by rope, empty. Evnis noticed it but did not have time to think too hard about it. He was closing on Edana.\n\nThen he heard a huge tearing _whooosh_ behind him, followed closely by screaming. He twisted around, rocking his boat, to see a wall of flames igniting along the lake shore, crackling through reed banks and somehow spreading across the streams and rivers that they had travelled upon.\n\n_How the hell have they done that? We 're in a marsh, with more water than land._\n\nSome of his boats were on fire, men jumping overboard, human torches, and separated behind them, on the far side of the flames were roughly half of his warband.\n\nHe cursed himself for a fool and set his mind on killing Edana.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE\n\n#### CAMLIN\n\nCamlin watched as Meg tugged on a long rope, dragging a rolled mat of dried rushes and reeds across a stream between two boatloads of warriors.\n\nCamlin touched his arrow-tip into the small fire he had crackling, the linen soaked in fish oil catching alight with a hiss. He raised his bow, drew and released, his arrow arcing and dropping into the mat of reeds. That, too, had been doused in fish oil and so the whole thing ignited in a heartbeat, flames roaring, men screaming, leaping from the boat, flames searing the flesh from warriors before and behind it.\n\nMeg appeared at another spot on the bank, alongside the forms of other men hidden in the reeds. Clay pots filled with fish oil flew through the air to smash into boats. Camlin released another flaming arrow and a boat went up in flames. Along the bank other huntsmen fired flaming arrows and more fires were igniting, roaring into the air, more men screaming.\n\nCamlin heard screaming all about him, the same happening on a dozen inlets.\n\nHe glanced out to the lake, saw Evnis leading over a score of boats towards Dun Crin, Edana a dot  before  them.  Other  boats were appearing from  the walls,  moving towards Evnis'  splintered fleet.\n\n_Going to plan, then. That 's a pleasant surprise._\n\nShouts and battle-cries drew his eyes back to the river before him. About a dozen of Edana's warriors were spread along this side of the bank with him, some doing the same as him. Others ran forward as Evnis' men began to reach the banks, some leaping, others swimming,  not  every  boat  on  fire  -  some  further  back  were  not touched at all.\n\n_Damn, but there 's a lot of them. Five hundred at least is my guess._ Those weren't good odds, as Edana's warband numbered less than two hundred swords.\n\n_Mind you, we 're evening the odds a little, now._\n\nSpears began to fly, going both ways, and Camlin ducked as one hissed a handspan over his head.\n\nHe started aiming at men now, planting flaming arrows in chests, throats, backs, thighs, at least a dozen men falling to his aim before a handful of warriors reached the bank and charged at his clump of reeds.\n\n_Time to leave._\n\nHe grabbed his quiver of arrows, half-empty now, slung it over his back, waited a few moments as his enemy drew nearer, until he heard them crunching into the reeds, and then he grabbed a clay pot and threw it as he ran the other way, heard it smash down upon the small fire he had set, then the sucking in of air, like an indrawn breath before flames exploded, ripping through the reeds and scorching the onrushing warriors.\n\nMore screaming.\n\nHe flew out of the reeds, hearing flames rushing up behind him, and hurled himself out onto the lakeshore, rolling amongst abandoned huts. He came to his feet alone, the sounds of battle raging along the various streams and rivers behind him, and more dimly from the drowned fortress in the lake. He took a moment to stare, worry for Edana gnawing at him.\n\nFires dotted the lake, like bobbing candles on the water.\n\n_I bet it 's not so pretty right close, though._ As he watched, he saw one of the empty boats that they'd packed with jars of fish oil and dried rushes shoved with long poles into an enemy rowing boat, hulls crunching together, a torch thrown in after it. The vessel went up in flames, quickly setting the enemy boat on fire.\n\nMore screaming.\n\n_Think there 's going to be a lot of that today._\n\nMany of Evnis' boats were aflame, and Camlin could see shapes in the water - men swimming for land. Some of Evnis' vessels had made it to Dun Crin's walls and warriors were scrambling onto the cold stone. Camlin heard the clash of iron drifting across the lake.\n\nThere were only sixty warriors of Edana's warband on the sunken walls, the other hundred or so ranging the rivers and stream banks, where they'd hoped to contain the bulk of the enemy warband, and where they thought the fiercest fighting would be.\n\n_And talking of fighting . . ._\n\nCamlin looked between Dun Crin and the lakeshore,  decided there was nothing he could do for Edana now except kill those enemies of hers that were closest to him.\n\nHe nocked an arrow and ran at a crouch towards the streams, veering around the wall of flames.\n\nHe burst into chaos, the world rapidly constricting to a score of paces at most in any direction. The blockade was still burning, but even if it hadn't been, no boats were getting into the lake now, as the first two this side of the firewall were roaring infernos, blocking the stream completely, dark shapes twisted within them. Further along the stream more fires raged. Some of the enemy were splashing in the stream, being skewered like fish with spears by Camlin's companions from solid ground. A few boats had managed to make it to the stream bank and their cargoes of flesh and iron and harmful intentions were unloading rapidly. Fifteen, twenty men, more on another boat behind them. Camlin recognized one dressed in black leather and wool, cloak of sable and a silver helm.\n\n_Morcant._\n\nThe old first-sword of Rhin led his men along the bank, cutting down two of Edana's warriors before they even realized the enemy were ashore.\n\nCamlin ran to higher ground and started to loose arrows into them, knowing their strength of numbers could still sweep him and his dozen or so warriors from this side of the stream in short order.\n\nMorcant was lost from view for a moment, so Camlin settled for winnowing their numbers.\n\nOne warrior spun and fell back into the stream with an arrow through his heart, another collapsing onto the ground, hands around the shaft through his throat. Then men spotted him and changed their direction to cut him off. He released another arrow, saw it punch into a thigh, then he was moving, pushing through a thick curtain of willow branches, circling right, into thicker reeds, pushing on to reappear on the stream bank, but behind the warriors who had been running at him. They were cautiously moving through the willow curtain. He put an arrow into a warrior's back, close enough for its iron head to punch through a leather cuirass and deep into flesh, nocked another, drew and released into a face as the enemy turned, teeth flying as the arrowhead tore through his mouth and into his brain. Then Camlin was running again, his fingertips brushing his quiver as he ran.\n\n_Three arrows left._\n\nHe weaved through long grass, jumped and squeezed through a coppice of alders, circled slowly around to his left, hoping to do the same thing to his pursuers.\n\nHe saw the willow tree he'd ran past earlier and headed for it, cautiously peered through the dangling branches, but could see no enemy warriors. The stream bank was hidden from view here, but the din of battle seemed less, now.\n\n_Is it nearly over?_\n\nThen something crashed into his back and he was  falling, tumbling, his bow spinning from his grip. He rolled to a stop and saw Morcant emerging from the willow branches, grinning, sword in hand.\n\n'I could have killed you then, but I didn't,' Morcant said, the smile still on his face. Other warriors appeared behind him, four, six, seven, more in the shadows.\n\n'I remember you from the Darkwood,' Morcant said, still smiling, 'so thought it would be a shame to stab you in the back.'\n\n'Very noble of you,'  Camlin  said  as  he  climbed  to  one  knee, his eyes flitting, looking for his bow. Morcant took a step and was beside it, kicked it away.\n\n'Perhaps you should draw your sword,' he said as he advanced on Camlin.\n\nNot that he thought it would do him much good, but Camlin did so, stood and set his feet.\n\n'Excellent,' Morcant said.\n\nHis sword blurred, Camlin saw the tip lunge forward, spiralling somehow to curve around his attempted parry to scrape along his ribs. He grunted with pain, retreated, blocked an overhead chop and a slash at his belly, missed the thrust that pierced his thigh. Blood sluiced his leg and he stumbled back, realized that Morcant must have cut muscle as his leg gave way beneath him and he was crashing to the ground.\n\n'Well, that was fun,' Morcant said as he stood over Camlin, sword rising.\n\nThen an arrow punched into the meat of Morcant's arm, making him stagger back a step. He snarled, looked about.\n\n'There,' a small, high-pitched voice cried, 'over there.'\n\nCamlin rolled, concentrating on getting as far out of reach of Morcant's blade as he could, no matter how many arrows the man had poking out of him, caught a glimpse of Meg standing with the half-bow he'd made her, out of boredom more than anything else, certainly not expecting it to save his life one day. Meg was calling to someone behind her, hidden in trees and rushes, then Pendathran's bearded face appeared, blood-spattered and furious, a score of men at his back.\n\nMorcant took one look at Pendathran and fled, his handful of warriors with him.\n\nBoots thundered past Camlin's head as Pendathran charged past him, his men close behind, and then Meg was helping him to stand, tying a ripped piece of cloth around his leg.\n\n'That's two you owe me,' she said with a smile.\n\n'I'll not argue with that, lassie,' he said. 'How are things going out there?' he asked as he retrieved his bow.\n\n'We are winning,' she said. 'In fact, I think we've won. They're mostly all running away, Pendathran, Drust and some of the others chasing them for the fun of it.'\n\n'How about those on the lake?' He was thinking of Edana.\n\nMeg shrugged.\n\nThey went to see.\n\nFires were still blazing out on the lake; along the shore a few of Evnis' men were staggering from the lake, those who had worn leather, not chainmail. Camlin listened and there was no sound of battle drifting over from the fortress. Then he saw two boats rowing for the shore, a little to the south, away from the battle. He and Meg stood in the shadows of an abandoned hut and watched.\n\nThe first boat crunched onto the sand, Edana getting out and stumbling off along the bank of a stream, quickly hidden by reedbeds.\n\nThe second boat was not far behind, beaching smoothly.\n\nTwo warriors climbed out, Cian and Brogan, Cian offering a hand to help Roisin ashore.\n\nShe glanced quickly about, then took long strides after Edana, Cian and Brogan following.\n\n_So._ Camlin nodded to himself, looked at Meg and put a finger to his lips, then followed them.\n\nHe caught up with them soon enough, not making a sound even though his leg thumped as if a horse had kicked it and his ribs were on fire where Morcant had cut him. He and Meg stayed within the shadow of trees and watched.\n\nEdana had stopped in a secluded grove by the stream, trees to one side, a thick bed of reeds blocking her way. She was resting a hand on her thigh, bent over the stream, looked as if she'd just vomited.\n\nRoisin entered the glade, paused, then walked closer.\n\n'Edana, are you well?' Roisin asked her.\n\n'No,' Edana said. 'I've just killed a man.' She patted her sword hilt and Camlin saw the blood upon it.\n\n'During difficult times, difficult things must be  done,'  Roisin said, walking steadily closer to Edana. Camlin noticed her  hand rested upon a knife at her belt.\n\nEdana stood straighter at that.\n\n'Indeed,' she said. 'So. I take it you have come to kill me.' It was not a question.\n\n'What?' Roisin spluttered, drawing to a halt. 'Don't be absurd.'\n\nCamlin reached for one of his last arrows.\n\n'Absurd? Maybe. All of this war and hunting and betraying and killing - it can take its toll on trust in the end, can't it?'\n\n'Aye,' Roisin said, voice a whisper.\n\n'I apologize if I have insulted you,' Edana continued. 'Put it down to battle-fatigue.'\n\n'No insult,' Roisin said. 'Rather, a display of your intelligence. In another life we could have been friends, I think. We have much in common. But in this life you are just in my way - too popular, and that is growing daily. Even my only son adores you.'\n\nShe sighed.\n\n'Cian, Brogan, please.'\n\nHer shieldmen drew their swords and advanced on Edana.\n\n'Roisin, you don't need to do this,' Edana said as she retreated before the two shieldmen.\n\n'I'm afraid  I  do. Without  you  around Pendathran  is  my  man. This warband will be mine, for my son, of course.'\n\n'I think you are too used to killing anyone you consider a potential threat.'\n\nRoisin nodded. 'You're probably right, but better a potential threat dead than a definite one still alive. That philosophy has worked well for me so far.'\n\nEdana stumbled into the bank of reeds and stopped.\n\n'This gives me no pleasure,' Cian said as he raised his sword above Edana's head. Then Brogan stabbed him through the back, his blade bursting out of Cian's chest, spattering Edana in a red mist.\n\nMen stepped out from the reeds  and trees. Halion, Vonn and Lorcan.\n\n'You are my shieldman,' Roisin hissed at Brogan.\n\n'Aye,' Brogan said sadly, pulling his blade free as Cian slipped to the ground. 'But only because of your son. I am his man, Domhain's man, not yours.'\n\nRoisin screeched her rage, then looked to her son.\n\n'It was for you,' she said pleadingly. 'I was doing it for you.'\n\nLorcan looked at her coldly. 'No, Mother, you were doing it because you are jealous. Because you love power. But you go too far.'\n\n'So,' Roisin said, looking back to Edana, standing straight, regal again. 'What will you do with me? Trial? Prison? Exile?'\n\n'Exile,' Edana said, her mouth a straight, hard line.\n\nRoisin's face twitched, a bitter smile at first, then a tremble of the lips.\n\n'Don't be ridiculous,' she said.\n\n'Betrayal,' Edana said, her lips twisting as if the very word made her sick. 'I am so tired of people close to me seeking to betray me,' she continued. 'I have lost patience with it. Your days here are done.'\n\n'This is absurd,' Roisin said, 'a misunderstanding.'\n\n'All here heard you,' Edana said.\n\n'Please,' Roisin whispered.\n\n'Halion will take you from here, leave you where you will never find us again.'\n\nHalion drew a cloth from his belt.\n\n'You would blindfold me and abandon me?' Roisin said. Leave me all alone?'\n\n'Better than you would have done for me,' Edana replied.\n\nRoisin ran to her son, grabbed his hand. 'Please,' she said.\n\n'I love you, Mam, but I could not let you murder Edana. I love her.'\n\n'I'm your _mother_ ,' Roisin hissed.\n\n'Aye, you are, but you should not have made me choose,' he said.\n\n'Argh,' Roisin screamed, scratching at Lorcan's cheeks.\n\nLorcan turned his face away.\n\nShe staggered to Halion, grabbed his leather vest.\n\n'Please, help me.'\n\n'You murdered my mam. Gave her poison intended for me and Conall,' he said, face cold and hard.\n\n'Mercy,' Roisin said. Her eyes swept the glade in desperation, fell upon Cian's body, his sword in the grass beside him. Before any could stop her she leaped into motion and swept it up. She held it two-handed, pointing the tip at Edana, her feet moving as if it wasn't the first time she'd held a blade.\n\nHalion moved towards her.\n\n'Hold,' Edana shouted and Halion froze.\n\n'Fight me,' Roisin said. 'Exile in these marshes is a death sentence, you all know it.'\n\n'Edana doesn't need to fight you,' Halion said. 'She is Queen. She commands.'\n\nFight me now in the court of swords,' Roisin snarled at Edana, 'show the backbone a queen needs; or are you a coward, happy to let others do your dirty work?'\n\nEdana hesitated.\n\n'I always knew that you were just talk, a spoilt, shallow child,' Roisin spat.\n\nEdana drew the sword at her hip. Blood was still upon it.\n\n'No,' Halion and Vonn called out, both of them moving in.\n\n'Step back,' Edana snarled, eyes fixed upon Roisin. They paused, then reluctantly did so.\n\nRoisin twirled the sword in her hand. 'Three older brothers who used to use me for practice,' she said, a thin smile twitching her lips. Then she rushed at Edana, who blocked, retreated, parried again, stepped to the side and punched Roisin in the mouth.\n\nRoisin staggered back, spat blood. 'You'll regret that, you little bi--'\n\nEdana lunged forwards, deflected Roisin's hurried block and chopped her sword into Roisin's wrist. Blood spurted and Roisin screamed, collapsed to her knees, staring at Edana in surprise.\n\nEdana stood above her, blade raised high, tip pointed at Roisin's heart, quivering.  A  long  silence  stretched.  'You  lose,'  Edana  said, lowering her sword. 'Halion, get her out of my sight.'\n\n_Looks like the princess has grown up._\n\nAs Halion moved forward Camlin lowered his bow and slid his arrow back into his quiver. Then he looked about the glade, realized one of their number was missing.\n\n_Where 's Vonn?_\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX\n\n#### EVNIS\n\nEvnis stumbled along the stream bank, pushing through tall reeds and hanging branches. The sun was sinking, a mist rising from the water, swirling lazily onto the bank. He was shivering, soaked to the skin, the clothes of his left side burned black, the skin on the back of his hand and the left side of his face prickling with pain.\n\n_But I still have my life. I will get out of this swamp, wait for the warband from Dun Carreg._ He shook his head. _Outwitted by that little bitch Edana, the humiliation. It must have been someone else 's plan_ - _Pendathran, maybe. He was there, I saw him. And, let 's look on the positive side_, _with any luck Morcant 's dead._\n\nHe saw a movement up ahead, a flash of grey fur, disappearing amongst a reedbed.\n\n_A hound? Rafe? He 'll be able to get me out of this stinking dung hole._\n\nHe had lost everyone, his boat speeding after Edana so intent on catching her that he hadn't seen the empty boat being pushed with poles straight into his vessel - not until it was too late, anyway. And then the flames. Jumping overboard had seemed the only sensible thing to do, particularly in light of the fact that his whole left side had been on fire.\n\n_Oh, the pain . . ._\n\nSomehow he had made it to shore, though he'd lost his sword along the way - a knife still hung from his belt.\n\n_Not that it will do me any good._\n\nHe'd lain upon the lake shore for a while, covered in cold, sticking mud, which had eased the pain of his burns, somehow, and watched the chaos and carnage as his warband had been systematically set on fire and slaughtered.\n\n_Nothing like fire to cause a good panic. I must remember that._\n\nSlowly a measure of strength had returned to him as he lay upon the lake shore, and the idea of running and living had grown in his mind. So that is what he had done. As the screams of his warband had rung out through the marshes, most of them already fleeing and the hunt beginning, he had dragged himself to his feet and run. The running hadn't lasted that long, exhaustion seeming to be never more than a few paces away, but he ran long enough to take him into cover.\n\nAnd he was still trudging on. Occasionally he heard a scream ring out, usually it was cut short, he didn't know whether it had been the swamp or more human dangers that had finished it - neither thought was encouraging. He walked in the general direction that he thought he'd seen the hound, though he didn't see it again.\n\nThere was a fluttering above. He looked up and saw a black crow circling above him.\n\n_I 'm not dead yet._\n\nHe walked on, slowly the sun sinking into the west until it was just a ball of bronze melting into the horizon. He heard the flap of wings again, closer this time, and looked up. The crow was now sitting on the branch of an alder a dozen paces ahead. It was the scruffiest crow he'd ever seen, feathers poking out at angles, a patch of skin visible here and there.\n\n' _Wait here_ ,' the crow said to him.\n\nHe stopped and stared at it.\n\n_Did I just imagine that?_\n\nThe bird flapped into the air, seeming to take a lot of effort.\n\n' _Don 't leave_,' it squawked down at him.\n\nUsually this would have struck him as strange, but after the day he'd had, he just sat down.\n\nHe was starting to doze off when he heard footsteps and a man appeared - a warrior, tall, fair-haired, stern lines to his face and serious pale blue eyes.\n\n_Vonn_.\n\n'Father,' Vonn said.\n\nEvnis stood, not easily, his body stiffening from his brief rest.\n\n'There was a time when I thought I'd never see you again,' Evnis said.\n\n'I have thought of little else but this meeting,' Vonn replied, a half-smile upon his lips. 'Though I did not imagine it here, under these circumstances.' He looked closer at Evnis. 'Father, you are shivering.'\n\n'Yes, I am,' Evnis said, not knowing what else to say.\n\nVonn unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around Evnis' shoulders. It was Ardan's grey.\n\n'I'd best not go back to Dun Carreg with this on,' Evnis said.\n\n'You could,' Vonn answered, stepping back a pace.\n\n'I don't think Rhin would approve,' Evnis snorted.\n\n'You could ride back to Dun Carreg with Edana, her warband at your back.' He hesitated. 'Your son at your side.'\n\n'And Rhin? The Queen of the west, conqueror of Ardan, Narvon and Domhain. What of her? What do you think she would think of that?'\n\n'Rhin be damned,' Vonn snarled. 'She is overstretched, tried to conquer more than she can rule. Ardan is _ready_ for Edana's return.'\n\n'Don't be a fool,' Evnis said wearily. 'Rhin has powerful allies. To go against her is to die.'\n\n'You're wrong.'\n\n'I am not wrong.' Evnis felt his anger stirring, memories of his last argument with Vonn. He was convinced of his own opinion then, as well.\n\n'I'd hoped you had changed, had grown up,' Evnis said. 'That life's hardships would have disabused you of your infantile notions of honour.' Even as he said the words he regretted the way he said them, angry, impatient, patronizing.\n\n'I have grown up, learned many lessons,' Vonn said sadly. 'The main lesson I learned is that I think I have many more lessons yet to come.' He didn't meet venom with venom, which in itself was a change.\n\n'Perhaps you have,' Evnis mused. 'But that doesn't change the facts. Rhin is on the winning side. That is partly why I have chosen her. She will not lose. Any resistance will only be fleeting. And why would I want to welcome Edana back? Daughter of the man who condemned your mother to death. Why would I want Edana to rule Ardan again, when it is mine already? I sit in Brenin's throne. I rule from Dun Carreg. Why would I give it up?'\n\n'For me. Because it is the right thing to do. Rhin is evil. Father, what do you know of this God-War? Of the Seven Treasures?'\n\n'Only a little,' Evnis lied, shrugging.\n\n'I have heard things,' Vonn said. 'Of the cauldron, of a gathering in Drassil, within Forn Forest. Of a need to find the Seven Treasures.'\n\n'I know a little about it,' Evnis said. 'But this is not really the time or place to discuss it.' Twilight was settling about them. A mosquito buzzed in Evnis' ear.\n\n'There was a necklace in your secret room,' Vonn said.\n\n'Aye. With my book, which you stole.'\n\n'I did. I am sorry for that. I wanted to hurt you.'\n\n_Well, at least he 's honest._\n\n'You did hurt me. Can I have it back?'\n\n'I don't have it any more.'\n\n'That's not good. It's a powerful, dangerous book. Who does have it?'\n\n'Brina.'\n\n_Oh, just wonderful._\n\n'There was something else in there,' Vonn said. 'A necklace with a black stone.'\n\nEvnis said nothing.\n\n'Is it still there?' Vonn asked.\n\n'Why?'\n\n'I think it is one of the Seven Treasures. Nemain's necklace.'\n\n'That's ridiculous,' Evnis said.\n\n_I had thought exactly the same thing._\n\n'And if it were, what does that mean to you, anyway.'\n\n'Corban needs it, in Drassil.'\n\n'Corban - that arrogant fool.'\n\nCorban is the Bright Star.'\n\n'What? Where have you heard such things? Who have you been talking to?'\n\nFor the first time Vonn looked a little unsure of himself. 'Craf,' he said quietly.\n\n'Who's Craf?'\n\nVonn looked up, at the crow in the branches above him.\n\n'A bird,' Evnis said.\n\n'Craf's very intelligent,' Vonn said, a little defensively.\n\n' _Craf clever_ ,' the bird muttered above them.\n\n_He actually is_ , Evnis thought, _for he seems to know more about this than I do, and I 've been studying it all of my life._\n\n'Vonn, this is all very interesting - more than that, important. But this is not the place to discuss it. Please, come with me. Be my son again. I am sorry for the way things happened, the night Dun Carreg fell. I am sorry for the rift between us, for arguing, sorry that Bethan died . . .'\n\nAs he said the girl's name he saw pain flutter across Vonn's face.\n\n'I ask your forgiveness for my part in it, and I hope that you can see I did not intend harm to come to her. I was acting out of what I saw to be our best interests. I betrayed our King, I know, but he betrayed me, betrayed us. Refused aid that would have saved my Fain, your mother . . .'\n\nWords choked in his throat for a moment.\n\n_It never fails to surprise me how close the pain is._\n\n'I want you to come back to me. Come back with me. Share my victory, help me rule Ardan, be my battlechief, my first-sword, my _son_.'\n\n_Please say yes, Vonn. Please, I beg you. If you do not . . ._\n\nVonn was looking at Evnis with tears in his eyes.\n\n'I cannot, Father. I would ask the same of you. Come with me, back to Dun Crin. I have hated you for that night in Dun Carreg, but I can understand the currents of your heart. Mother . . .' He paused, swallowed. 'I can forgive you for that night, but not for continuing on this path. Please, come back with me.'\n\nEvnis felt such a wave of emotion, like a great hand tugging at strings attached to his heart, that he almost said yes, just to make Vonn happy. But then the feeling subsided, enough for him to see clearly.\n\n_I have come too far, done too much._ He looked at his palm, traced the decades-old scar there. _I have made an oath, sworn my soul . . ._\n\n'I cannot,' he said, grave and solemn.\n\nVonn's face fell.\n\n'Then here we must say farewell,' Vonn said. 'And for my part, I hope that I do not meet you upon the field of battle.' He turned and walked away.\n\n_That is highly unlikely_ , Evnis thought, hardening his heart as he drew his knife from his belt, quickly following his son, a few paces behind, knife rising.\n\n_Please understand, I cannot allow my own son, my only son, to openly oppose me, to stand with Rhin 's enemies. It will bring me shame and ruin in this new life I am carving._\n\nThen something hit him in the chest, felt like a punch, and he staggered, stopped.\n\nVonn spun around, seeing Evnis' raised fist, the knife in it.\n\nThey both looked at Evnis' chest together.\n\nA long-shafted arrow stuck from it, blood welling about the entry point, right above Evnis' heart. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't get his lungs and vocal cords to work together. Breath hissed out of his mouth. His legs felt weak and he stumbled forwards, felt a numb jolt, realized he had dropped to his knees.\n\n_Is this dying?_\n\nHe toppled onto his face, his son's boots filling his vision, darkness like a tunnel shrinking in upon him. He heard a voice, distant but terrifying, whispering, calling to him, remembered it from a night long ago when he had sworn an oath in a forest glade.\n\n_Asroth._\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN\n\n#### CYWEN\n\n'You're joking?' Cywen said to Farrell, almost feeling angry with him that he would make up such a stupid thing at such a serious time.\n\nThe hospice was full to overflowing with injured warriors. Cywen, Brina and the team they'd put together numbered nearly three score and they were still hard-pushed to treat everyone who staggered in or was carried through the wide doors.\n\nFarrell was the first person to enter the hospice without an injury that needed treating, although that wasn't quite true. He had his fair share of cuts and scrapes and bruises, just nothing that would lead to imminent death or disablement if he wasn't treated immediately.\n\n'I'm not, I swear it,' Farrell said. Cywen paused in the act of bandaging the leg of a Jehar warrior she was treating and looked up at Farrell.\n\n'If this is a jest I will get my own back on you, Farrell. The chances are that someday I'll be wrapping a bandage around some part of you, remember. I know how to ease pain, and also how to increase it.' She raised an eyebrow at him.\n\n'I would swear an oath if it helped you believe me,' he said, looking worried now, and also slightly hurt by the level of Cywen's mistrust.\n\n'You really mean it, don't you?'\n\n'Yes,' Farrell burst out, looking relieved. 'Dath and Kulla are to be wed. He's walking around with a grin on his face that the Kadoshim couldn't remove.'\n\n'Well, I never,' Cywen murmured.\n\n'Idiot boy,' Brina said from over by another cot.\n\n_Maybe it 's not so stupid_, Cywen thought. _This war has us all standing on death 's doorstep. It reminds us how precious life is, and how much it should be lived._\n\nAnd of course the joy of victory had swept through Drassil like a summer wind, warm and pleasant, spreading relief and great joy. Cywen could already hear the celebrations beginning elsewhere. It took longer for that to seep into the hospice, where the harsh and stark reminders of the battle's cost were still all too plain to see.\n\n'Good for them,' Cywen said.\n\n'That's what I said,' said Farrell. 'After I stopped laughing, anyway.'\n\nBrina shook her head, muttering.\n\n'You haven't heard the best bit yet,' Farrell smiled.\n\n'Oh, and what's that?' Cywen asked, going back to her bandaging.\n\n'Dath wants Brina to perform the ceremony.'\n\n'What?' screeched Brina.\n\nCywen stood with a smile on her face and a tear in her eye, soft spring sunshine breaking through branches above them to bathe the courtyard in sunset's amber glow.\n\nThe closing part of the handbinding ceremony of Dath and Kulla was taking place in a part of the fortress that was rarely used, chosen by Kulla because of the magnolia tree that grew within it. It had flowered early with the first flush of spring, huge pink petals hanging over the couple as they stood hand in hand before Brina.\n\n_Dath getting married. The boy who loved collecting gulls ' eggs with my little brother. Seems like a lifetime ago. Guess we're all growing up._\n\nThe courtyard was full to overflowing, people crowding on the steps that climbed the walls, hanging out of windows, standing on flat roofs, every single person who now lived within Drassil come to the handbinding of the Bright Star's friend.\n\nIt had been a long and happy day, the first part of the handbinding ceremony beginning that morning with the first rays of dawn, Dath and Kulla's hands bound together for them to spend the day intertwined, a taster of the rest of their lives.\n\n_Not that it will be much different from a normal day for them; they are never far from each other._\n\nIt had been a beautiful ceremony, Brina managing to say words that made Cywen cry, even if the old healer had told Cywen a hundred times that she had no time for 'the nonsense of youth', but Cywen was convinced Brina was secretly as happy for Dath as the rest of them were. Cywen had smiled more than she remembered in recent memory, and so had Corban, she'd noticed. In fact all of them had, even Gar. And now they had gathered at sunset for the closing of the ceremony.\n\nBrina raised her hand and the courtyard fell silent.\n\n'Kulla ap Barin, Dath ben Mordwyr,' she cried in a loud voice. 'Your day is done. You have been bound, hand and heart, and lived the day as one. Now is your time of choosing. Will you bind yourselves forever, or shall the cord be cut?'\n\nDath and Kulla both grinned at one another, their joy infectious.\n\n'We will be bound, one to the other, and live this life as one,' they said together.\n\nBrina took their bound hands in hers.\n\n'Make your covenant,' she said.\n\n'Kulla ap Barin,' Dath began, 'I vow to you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my mead . . .'\n\nIt had been a ten-night since the battle, the first five days spent tending to the wounded and building cairns over the dead. As heartbreaking as that was, the numbers of the fallen had bordered upon the miraculous. One hundred and fifty-seven dead from amongst the various peoples that populated Corban's warband and one thousand six hundred of Isiltir's warband dead, another seven hundred warriors from Isiltir surrendering and joining the people of Drassil, as they were starting to think of themselves.\n\n_And we have learned from the survivors of Isiltir 's warband that two more warbands are building roads through Forn, trying to find us, as well as Nathair's own force of Kadoshim. The odds seem overwhelming, and yet I don't feel scared as I used to. I don't have that feeling in the pit of my belly that something bad is just around the corner._\n\nIt had been seeing Corban slay the Kadoshim, then escape in such dramatic fashion from twenty shieldmen bearing down upon him, and then watching him lead a warband against an enemy that dramatically outnumbered them and win, with minimal losses.\n\nIt was inspiring, and Cywen knew she was not the only one who felt that way. Everybody did. There was an atmosphere at Drassil now of quiet confidence. That Elyon was perhaps guiding her brother after all.\n\n_We are going to win._\n\nShe smiled to herself and focused back on Brina and the happy couple.\n\n'Peace surround you both, and contentment latch your door,' Brina sang the closing words of the benediction. Then she held up a wide cup for Dath and Kulla to grip with their bound hands. They drank together, then Brina cast the cup to the ground and stamped on it.\n\n'It is done,' she cried, and the crowd erupted into cheering, Kulla grabbing Dath and kissing him fiercely.\n\n'Good, now let's eat,' Brina announced.\n\nThe great hall had been transformed, long rows of tables set with trenchers of steaming food, a score of spitted carcasses turning over fire-pits; barrels of mead found on the abandoned baggage wains of Jael's warband stood in a long line.\n\nCywen sat and watched it all go by, just enjoying being still and watching, when mostly life felt like one long rush of doing. As the evening wore into night and the fire-pits began to sink low she found herself feeling reflective, thinking over the last year as she sipped at a cup of mead.\n\n_It is almost a year ago to the day that I was in the great hall in Murias; when Corban and Mam came for me . . ._\n\nSurprising her, tears swelled in her eyes.\n\n_I miss you, Mam, and you, Da. You would be so amazed if you were here. So proud of Corban._\n\nSomeone sat next to her, the bench creaking with the strain.\n\nLaith. She had a cup of her own and was smiling, her eyes shining.\n\n'Tonight, life is good,' Laith proclaimed, raising her cup.\n\nCywen nodded and touched her cup to Laith's, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so.\n\n'Your arm,' Cywen said, pointing at the dark tattoo that now curled from Laith's wrist to elbow.\n\n'It is my _sgeul,_ my Telling,' Laith said sombrely. 'The record of the lives I have taken. The vine is my journey, my life, the thorns, each life I take.'\n\nCywen studied it, gently brushed it. The skin was ridged and peeling, hints of green and blue beneath the scabbed skin. She tried to count the thorns, reached fifteen and then lost count.\n\n'It is a serious thing,' Laith said, 'taking a life. A sad thing, I think, though better to take another's than to lose your own. Many of my kin consider the thorns a badge of honour. I suppose it is that as well.'\n\n'It is,' Cywen said. 'But something can be many things, or can mean many things, not just be confined to the one. Like us.'\n\nLaith looked at her intently then. 'You are right. I used to think that you were just angry,' she said, 'but there is far more to you than just that. And you are wise as well.'\n\n'Hah.' Cywen snorted and sipped from her cup. 'The wisdom of mead, maybe.'\n\nLaith grinned. 'I'll drink to that,' she said, and did. 'Now,' she continued, smacking her lips. 'Where's that fine-looking Farrell gone?'\n\n'Farrell?' Cywen spluttered into her cup.\n\n'Aye, Farrell,' Laith said with a shy look. 'He's big and strong, got good bones, not like the rest of you. I've been thinking on him for a while now, and what with spring in the air . . .' She shrugged and smiled mischievously.\n\n'You know he's sweet on Coralen,' Cywen said.\n\n'Oh aye, everyone knows that. But everyone also knows that she's sweet on someone else.'\n\n_Yes, we do_ , Cywen thought. _Apart from the one she 's sweet on!_\n\n'So perhaps he just needs the way things are explained to him. I was talking to Balur about it--'\n\n'Balur!' Cywen spluttered again. Try as she might, she just could not imagine the giant warrior dispensing advice about love.\n\n'Aye - and can you stop doing that? Balur said to me that sometimes people can't see things as plain as the end of their nose, but once it's been pointed out to them they don't know why they went so long without seeing a thing.'\n\n'That's very wise,' Cywen said. 'In fact, Laith, you're very wise. How old are you, exactly?'\n\n'I've seen forty-two summers,' Laith said with a wave of her hand. 'But we mature slowly, us giants, or so I'm told. Like usque. Ah, there he is.' She pointed at Farrell and stood, swaying ever so slightly. 'Any advice?' she asked.\n\n'Try arm-wrestling him,' Cywen said. 'I hear he likes that.'\n\nLaith smiled. 'A man after my own heart. Will I have to let him win, though?'\n\nCywen was still laughing when Laith disappeared into the thinning crowd.\n\nThe bench creaked again.\n\nThis time it was Brina.\n\n'I need to talk to you,' the healer said.\n\n'Feel free,' Cywen said with a wave of her hand.\n\nBrina frowned. 'Are you sober?' she asked, then her hand darted out and she pinched and twisted flesh on Cywen's arm.\n\n'Ouch.'\n\n'Well, you're still feeling pain, so that's good enough,' Brina said. She stood up and walked away, then paused and looked back. 'Well, come on then, what are you waiting for?'\n\nMuttering, Cywen rose and followed.\n\nEventually they ended up in Brina's chamber, small and sparse, a bed and chair, a table with a half-melted candle upon it and a jug of water.\n\n_Only one cup, though._\n\n'I don't get visitors,' Brina said with a shrug, seeing where Cywen was looking. She dug around in her cloak and pulled out the book.\n\n'Isn't that heavy to carry around all the long day?' Cywen asked.\n\n'Of course it is,' Brina snapped, 'but I'm hardly going to leave it lying around for someone to just come along and take, am I? A book hundreds of years old, containing wisdom both wonderful and terrifying?'\n\n'I suppose not.'\n\n'Sit down and pay attention,' Brina said. She sat on the bed, Cywen on the chair, and Brina opened the book at the back and started to read.\n\nWhen she finished they both looked at each other. The worry and concern on Brina's face, she knew, was reflected in her own.\n\n'We need to tell Corban,' Cywen said.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban knew the place well now, this part of the Otherworld that seemed to call to him when he slept. The green valley, a lake such a deep blue that it was almost the purple of the sky as it darkens, just before full night. The red-leaved maple that he hid beneath, and of course the beat of Meical's wings, high above, like a heartbeat, sweeping him to the cliff face that he always landed upon, and the cave that he always entered.\n\nAnd again as always, he remembered Meical's words to him, about Asroth hunting him, about the Kadoshim flying abroad in the Otherworld. _Promise me if you find yourself there again, that you will hide, do not move. Asroth 's Kadoshim fly high and they will see you before you see them. And they are not the only dangers in the Otherworld. There are creatures, rogue spirits that would do you harm if they found you._\n\nAlways he had obeyed. And yet, this time, he did not want to. Without knowing or even understanding why, just feeling that he must, he left the shade of the maple tree and began to climb the cliff. It was remarkably easy, the rocks not cutting into his palms, no sweating or straining of muscles, no dangerous up-draughts. Just a steady, constant motion, taking him up.\n\nAnd then he was there, standing on a rock shelf, the entrance to a cave before him. It was a high, perfect arch, much higher and wider than it appeared from the ground, runes of the old tongue carved around it. Carven steps led into it, the flicker of torchlight within luring him on. He walked along a damp, curving corridor, down, curling in a deep looping spiral until the corridor opened into a great underground theatre, huge torches bathing the room in a flickering orange glow, a semi-circle of stone-tiered benches on the far wall full to overflowing with the white-winged Ben-Elim. And, standing before them, a small, fragile figure in the depths of the theatre; Meical.\n\n'When?' a voice boomed from the massed Ben-Elim.\n\n'I do not know,' Meical said. 'Soon.'\n\n'It is always soon,' the voice replied.\n\nMeical shrugged, a distinctly human gesture in this chamber, this world, so full of the other.\n\n'We have waited aeons, brother, how much longer?' other voices called.\n\n'How much longer?' a thousand voices reverberated around the chamber.\n\n'We have waited aeons,' Meical echoed the speakers. 'A little longer will not hurt.'\n\n'How much longer?' the voices demanded.\n\n'Soon,' Meical repeated.\n\nCorban woke with a start, looked about, a sharp pain in his neck and his hip. He was sitting in an alcove in the great hall, fires burning low. He shifted his weight, adjusting his sword hilt from where it was digging into him.\n\n_What am I doing here?_\n\nThen he remembered.\n\n_Dath has been handbound with Kulla._ He smiled, a gentle joy seeping through him at the memory of his friend, at the depth of his utter, transparent joy. And then, as they seemed to do frequently and almost of their own accord, his thoughts drifted to Coralen. In truth he had thought of little else since the battle had ended. Or more specifically, of her kiss. He had wanted to talk to her, every day, had decided that he would, had steeled himself, practised the words, and then gone dry-mouthed and weak-kneed as soon as he'd seen her.\n\n_How is it that I can fight Kadoshim but I cannot talk to a woman?_\n\n_Today. I will talk to her today._ That gave him a pleasant feeling in his belly, part the flutter of fear, part something else.\n\nThe chamber was mostly empty now, the fire-pits a glow of embers. He stood, thinking of his bed in his chamber, then saw a figure standing before Drassil's tree, before the spear and skeleton of Skald.\n\nBalur One-Eye.\n\nCorban walked over to him, stretching his neck, blinking the sleep from his eyes, came to stand beside the giant, for a moment enjoying the silence.\n\nEventually the burning question had to be asked.\n\n'Why did you kill Skald?'\n\nBalur did not look at him, said nothing. Then he sighed, put his big slab of a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes.\n\n'It was a terrible thing. I was his guard, his high captain. I seized his own spear from him and slew him upon his throne.' He said the words as if each one were a punishment.\n\nCorban thought about that, nodded slowly. 'Aye, that is terrible. A great trust to betray. What I know of you, though . . .' He shook his head. 'I cannot conceive of you doing such a thing.'\n\nBalur raised an eyebrow at that.\n\n'He ordered Nemain killed. Ordered her strangled - here, before him, whilst he sat upon his throne.'\n\n'But Nemain was his Queen,' Corban said.\n\n'Aye, she was.'\n\n'Then why would he do such a terrible thing?'\n\n'Because she was with child. And it was not his.'\n\n'Oh.'\n\nCorban looked at Balur; deep grooves were etched in the folds of the giant's face. He was ancient.\n\n'It was your child, wasn't it?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'Ethlinn?'\n\nAnother sigh. 'Aye.'\n\n'So she is your Queen, then. Queen of the Benothi.'\n\n'She is. Some would say she was Queen of all the Clans, even though she is bastard born.'\n\n'And that is her spear, then.'\n\n'Aye. By rights. But she will not take it. Will not claim it. One day, perhaps.' He looked down at Corban, his face full of melancholy.\n\nThe whisper of feet echoed down to him, and Corban turned to see two figures at the great doors. Brina and Cywen. Brina gestured to him impatiently. He reached out and squeezed Balur's hand and then he strode to Brina and Cywen.\n\n'We've been looking for you everywhere,' Brina hissed, as if it were his fault that she couldn't find him.\n\n'What time is it?' Corban asked.\n\n'Late. Time to talk,' Brina said.\n\n'It feels more like bedtime,' Corban muttered. 'Can't this wait until daylight?'\n\n'No,' Brina said. 'We need somewhere private to talk.'\n\n'My chamber, then,' Corban suggested. 'It's close, and I will not have to walk far to my bed afterwards.'\n\nBrina tutted but did not argue so they made their way through Drassil's stairways and corridors to Corban's chamber. Storm was curled asleep at his door. She was starting to spend a little time away from her cubs now, and they were becoming braver and more adventurous, wandering from their den for short spells. Haelan, Swain and Sif never seemed to be too far from them.\n\nCorban opened his chamber door, lit a candle, though a glance at the window showed the darkness turning to grey.\n\n_Dawn, then._\n\nBrina pulled her book out and thumped it onto the table.\n\n'A book?' Corban muttered.\n\n'Ban, it's important,' Cywen said. The look on her face quelled the protest forming on his lips and he pulled up a chair.\n\n'All right then,' he said. 'Let's hear it.'\n\nBrina turned to a marked page, almost the last page, and pointed to a scrawl of old runes.\n\n'Cywen, read this for me; my old eyes . . .'\n\nCywen bent over the book.\n\n' _Is e an coire an ghlais,_ ' she read.\n\n_She was always good with her letters, but now she actually sounds like a giant_ - _the tone, inflection. If I closed my eyes she could be Laith._\n\n'The cauldron is the lock,' Brina translated.\n\n' _Is iad na se seoda eile an_ ,' Cywen continued.\n\n'The other six Treasures are the key.' Brina spoke in a flat voice, her eyes never leaving Corban's.\n\n' _Na aris cheile is fiedir leo a bheith, go deo seachas nior clans aontu._ '\n\n'Never again together can they be, forever apart did the clans agree.'\n\n' _Uimh nios mo taobh le taobh faoi bhun an cran mor._ '\n\n'No more side by side beneath the great tree.'\n\nCorban sat back in his chair, a frown creasing his face, a sick feeling squirming in his belly.\n\n'Forever apart,' he murmured.\n\nBrina and Cywen stared at him, waiting.\n\n'It doesn't make sense,' Corban said eventually. 'Why would Balur bring the axe here?'\n\n'It has always niggled at me,' Brina said, 'but not as much as this. Why has Meical not ordered the starstone axe and spear taken to the far corners of the Banished Lands.'\n\nCorban blinked, images filling his mind. Of a red-leafed maple, a high cliff, a dark tunnel . . .\n\n_Meical._\n\n'It is as if he is using them,' Cywen said, 'but for what?'\n\n'Bait,' Corban muttered. He stood and strode to the door, Storm following him.\n\n'Where are you going?' they both called after him.\n\n'To have a talk with Meical.'\n\nCorban found Meical in the great hall, its sheer size making even the Ben-Elim appear small and insignificant. Apart from Meical and Corban the hall was empty, the silence in dawn's gentle glow almost a physical thing, a silent beauty. Skald's skeleton in its throne brooded close by, a malignant tumour spoiling the purity of the scene. Meical was standing beside one of the tunnel entrances, the one they had journeyed through, a smaller door within it open - all six of the tunnels were cleared now, a system of runners positioned in each one to relay news of any enemy sightings in Forn. Meical looked as if he was listening to, or for, something.\n\n'There _were_ no Kadoshim,' Corban said as he came to stand beside Meical. Storm peered into the small open door of the tunnel and cocked her head.\n\nMeical blinked and looked at Corban, raising a questioning eyebrow.\n\n'In my dream. In the Otherworld. I climbed the cliff. You told me not to, because of the Kadoshim in the sky. But they were not there.'\n\n'Ah,' Meical said, for a brief moment his face shifting with emotions before he stamped his cold face upon them. He turned to face Corban. 'And what did you see?'\n\n'An entrance carved with runes, a torchlit corridor. A stone theatre, filled with the Ben Elim. With you.'\n\nMeical breathed in a long, deep breath, pursed his lips, his silver scars wrinkling.\n\n'Soon, you said. What is it that you and your kin have waited aeons for?'\n\n'This time. These days. Now,' Meical said with a dismissive wave of his hand.\n\n'No. It is more than that, Meical. Brina has read to me from a book - a giant's book. About how the Treasures must be kept separate, never brought together again.' He glanced at the spear transfixing Skald's skeleton.\n\n'What is going on?'\n\nMeical sighed, a long, sad exhalation. Something flitted across his face.\n\n_He looks ashamed._ Corban felt his doubt grow, become something firmer.\n\n'You are hiding something from me,' he said.\n\nAgain the long, cold stare. Eventually Meical turned away.\n\n'I cannot do this,' he muttered.\n\nCorban grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.\n\n'Cannot do what?'\n\n'Ach, this task I have been given; its cost is greater than I ever imagined.'\n\n'What do you mean?' Corban asked.\n\nMeical stared at him long, silent moments. Emotions tore at his cold face like waves against a sea wall, until finally it began to crumble, revealing something else in Meical's eyes. A depth of sadness and regret that set a spark of fear in Corban's gut.\n\n'Tell me,' Corban whispered and Meical took a deep breath, then began to talk.\n\n'We are different from you, we Ben-Elim. We serve,' he said. 'We serve Elyon, that is our reason for existing. Duty. Honour. The joy of service to our Maker.' He looked at Corban, a wistful smile twitching his lips. 'He is beautiful to behold, is Elyon. To be in his presence would light a glow within your very being. Purity. Peace. And then Asroth destroyed that, took him from us.' His face twisted in a snarl, hatred pulsing from it for a few powerful heartbeats, then the cold face was back. 'But we continue to serve. Hoping that he sees our efforts, our devotion to him, even in his absence.'\n\n'It must have been very hard for you all, to be separated from him,' Corban said.\n\n'Aye, it was. It still is. For a while we were lost, did not know what to do. But then we went back to what we did know, the only thing we had ever known. Serve him. So we looked to you, your race, this world. We never understood you. My kin still do not. But that did not matter, was not important. We knew that Elyon loved you, that he treasured you, valued you. Adored you. And that was enough for us. We did not need to understand you, only protect you for Elyon's return. A gift that would symbolize our devotion to him.' He looked at Corban and nodded hopefully, willing Corban to understand.\n\n'And you have done that,' Corban said.\n\nMeical's face shifted again, as if every emotion that he had ever felt was finally reaching the surface of his skin, eroding and breaking through the wall he had built.\n\n'You understand, we did not comprehend you - mankind, I mean? My kin. Me. I am the only one of my kind to have lived amongst you. It has been . . . revealing. You are a race of great passions. So much of everything. A remarkable species. And you most of all, Corban.' He looked at Corban, something between admiration and affection flickering across his features. 'You have accomplished truly amazing things, and earned the love and devotion of so many.'\n\nCorban shrugged at that, feeling uncomfortable, as he always did when he was the subject of discussion. 'Meical, you sound as if you are making some kind of apology.'\n\n'I am,' Meical said. 'I am truly sorry.'\n\n'I think I know and I understand,' Corban said. 'You've taken a risk, used the Treasures as bait to lure Asroth's Black Sun out. Rather than hiding the Treasures and taking the chance that they could be found in a moon or a year or a decade, you've risked all on a confrontation where you hope to defeat his champion decisively.'\n\nMeical was staring at him now, his intensity almost unbearable.\n\n'Yes, well done, Corban. You are right, or at least on the right path. But that is only part of it.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\nMeical put a hand to his face. 'I never knew how hard this task would be. To live amongst you, to form bonds of friendship, to see your sacrifices, your deeds of love and valour. I think, out of all of my kin, that I am the only one who understands Elyon's love for your race. And that is why I cannot deceive you any longer.'\n\nHe lowered his hand and faced Corban, his features racked with pain.\n\n'Forgive me, Corban.' A single tear rolled from Meical's eye.\n\nCorban was confused. Felt the seed of fear in his gut grow.\n\n'Forgive you for what, exactly? Meical, you are scaring me now. You have set a trap, used us, which is a little underhand, I have to admit. But it does make sense . . .'\n\n'No, Corban, you do not understand. It is _all_ a trap,' Meical breathed. 'Us here, the Treasures, the prophecy . . .'\n\n'The prophecy? How can that be a trap?'\n\n'It is not true.'\n\nCorban thought he'd misheard.\n\n'What?' he said.\n\n'The prophecy is not real. It is not of Elyon. _I_ wrote it.'\n\nCorban felt as if he'd been punched, the sick feeling he'd felt earlier spreading like an infection through his veins.\n\n'But that's impossible.'\n\n'No. I know. I wrote it. I made it up. Elyon did not choose you, Corban - I did.'\n\n'No, it cannot be. There are things in it that you could not know . . .' Corban's mind was reeling; he felt dizzy, as if the ground were moving beneath his feet. He struggled to cling to something, to understand.\n\n'Aye, that is true,' Meical said, his brow furrowing. 'Which gives me hope. Perhaps Elyon is stirring at last. Is noticing. Is becoming involved . . .' He shrugged. 'What I do know is that I wrote it with my own hand. But not all of it. The core of it came from me, whispered to Halvor, the giant, voice of Skald, as he dream-walked the Otherworld. But it has grown, become many times what I planted in his mind. But that is common, is it not? A tale is told, it will travel a hundred holds and villages, and when you hear it next the hero who slew the giant has now slain a giant clan, and draigs as well.' He shrugged. 'It did not matter, as long as the core remained the same.'\n\n'But why? Why would you do this?'\n\n'Because Asroth is predictable in his evil and his scheming. We knew he would strike at you, attempt to destroy Elyon's most beloved creation, an act of spite and malice against his Maker. But we did not know when; we did not know how. So we used the prophecy to lure him, but also to guide him. To control him. We gave him a path for his great malice to follow.'\n\n'I do not understand,' Corban growled, rubbing his temples, anger beginning to boil within him. 'Speak plainly.'\n\nStorm raised her head to look at Meical, her top lip curling back in a silent growl.\n\n'Asroth hates Elyon, with a passion few could even imagine. But he also loves him, in a deep, hidden place. Despite everything, Elyon is still Asroth's Maker. We must never forget that. And Asroth trusts Elyon. Believes him. We knew that once he saw the prophecy, if he believed it was of Elyon's making, he would never doubt it. And he has not. He has followed it like a rule book - chosen his champion, sought out the Treasures. And now he will come here.'\n\nCorban staggered, reached out to grip something, anything. He put his hand upon the shaft of Skald's spear and retched, bile splashing onto the stone floor.\n\n'Truth and courage,' he whispered bitterly as he cuffed bile from his chin. He stood straighter, glared at Meical. 'What of that? How could you do this to us? Lie to us like this?'\n\n'You have to understand, this was a strategic decision. We are unused to emotion. Remember, we are duty, we are honour. We viewed you as a race, a collective, not as individuals. As the stakes of an age-old conflict. What matter if a few of you were sacrificed along the way, as long as the majority were saved? It seemed logical, the obvious choice. For the greater good.'\n\n'The greater good,' Corban whispered. 'My mam, da, Tukul - all died believing they were fighting for something more than this . . .'\n\nMeical held up a hand. 'I do not say that I condone this now. I don't. I regret much.' He shook his head. 'I have never felt shame before, regret, but I do now. I have come to respect you, Corban, to feel genuine kinship for you, and your companions. Love, you would call it. That is why I am telling you now. I . . .' He paused, mouth twisting. 'I care for you, for your companions, feel something of Elyon's great love for you. I cannot bear to deceive you any longer. But the path is set, too late to change it now. We must see it through.'\n\n'What path? There is yet more to this?'\n\nMeical nodded, avoiding Corban's gaze.\n\n'You just said you would deceive me no longer,' Corban snapped, 'or was that another lie?'\n\nMeical flinched as if from a blow. 'You remember Coralen's straw men in Narvon? The distraction that allowed us to sink the fleet and steal the ships?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'This is the same.'\n\n'How so? In what way? You are still speaking in riddles.'\n\n'I cannot tell you any more. I have sworn to my kin.'\n\nCorban turned away, took a dozen paces, wanting nothing more than to get away, to find somewhere alone where he could curl up and hold his head and wish it all away. He stopped, spun on his heel and strode to Meical.\n\n'I am _not_ the Bright Star?'\n\n'There is no Bright Star. No Black Sun,' Meical whispered. 'Apart from the ones of our own making.'\n\n'That is why you did not want me to accept Jael's challenge and fight the duel.' Corban shook his head, the myriad implications and consequences staggering him. 'What of truth and courage?' he hissed.\n\n'I never said that to you,' Meical said, looking away. 'I could not say it to you. But in a way you are the Bright Star, as much as any man is anything. As real as any king. Because people have chosen to believe it.'\n\n'That does not _make_ it so,' Corban snarled.\n\nYou think not?' Meical asked pleadingly. 'We are what we choose to be. What makes a king a king? Is there something different about him? Does special, sacred blood run in his veins? No. He is chosen; he believes it, and the people believe. He rises to the task, or he fails it.' He shrugged. 'It is no different with you. And you have risen to the task, of that there is no doubt, surpassed it in every way. You are a testament to the power of belief. To what can be achieved through combining belief with will.' He smiled, a faint, rueful thing. 'What you have done is truly staggering.'\n\nCorban was shaking with fury. 'I have been lied to. Deceived. Danced to the tune of a prophecy that does not exist.' He felt his hand reaching for his sword hilt, a rage such as he had never known filling him, fuelled by a bottomless despair. 'And worse, you have made a liar out of me. I have _lied_ to these people, fed them a deception hatched by power-mad immortal _bairns_.' He yelled those last words, spittle flying, Storm rising to her feet with a growl, her hackles bristling. His fist closed around his sword hilt as Meical stood and looked down upon him, a world of sorrow scribed across his face, leaking from his eyes.\n\n'I am sorry,' Meical whispered.\n\n'Sorry? We have armies coming to _slaughter_ us. The only hope we had was based on a _lie_. My people will die - and you're _sorry_?'\n\nCorban released his sword hilt as if it had bitten him.\n\n'I cannot stand to look at you,' he said and strode away, heading for the nearest exit, which happened to be the small door in the tunnel. He walked through it into the flickering torchlight and dampness of the underground passage and marched furiously on, Storm padding behind him. He glanced back before he rounded a bend and saw Meical's blurred silhouette standing in the doorway. He turned his face from the Ben-Elim and, crying angry tears, he carried on into the darkness.\n\n#### CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE\n\n#### RAFE\n\nRafe was exhausted. He had run, walked, staggered, crawled his way through the marshlands for over a ten-night. At one point he had collapsed, thought he was just going to lie there until he died, but Scratcher and Sniffer had licked, pawed, nibbled and dragged him back to consciousness. If spring had not arrived and brought with it milder weather he would have died. But instead he lived, and walked.\n\nHe was a good huntsman, and even in the horizon-spanning marshes he was able to find his way back, eventually one cool morning finding the river that flowed past Morcant's Tower, as he had come to think of it.\n\nA pale mist lay over the land, rising up from the marshes to creep a little way up the hill that the tower was built upon. The sun was already burning it away, though.\n\nThe dogs ran ahead of him, seemingly as pleased as him to be out of the marshes, and they must have been sighted from the tower, for horns rang out, announcing his arrival.\n\nFigures came out of the gates as he walked up the hill; all he could think about a warm meal and a soft bed. Then the dogs came running back to him, both of them with their ears flat and tails tucked.\n\nHe paused and looked at the figures coming out of the gate.\n\nSomething was very wrong there - one towered above the other, so either one was a dwarf and the other normal sized, or one was a giant . . .\n\n_Elyon 's stones, it's Rhin. Not the person I most wanted to see. And she's got a giant with her!_\n\nQueen Rhin stood before him, a giant with grey hair and a spear the size of an oar stood beside her.\n\n'I take it it's not good news,' Rhin said.\n\n'News?' Rafe said.\n\n'You're the only one back,' Rhin said impatiently, then looked at him quizzically. 'Has the marsh stolen your wits?'\n\n'Hungry, thirsty,' Rafe mumbled.\n\n'Yes, of course.' She clicked her fingers. 'Feed him, give him something to drink - not alcohol, he'll most likely sleep for a week - then bring him to me.'\n\nRafe was escorted to a huge tent on the meadow beside the tower and enclosure. Tents were everywhere, hundreds of them, warriors in Rhin's black and gold. Rafe also saw giants, at least a score of them together.\n\n_Strange days, strange days._\n\nScratcher and Sniffer walked with him, but they wouldn't enter Rhin's tent, just bounded off together as he walked in. That might have been because of the giant outside the tent entrance - not the one he'd seen earlier, but one that looked even more fierce if possible, a huge axe slung over his shoulder and a moustache that Rafe could have swung from.\n\nIt was cool inside the tent, not dark, but dim. Rhin sat at a table, behind her the grey-haired giant that had accompanied her earlier.\n\n'Feel better?' Rhin asked him.\n\n'Aye. Thank you,' he said, remembering his manners a little late. 'My Queen,' he added.\n\nRhin laughed and gestured for him to sit. He did, a cup of water already poured for him. He drank, savouring it. Most of the marsh water had been stagnant and rank, even the fresh water was questionable, and usually with something slimy in it. He looked up over the rim of his cup, realizing Rhin and the giant were both staring at him.\n\n'So,' Rhin said. 'Where is Evnis?'\n\nIt was not the question he had expected, certainly not the first one, at least. He'd been expecting something more along the lines of _What happened?_\n\n'I don't know,' he said.\n\nRhin sighed. 'Please, it is very important. Think. Hard.'\n\nShe looked scary sometimes, and Rafe suddenly remembered sitting with her in a dark room, watching a fire reveal pictures of Halion and Conall in a dungeon far below them. He shivered.\n\n'He was in his boat, we were on the lake, all rowing at Dun Crin, chasing Edana--'\n\n'Edana. Dun Crin. Chasing. Good,' Rhin murmured.\n\n'Then there was fire - they set traps, started setting the boats on fire.'\n\n'In a lake!' Rhin said, not sounding pleased again.\n\nRafe explained in more detail the battle of Dun Crin, the tactics used against them. He told her how his boat had capsized and how he had swum to the shore.\n\n_That wasn 't exactly what happened. I don't like fire much. I paddled my arms off and got to the lake shore without even getting my feet wet. But then I tried paddling up a stream and men started throwing spears and pots of oil at me. I got wet then, capsized, swam a hundred paces underwater, scrambled out onto the opposite bank and ran like hell._\n\nHe told how the battle was lost by then, and he had escaped into the marshes.\n\n'Hmm,' Rhin said when he finished, steepling her fingers. 'That's not very helpful.'\n\nRafe shrugged. 'Sorry.'\n\n'Not very helpful at all,' the giant rumbled, which made him jump a little.\n\n'I'm sorry. I was in front - I led the warband to Dun Crin - and Evnis was right behind me. But then it all went to hell - excuse me - fire and water and blood, and I didn't see any more of Evnis.'\n\n'You were the master huntsman?' Rhin said.\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'What of Braith?'\n\n'Braith's dead.'\n\nRhin sat back in her chair at that, looked genuinely dismayed, even as if she might shed a tear.\n\n'By whose hand?' she asked, voice like sharp flint.\n\n'Camlin. He was Braith's captain from the Darkwood. Gut-shot him, from as far apart as we are.'\n\n'I've heard his name,' Rhin said with a hiss, 'and I won't forget it. And you escaped?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'You seem to be very good at that,' Rhin observed.\n\n_Can 't blame a man for staying alive_, he thought. _Can blame him for running, though, I suppose._\n\nHe didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything, just looked at the cup in his hands.\n\n'I will want a detailed account of this place, the lake, Dun Crin, a map of the waterways in and out. Everything you remember. And numbers - people. Edana of course. Who else?'\n\n'Roisin and Lorcan. They were in the boat with Edana.'\n\nRhin pulled a face at that.\n\n'Halion.'\n\n'He made it here, then.'\n\n'Aye. Vonn.'\n\n'Who's he?'\n\n'Evnis' son.'\n\nRhin and the giant exchanged a glance. 'Go on,' Rhin said.\n\n'Pendathran. Camlin, I guess, though I don't recall seeing him at the battle. But he's a sneaky bastard, probably hiding somewhere and shooting his arrows.'\n\nJust then the sounds of a commotion drifted in through the tent entrance. It was pulled back, warriors entering, standing either side and another figure came in, another warrior, but this one battered and bloody, iron helm dented, a bloodstained bandage around one of his arms.\n\n_Morcant._\n\nHe saw Rhin and almost ran to her, dropped to one knee before her and kissed her hand. She seemed to like it, by the look on her face.\n\n_Should I have done that?_\n\n'My Queen,' Morcant breathed, 'I am overjoyed to see you.'\n\n'Well, I'm quite pleased to see you,' Rhin said, the smile still flickering upon her lips. She wrinkled her nose. 'Though you could smell better.'\n\n'The marsh,' he said, gesturing, looking offended.\n\n'Of course. Your smell I can cope with, for the moment. We were just talking to the first survivor of this disaster to return to us.' Rhin waved at Rafe. 'You can go now, by the way,' she said to him. 'I would talk with Morcant a while. She stroked Morcant's cheek, running a finger along one of the scars he'd earned in the court of swords.\n\nRafe was more than happy to leave. He stood up and bowed clumsily, then left the tent.\n\nHe collected a skin of watered wine from the kitchens, a shoulder of cold lamb, and walked away from the crowds. Scratcher and Sniffer soon found him and he wandered, somewhat aimlessly, thinking back on Rhin's questioning and the battle. He reached the river where all of the boats had been moored, where they had set off nearly a moon ago, full of confidence, maybe arrogance. He walked on, following the riverbank, knew where he was going now.\n\nHe turned away from the riverbank and walked a way into the marshes, stopping eventually at the husk of a dead tree. He walked round behind it to where its roots had cracked the ground, got down on his hands and knees and reached into a dark hole beneath a root. His hand scrambled around and then he felt it, pulled out his kit bag.\n\nHe sat with his back to the dead tree, drank some of his wine, ate some of the cold lamb, threw strips of fat to the two hounds and just enjoyed the feeling of being relatively safe, for a few moments.\n\n_What now, I wonder? Probably back into the marshes with this new warband, have another crack at Edana, but maybe with giants on our side this time._\n\nHe opened his kit bag, pulled out his coat of chainmail. He'd chosen not to wear it - stupid, maybe, as he'd been going into battle, but the thought of wearing a mail shirt while in a boat, travelling across rivers and lakes. No, the thought of drowning held a special terror for him.\n\nThen he took out the box, turning it in his hands. He tried the lock again, but it would not shift. He shook it, something solid rattling around inside, took out his knife and wiggled it in the lock.\n\nIt would not open. He pressed harder and harder, in the end his knife slipping and cutting the palm of his hand. A flash of anger and he threw the knife, then stood with the box in both hands.\n\n_Can 't carry this stupid lump of wood around with me wherever I go._\n\nHe raised it over his head and smashed it down upon the tree root, as hard as old bones.\n\nThere was a loud crack and the lid flew open.\n\nPleased with himself, he sat back down again, the hounds coming over to be nosey, and he looked inside.\n\nA cup sat in the box, not particularly fancy, dark. He lifted it up to the light and was surprised by how heavy it was.\n\n_It 's made out of some kind of metal._ He twirled it in his hand, saw it was mostly black and smooth, here and there a paler vein running through the metal. Around its rim old runes curled in a scrawling script.\n\n_Well, I 've carried a cup five hundred leagues across the Banished Lands._ He laughed to himself and hefted it to throw it in the river, then paused. Looking at it, he suddenly felt thirsty.\n\n_Might as well have a drink from it first, let it earn its keep._\n\nHe poured some of his wine into the cup, swirled it around a little, then drank it down. He'd intended to only take a sip, but then he was smacking his lips and the cup was empty.\n\n_Maybe it 's a magic cup_, he thought, _one that makes everything taste nicer. P 'raps I won't throw it in the river._\n\nHe could feel the wine in his belly, a warm glow. As he thought about it the sensation grew, felt as if it was spreading through his veins, warm and wonderful, like tendrils of gold.\n\nHe groaned in pleasure.\n\nThe sensation grew, spreading to the far corners of his body - toes, fingers, into his head, behind his eyes, swirling, intoxicating, better than the finest usque his da had ever let him sip. He heard laughing, realized it was him, and then he felt grass on his cheek. The cup rolled out of his fingers, into the grass.\n\nWaves of pleasure pulsed through him, continued to grow, becoming uncomfortable in their intensity, too wonderful, an itch behind his eyeballs, feeling as if his heart was swelling in his chest. He groaned again, but not from pleasure this time. From fear, pleasure turning to pain. He curled his legs up to his chest, writhed and groaned and squirmed, the dogs sniffing and whining around him, ears back, licking his face.\n\nThen he screamed, his whole body going rigid, sweating, every muscle in his body locked in an endless spasm. He tasted blood, realized he'd bitten his tongue. Darkness swooped down upon him, his vision blurring, the world around him fading, and then he knew no more.\n\n#### CHAPTER NINETY\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban marched along the dank tunnel, torches lodged high in sconces punctuating the darkness, the thud of his boots and whisper of Storm's footsteps echoing ahead of him.\n\nHe felt as if he was going insane.\n\nThe enormity of what Meical had just told him kept hitting him, rolling over him like endless waves upon a beach.\n\nHis first thoughts had been for his friends, of telling them. Of telling Gar.\n\n_He has lived his whole life devoted to the prophecy, and to me because of it. His father died because of it. It will destroy him._\n\n_How can I tell everyone else? So many who have lost so much for this_ strategy, _as Meical called it._\n\n_What will they think?_\n\n_What will they do?_\n\n_Will they all leave Drassil? Go back to their homes? Give up?_\n\nAnd then, hitting him like a hammer.\n\n_What will I do?_\n\nThe truth was that right now he did not know. All he knew was that he needed to be away from Meical. His rage had scared him in the great hall, knowing that he was only heartbeats away from drawing his blade on the Ben-Elim. And, despite everything, he did not want to see Meical dead. Or even try to kill him. There had been something raw and honest in Meical's confession, and as he'd listened to the Ben-Elim Corban had even felt an edge of sympathy for him - completely overwhelmed by all-out rage right now, but he knew it was there nevertheless.\n\nHe looked at Storm beside him, rested a hand upon her back and carried on walking.\n\nFigures stood highlighted beneath the next pool of torchlight, two men, swords at their hips, one with a spear. Corban had lost track of how long he had been walking, just knew that his anger had started to recede - not fade or disappear, but at least to stop bubbling and spluttering in his mind like a thousand angry hornets kicked from their nest. And his stomach was growling, telling him to find some food.\n\nThe figures loomed closer - two guards set on the first trapdoor into Forn. He recognized them as he drew closer, the two oarsmen Atilius and his son Pax. Corban waved them a greeting as he drew near, and they both looked pleased when he addressed them by name.\n\nBoth of them bore marks from the battle before Drassil's walls: Pax had linen bandaged around his head and Atilius had a raw scar running down the length of his forearm, the stitch-holes still visible from where they had recently been cut and pulled.\n\nThey both were talkative, smiling and asking about Dath.\n\n_He was handbound yesterday! Was it only yesterday?_ A lot seemed to have happened since then. Corban found it hard talking to these two men. He'd grown accustomed to people wanting to talk to him and always tried to take a few moments to speak with anyone who wanted to, but that had been before.\n\n_Before I learned of the great lie._ He felt ashamed before them, warriors who had risked their lives before Drassil's walls, all in the name of a prophecy and a Bright Star. They looked at him, thinking he was something that he knew he wasn't.\n\n_I need some air._\n\n'Would you open the gate for me?' he said. 'I could do with some sunshine upon my face.'\n\n'Aye, lord,' Pax said, running up the slope that led to the hidden door.\n\n_Lord!_ Corban thought as he and Atilius followed more slowly.\n\n'Any news on the next warband?' Atilius asked him. He was an old soldier, a warrior of Tenebral, and clearly used to war.\n\n'No,' Corban said.\n\n'We'll show them, if they ever reach here,' Pax said as he threw the bolt, his da moving to help him lift the oak crossbar.\n\n'I don't doubt it,' Corban said as the door was pushed open and broken sunlight streamed in. 'My thanks,' he said as he stepped out into the fresh air, Storm loping off to sniff at a patch of dogwood.\n\n'My lord?' Pax said nervously.\n\n_Not that again._ 'Aye,' Corban sighed.\n\n'Where are your shieldmen?' Pax looked about the forest. 'Forn is not safe.'\n\n'They're all sleeping off hangovers,' Corban said with a wan smile. 'But Storm is with me, and besides, I won't go far,' he said to the two men. 'I'll stamp on the door when I'm ready to come back down.'\n\n'All right then,' Atilius said and they pulled the trapdoor closed. Pax stuck his head out just before it shut and threw something to Corban - a water skin and something rolled in linen. Corban smiled and then the door was closed, turf fixed to its top making it look like an ordinary patch of woodland.\n\nHe walked for a little while, drawn to the sound of running water, and soon he came upon a steep-sided river, fast flowing and narrow, its water foaming white and loud as it carved its way through a miniature ravine. Corban climbed a gentle rise that suddenly steepened until he emerged into a grassy glade on the brow of a hill, to the south the walls and towers of Drassil visible through the trees, behind and above the fortress the great tree spreading like a guardian of bark and branch. The sun was warm upon his face in this glade. He lay on his back and looked up, enjoying the sensation of not having a canopy of branches above him for a change. Cloud like faded gossamer veiled the sky, softening the sharp blue glare of spring.\n\nFrom here the troubles of life seemed to fade, just a little, the storm of shock and despair that had been so overwhelming a short while ago receding to calmer waters. He propped himself up onto an elbow and unstoppered the skin Pax had thrown him. It was watered wine, not water, a little reminder of yesterday's celebration, and it tasted very good to his dry throat. Wrapped in linen was a chunk of cheese and a thick oat biscuit, which he shared with Storm. She sat and stared at him, perfectly still except for the drool dripping from one of her fangs. He threw her another bit of cheese and she leaped to catch it, jaws snapping, then padded over and bashed him with her head, knocking him onto his back again. She stood over him and licked his face.\n\nHe pushed her off and rolled over, felt a pinch in his arm and looked down to see his arm-ring, dark iron and silver thread curling around his upper arm, a thing of beauty. He remembered the night it had been given to him, Meical slamming his sword into the ground.\n\n_We are what we choose to be_ , Meical had said to him that morning.\n\n_The question is, what do I choose to be?_\n\nHe thought over Meical's words to him, every sentence, poring over them. He noticed the air starting to cool about him, a strong wind coming up from the south.\n\n'Time to go back,' he said eventually to Storm. 'I can't sit here forever. And I have an announcement to make.'\n\nMeical's confession still hurt, almost more than he could bear, like a wound that had pierced deep - unreachable, unhealable - but he knew that he could not just hide away in the woods, that he had to go back, if not for his sake then at least for those others who had believed the lie and followed him. And there was more to this God-War than titles and the strategies and games of immortals. There were people. Kin. Friends.\n\n_I may not be the great warrior prophesied to come and save the world that I once thought, but I am a man who has lost his mam and da to war. Lost my home, my King, my friends. I will not just walk away from that. Calidus and Nathair are still a great evil, and they still need to be stopped. I will not turn my back on that fight, avatar of a lost god or not._\n\nAs he stood, Storm looked northwards, down the incline and into the shade of the trees. She growled. At the same time a sound drifted up to him on the wind from the south. From Drassil. The wild blasts of horns. He strained to listen and thought he heard voices, screaming, the clash of iron.\n\nBeside him Storm's growl deepened, turning into a snapping snarling, the ridge of her hackles standing. Corban spun around, felt the ground tremble, saw branches shaking as something huge approached through the forest.\n\nHe told his feet to move but for a moment remained transfixed to the ground. Then a mass of fur and jaws and teeth emerged from the gloom and the treeline: a great bear with a blond-haired, pale-skinned giant upon its back. He was wrapped in fur, a war-hammer slung across his back.\n\n_The giant from Gramm 's hold that slew Tukul. Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun._\n\n'I _know_ you,' the giant grated at him.\n\nOther bears emerged from the forest, two, four, five of them, each with a rider upon their backs.\n\nCorban snapped a command at Storm as he turned and ran.\n\n#### CHAPTER NINETY-ONE\n\n#### CORALEN\n\nCoralen kicked Akar's feet out from under him, saw him drop and attempt the roll that Sumur had executed so perfectly in front of them all during his duel with Corban, but Akar was a fraction slower and Coralen aimed a little higher, accounting for the attempted roll before it had fully begun.\n\nThe result was a dead Akar, or he would have been, if her sword had not been made of wood. He rose with a wince and a courteous nod, which she hardly even noticed. She was thinking about Corban.\n\n_I kissed him. Kissed him. And what does he do? Nothing._ Even in her head the word was a snarl.\n\n'Again,' she said to Akar. She didn't notice that he looked disappointed to be asked.\n\nTheir weapons clacked a staccato rhythm as they moved with the tempo of their contest. Akar was technical, fluid, perfect, like all of the Jehar; Coralen was movement and fury, but she was without her wolven claws, using just a practice sword. Akar broke through her guard with a feint and lunge and punched his blade against the flesh a fraction below her ribcage.\n\n_You just killed me._\n\nThat made her mad and she grabbed his blade, dragged herself up it and sawed her own weapon against Akar's throat.\n\n'What was that?' he asked as he stepped away.\n\n'You killed me, but not instantly. I was practising taking my enemy to the bridge of swords with me.'\n\nHe smiled at that and nodded his respect, then touched his hand to his throat, fingertips coming away bloody. Even though her blade was made of wood she'd managed to draw blood.\n\n'I am not your enemy,' Akar said.\n\n'What?'\n\n'I am not your enemy,' he repeated, 'and I do not wish to die whilst training on the weapons court.'\n\n'Sorry,' she muttered.\n\nShe'd been first on the weapons court this morning, expecting to see Corban, fully intending to give him as many bruises as was physically possible during a morning's training. When he had not turned up it made her angrier, her only option to take it as a personal insult.\n\n_He is avoiding me._\n\nAkar had been the first unfortunate man who had asked her if she wished to spar with him.\n\n_This is not working. I need to see Corban and tell him what I think of him. What I think of a man who gets kissed by a woman and then avoids that woman for a ten-night. And especially when that woman is me. Me, who 's punched and kicked and bitten a score of men that tried to kiss me, and now . . ._\n\nShe screamed internally.\n\nCoralen strode from the court, slamming her practice blade into a wicker barrel as she left. She strode through the wide streets of the fortress, heading for the great hall, her eyes scanning for Storm as she went. If Corban was not in there she would try his chamber.\n\nShe reached the great hall and walked through the open gates. This chamber still managed to fill her with a sense of awe. It was just so huge, the branches snaking across the roof high above. She stood on the steps that led down onto the main floor and took it all in. She thought of Dath and Kulla at last night's festivities and smiled, then remembered them kissing, which reminded her of something else, and she scowled.\n\nShe saw Meical sitting on a bench at one of the tables, alone and with his head bowed.\n\n_It 's the first time I've seen him still. He is usually doing something every moment of the waking day. Maybe he's seen Corban._\n\nA horn blast echoed through the chamber, off from the right. She looked about, not seeing anyone, frowning, then realized what it was.\n\n_One of the tunnel alerts._\n\n'To arms!' she bellowed. 'Foe in the tunnels. To arms, to arms.' She was running, a sword in her fist without realizing how it got there, searching for the tunnel with the horn-blower. The blasts kept coming, people taking up her cry, Coralen hearing it spread through the chamber and out of the gates into the courtyard beyond.\n\n_Must close the tunnel, seal the doors._\n\nGlancing left and right, she saw Meical running, speeding after her, others heading for the gates. Then she saw the tunnel. A warrior was standing at its rim blowing on his horn, others heaving on the huge trapdoor. A giant joined them to help, but then the horn-blower was shouting at them, gesturing for them to stop.\n\nThen Coralen was there. Strange sounds echoed out of the tunnel, hooves and feet and what sounded like a great wind.\n\n'Close it,' she yelled at the men and giant standing with ropes on the huge trapdoor, holding it hovering.\n\n'No,' the horn-blower shouted at her, a huntsman from Narvon who had joined her team. 'We have scouts in there - my brother is down there.'\n\nCoralen paused a moment, looking into the tunnel. It sloped down gently, a hundred paces in two pools of torchlight revealing only emptiness. In theory any enemy in the tunnel should be at least half a day away, the scouts inside equipped with horns and fast mounts to spread the alert as quickly as possible. But she didn't like the sounds coming out of that tunnel.\n\n_They could be a long way back_ - _sound travels far in those tunnels, especially if it 's made by those in a hurry._\n\nThen the clatter of hooves separated from the others, growing louder with every moment, and suddenly a rider was visible in the tunnel, galloping through the torchlight, hurtling up the slope towards them. His mouth was moving, shouting, but nothing could be heard over the crashing of his mount's hooves and the strange sound rushing up behind it, a scraping, grinding sound, like a thousand knives scratching at stone.\n\n'Close the gates,' the rider screamed as he exploded from the tunnel, Coralen rushing to take his reins, his horse sweat-streaked and foaming at the mouth. The rider's eyes were wide with panic.\n\nCoralen was planning on asking a few questions but instead she turned to the men holding the huge trapdoor and yelled and screamed at them to close it. Its hinges creaked as it began to come down.\n\nA huge roar boomed through the tunnel, bursting up into the chamber like a blast of wind in the worst of storms, a physical thing that rattled chests and burst eardrums. In the tunnel something appeared, something huge, a flat muzzled head with small eyes, long fangs, thick powerful legs with razored claws.\n\n_No._\n\n'DRAIG!' screamed Coralen and the door came crashing down, all efforts at lowering it with control gone. Coralen had one last glimpse inside the tunnel, the draig looming close, someone upon its back, and behind it warriors, some mounted, others running, iron glinting, then the door was down, a cloud of dust billowing up.\n\nMen were at the bolts, trying to throw them across, the giant and others reaching for the great oak beam that slotted through iron collars across the door.\n\nSomeone grabbed her arm and spun her. Meical.\n\n'What did you see?' he asked, voice calm, controlled.\n\n'A draig, a rider upon its back.'\n\n'Nathair rides a draig,' Meical said.\n\n'Aye, it was him,' Coralen breathed. She would never forget the sight from Murias. 'And the Kadoshim are with him, hundreds of them.' She looked up at the scout rider. He was wild-eyed, in the grip of panic. Gripping his wrist, she shook him.\n\n'How are they so close?' Coralen asked him. 'Where are the other scouts?'\n\n'They move faster than the wind,' the scout said, 'that draig . . .' His face spasmed, remembering something terrible. 'They caught up with the other scouts, ran them down.'\n\nThe giant slid the oak beam through the first iron collar. Warriors were everywhere now, a few hundred at least, iron in their fists but most not in their war gear. More were pouring into the chamber as the horn blasts spread warning through the fortress.\n\n'Where's Ban?' Coralen asked Meical, grabbing his arm as he turned away.\n\n'He . . .' Meical paused, a mixture of grief and guilt crossing his face. 'He took Storm down one of the tunnels--'\n\n'What!'\n\n'Not this one - this one goes south, yes?'\n\n'Aye.'\n\n'No, the one by Skald's chair. He is safe.'\n\n'Why did he do that?'\n\nThere was a huge, concussive boom on the trapdoor, shaking it, dust boiling from its edges, locks rattling, some of the bolts flying loose.\n\n_It 's not going to hold._ Coralen knew beyond any doubt.\n\n'Make ready,' Meical yelled at the top of his voice.\n\nGar swept through the doors, a few score Jehar at his back, other people appearing from all directions - Wulf and a handful of axe-throwers, Javed with his pit-fighters, Coralen saw Brina and Cywen standing upon the stairwell that led to Corban's chamber, Dath and Kulla bleary-eyed and tousle-haired behind them.\n\n_At least he has his bow._\n\n'Where is Ban?' Gar yelled as he drew near.\n\n'In the north tunnel; Meical says he's safe,' she said, nodded a greeting to Enkara, who was along with him, her leg not fully recovered from when her horse had fallen upon it.\n\nAnother impact upon the trapdoor, the oak beam the giant had slid across splintering with a piercing crack, another dust cloud rippling outwards.\n\n'Back, get back,' Coralen cried, trying to herd them all away from the trapdoor. _They are too close: if the doors break, a hundred men will be slain in the explosion._\n\nMeical and Gar added their voices, then others, and slowly the milling, confused mess edged backwards, forming a ring about the trapdoor, leaving a space of ten or twenty paces.\n\n_And that will be our killing ground_ , Coralen snarled to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager now. _Wish I had my wolven claws. Have to do it the old-fashioned way._ With her left hand she drew a knife from her belt.\n\nThere were a few moments of silence, dust settling, armour creaking as everyone waited.\n\nThen the trapdoor exploded in a deafening burst of wood and iron, a dust cloud billowing out to envelop them. The draig within the tunnel roared its fury and crashed into the chamber, shadowy figures swarming behind it.\n\nThen all became chaos.\n\nThe draig ploughed a way through the ring, eviscerating a dozen men too foolish or too brave to leap out of its way, Nathair hacking from side to side with a longsword. A horde of enemy surged after the draig, breaking through the immediate ring and hurling themselves into the warriors who were gathering deeper into the chamber. Meical did not wait for the enemy but strode into the dust cloud behind the draig, one man sealing the gap against so many, his sword a dull gleam as he was obscured; moments later a shadow-demon screeching into existence in the air, and Coralen knew Meical had his first kill.\n\nGar ran in after him, bellowing, 'TRUTH AND COURAGE!' and Coralen followed, screaming at the top of her lungs, all those in the circle adding their voices and surging forwards.\n\nKadoshim were everywhere, but among and behind them emerged other warriors - ones clothed like the pirates they had stolen the ships from in Narvon, in kilts and vests of leather with short swords and bucklers. Coralen liked them; they were much easier to kill than the Kadoshim. In what felt like no time at all her sword and knife were slick with blood and half a dozen men were dead or dying in her wake.\n\nThe Kadoshim were shrieking like the demons they were, frenzied in their killing, and wherever they went the people of Drassil fell. A handful of paces ahead of Coralen Gar and Meical stood like an island against them; almost every other heartbeat a shadow-demon formed like a black marker above them.\n\nA face surged out of the press at her, iron rings in an oily beard, an iron-bossed buckler punching at her face. She swayed to one side, slashed the arm behind the buckler with her sword, stepped in close and punched her knife into a belly, ripped sideways as she stepped away, giving the warrior a shove in the chest to send him stumbling backwards, leaving a trail of his intestines on the floor. Another warrior stabbed at her, blinked when she was no longer where he expected her to be, then choked on his own blood as she raked his throat with her knife.\n\nThen a Kadoshim was coming at her and she was retreating, slashing with sword and knife, opening a wound across its thigh, a wrist, along the ribs, but it did not seem even to feel the injuries, let alone be slowed down. Blood seeped from the wounds, but slow and thick, not sheeting like she expected. Step by step she retreated, forced steadily out of the ring, towards Skald's throne and away from the warriors who fought desperately to contain the warband that was forcing its way up and out of the tunnel. A sliver of fear worked its way into her belly as her defences became frantic and ragged. She felt her body weakening, her lungs burning as the Kadoshim pressed on, unrelenting, blow after blow merging into one seamless, constant attack. She blinked what she thought was sweat out of her eyes, but it was blood, a cut over her eye appearing that she hadn't even felt and the blood wouldn't stop flowing. The sliver of fear grew.\n\n_I may die here. How did Corban make fighting these things look so easy?_\n\nThen a warrior swept around her, black-clothed, wielding a curved sword, Akar. He spun around the Kadoshim, coming to a standstill with his back to them both, sword held out to his side in a two-handed grip, dripping black globs of blood. The Kadoshim staggered on a few steps and its head rolled to the side, then toppled to the ground with a thud, its body following a few moments later, mist like black ichor forming in the air, hissing its rage at the world and then evaporating.\n\nCoralen nodded her thanks to Akar and then he was gone, a dozen Jehar moving with him, chopping into the tide of Kadoshim and Vin Thalun that were flowing from the tunnel.\n\nShe ripped a strip of cloth from her shirt and tied it around the cut on her forehead, took a moment to look about the room.\n\nMore warriors were still entering the chamber. She glimpsed the child-king's shieldman, Tahir, leading scores of Isiltir's red-cloaks in a charge down the steps at Nathair upon his draig.\n\nThe ring that had formed around the trapdoor was getting steadily pushed back, thinning and starting to fray as more enemy kept emerging from the tunnel, though the numbers of the fallen enemy seemed uncountable, piles of them stacked in an ever-widening circle.\n\n_We cannot hold them much longer._\n\nEven as she watched, a break came in their circle and Kadoshim and Vin Thalun poured through it like a flood, spreading into the chamber, turning back to attack the defenders from behind.\n\nCoralen looked about wildly, trying to find her friends in the chaos, having a mind to fight beside them if this was going to end the way she thought.\n\n_I wish I 'd spoken to Ban. Please, Elyon, let him be safe. Let him live._\n\nA great roar echoed through the chamber, for a moment drowning out the din of battle, and Coralen looked to see Balur One-Eye standing upon the steps before the gate, black axe in his hands, Ethlinn and the might of the Benothi behind him. With another roar he strode down the stairs, began to run towards them, the Benothi following like an avalanche, the ground trembling. They hit the Kadoshim and Vin Thalun that had broken through the circle, scattering them like straw dolls, axes taking Kadoshim heads, war-hammers crushing Vin Thalun to pulp, and behind them the defenders started to rally. Coralen saw Dath had gathered a dozen archers to him and they were lined along the staircase that led to a higher floor, raking the enemy with flights of arrows. To the other side Wulf had rallied his axe-men to him and they were hurling blades at Nathair's draig and the enemy that thronged around him. Elsewhere she glimpsed Javed, soaked in blood, a knife in each hand, Vin Thalun dead or dying all about him. He was smiling viciously, his pit-fighters about him carving a bloody swathe through a knot of Vin Thalun warriors. Coralen felt a new surge of hope and with it energy, and she leaped back into the battle, wanting to find Gar and stand beside him.\n\nHe was still standing close to Meical, the two of them blood drenched and ringed by a tideline of corpses. Coralen joined them, protecting one and then the other as Vin Thalun and Kadoshim hurled themselves at the two warriors. She stabbed and hacked and chopped until her arms grew heavy and her hands slippery with blood.\n\nOthers joined her, spreading in a half-circle to guard the flanks of Gar and Meical - Enkara and Hamil, Akar and a dozen other Jehar.\n\nThe flow of enemy from the tunnel started to slow, one last wave surging towards them. Coralen turned a blow with her knife and buried her sword in a Vin Thalun chest, blade sticking between ribs as she tried to tug it free. Another Vin Thalun saw and lunged at her, sword plunging towards her unprotected side.\n\nSomething smashed into his chest, hurling him away from Coralen in an explosion of blood. He hit the floor and rolled, Coralen seeing one of Laith's throwing knives sticking from his chest. Laith bounded up, a fresh knife in each hand, covered in cuts and other people's blood. Farrell was with her, his war-hammer slung across his back, the giant dagger in his hands slick with blood.\n\n'Better for Kadoshim,' he growled. 'Where's Ban?'\n\nBefore she could answer a new sound rose from the tunnel. Battle lulled around them and many paused to look. A rhythmic _thump_ rumbled out of the tunnel, reverberating in pulsing waves. A line of new Kadoshim emerged, flies buzzing about them, a warrior at their head, tall, lithe, gripping a longsword and clothed in mail, but Coralen's eyes were drawn to his face, parts of it burned charcoal black and peeling, silver hair growing in tufts on his head, elsewhere singed to stubble or burned clear.\n\n'Calidus,' Meical snarled.\n\nBehind him and the new Kadoshim marched more warriors, these in disciplined rows with long shields and short swords in their hands, iron caps on their heads. Coralen remembered them from Domhain, when she had been part of a night raid against Rhin's invading force. They had been the only force that hadn't panicked, and days later she had been told that their wall of shields had broken Domhain's warband.\n\nHundreds of them were marching from the tunnel, an endless column of men twenty shields wide. Coralen felt her heart sink.\n\nCalidus saw Meical, sneered and strode straight at him. Meical stepped to meet him, their blades clashing with blinding speed; the sheer sense of power rolling off their blows was staggering. Then one of the Kadoshim was lunging in, something different about him from the rest, flies swarming around him. He lashed out at Meical, caught him a glancing blow and sent him crashing to the floor, rolling backwards. Calidus followed and Enkara stepped between them, sword raised high, turned Calidus' blow as it swept towards Meical, a backswing from Enkara slashing across Calidus' eyes and sending him reeling. Behind her Meical pushed himself to his knees, then the other Kadoshim was lunging at Enkara. He had no blade in his hands, just grabbed her, somehow swaying past her curved sword and gripping her wrist. He gave a savage yank and her sword was spinning away, Enkara pulled close to him. With one hand he gripped her face and twisted.\n\nCoralen heard Enkara's neck snapping from twenty paces away, the Kadoshim discarding her lifeless body to the ground.\n\nCoralen screamed and ran at him.\n\n#### CHAPTER NINETY-TWO\n\n#### CYWEN\n\nCywen burst into the hospice, chest heaving, lungs burning. People were sitting up in their cots, some shuffling about on crutches, others trying to pull boots on and find weapons. They all froze and stared at Cywen.\n\n'Out of here,' she gasped, then louder, 'the enemy are in the great hall. If you can wield a blade, go do it, if not, you need to get somewhere safer.'\n\nThe room burst into motion. Brina stumbled in behind Cywen.\n\n'Thanks for helping . . . an old . . . lady,' Brina said.\n\n'Sorry,' Cywen said.\n\nThey'd both stood in the great hall, staring dumbstruck as the draig had smashed its way through the trapdoor and the warband of Kadoshim and Vin Thalun had come boiling out of the ground. It had not taken long to realize that the warriors of Drassil were hugely outnumbered and in fighting the Kadoshim, unlike the battle beyond the walls, were battling against a foe that was at least their equal. Added to that, the Kadoshim seemed to be limitless in their numbers and supported by a screaming horde of Vin Thalun pirates. As the circle of defenders trying to contain them had broken down Brina and Cywen both looked at one another and realized the same thing - _the hospice._\n\n_If the Kadoshim reached here it would be a bloodbath._\n\nSo they had run through the streets of Drassil, chaos everywhere, Cywen pulling ahead of Brina.\n\nStill breathing hard she started to help people from cots, tugging on clothes, dishing out seed of the poppy. Brina was stuffing herbs and vials into a bag. Once the hall was close to empty Cywen saw the other thing that she'd come here for - her two belts of throwing-knives.\n\nShe slipped them over her head and ran her fingers along a row of leather-wrapped hilts, their comfortable weight reassuring.\n\n'Ready?' Brina asked her, a slim spear in one hand, bag slung across her shoulder. Cywen raised an eyebrow at the spear.\n\n'As much to help me walk and keep up with you as anything else,' Brina snapped.\n\nAnd then they were heading back to the great hall, slower this time, the din of battle growing louder with each step. Men and women were running in all directions, panic thick in the air. Battle had spilt into the courtyard before the great hall, knots of combat here and there, Kadoshim and Vin Thalun a constant trickle through the half-open doors. Cywen saw a Kadoshim leap through the air, covering at least twenty paces to crash into a handful of Wulf's men, scattering them. As Cywen ran past she saw the Kadoshim squatting upon a body, jaws slick and dripping with blood, the throat of the warrior beneath it torn and ragged.\n\nAs they approached the hall's half-open doors, running up the few steps that led from the courtyard, there was a deafening roar and something slammed into them from the other side, one door crashing from its hinges, falling with a resounding _boom_ upon friend and foe alike. The draig surged out from the wreckage, Nathair upon its back, the beast powering into the courtyard, its head swinging from side to side, jaws lunging, snapping. It veered away from them, chasing a mass of fleeing warriors, leaving the gates momentarily empty.\n\n'Now,' Brina said, running towards the entrance.\n\nA Vin Thalun ran at them as they reached the open gateway. Cywen put a knife through his eye, dropping him in a twitching pile. She paused to retrieve her knife, then ran through the entrance, colliding with Brina's back.\n\nThen she saw why the healer had stopped at the top of the stairs that led down into Drassil's great hall, staring down into the enormous chamber, the sight almost breaking her heart.\n\nThe hall stank like a slaughterhouse, the dead and dying everywhere, all manner of noise filling the air, battle-cries, death cries, men and women screaming, mewling or weeping with pain, the clash and grate of iron on iron, giants bellowing defiance, the Kadoshim's ululating screeches.\n\nThe trapdoor that the enemy had emerged from was abandoned, the ring of Drassil's warriors broken, reduced to knotted islands in a sea of the enemy. And marching through the middle was the shield wall of Tenebral's eagle-guard, thousands strong, pushing through the surge and press of battle with irresistible force.\n\n_Veradis. Is he down there?_\n\nEven as Cywen stood and stared, horns rang out from the shield wall, and before her eyes it split, not in panic, but in organized motion, parting to form new, smaller squares that branched off into a sweeping arc, systematically clearing the battle before them.\n\n'This is over,' Brina said beside her.\n\nThe words still in the air Cywen heard a great roar from the far side of the chamber, saw the Benothi giants, felt a flare of hope, but that was instantly dashed as she saw a handful of them retreating, carrying a slumped form between them, silver hair hanging and matted with blood.\n\n_Balur One-Eye is fallen._\n\n'Aye,' Cywen grunted.\n\nElsewhere she saw warriors of Drassil starting to break and run, here and there a more organized retreat - Wulf and his axe-men had joined with Javed's pit-fighters and were disappearing around the curve of the great tree's trunk; closer to her a hundred or so red-cloaked warriors were retreating slowly, a forest of long spears holding back the press of the enemy.\n\n'We need to find Ban and get out of here.'\n\n'Where do we go?' Cywen mumbled, the shock of defeat washing through her like a poison, murdering her will, draining her spirit.\n\n_It cannot be._\n\n'There,' Brina said, pointing with her spear.\n\nThe trapdoor before Skald's throne was a surging sea of battle, bodies rising and falling like storm-racked waves. At the centre of it Cywen saw her friends. Gar and Meical were standing together, dealing death. Even as she watched screaming shadow-demons burst into momentary existence and then faded about them. Cywen caught a flash of red hair, saw Coralen fighting like a lunatic banshee of legend, close to her Farrell and Laith, Dath and Kulla, a few score others, mostly Jehar. She realized that their numbers were dwindling - not because they were falling to enemy blades, but because they were disappearing one by one into the smaller door of the tunnel's trapdoor.\n\n_They are escaping._\n\n'We need to get to them, now,' Brina hissed, grabbing Cywen and pulling her down the stairs.\n\nThey were moving against the tide, most now trying to reach the gates. Cywen pushed, shoved and slipped between people, one hand in Brina's. They reached the bottom of the stairs and broke into a run. Cywen used two of her knives on Vin Thalun who fixed their eyes upon her or Brina, leaving her blades in their corpses, and then they were at the mass that was pressing against Meical and the rest.\n\nBrina skirted it, running around to the flanks of the half-circle that was closing like a fist upon their friends. Brina buried her spear in the back of a Vin Thalun; another turning, seeing her, raising his sword, fell gurgling with one of Cywen's knives in his throat. They moved into the press, Cywen catching a glimpse of Laith ahead of her, and Farrell.\n\nThen a Kadoshim was before them, its mouth open in a feral snarl, black eyes fixed on them, curved sword rising. Brina buried her spear in soft flesh, just above the rim of its chainmail shirt, below its throat. The blade sank deep - dark, almost black blood welling around the wound like cold porridge. The Kadoshim slashed at the spear, snapping the shaft, leaving the blade in its flesh. It seemed unconcerned about that, advancing on Brina as she stumbled back.\n\nCywen threw knives, one, two, three in quick succession, the first crunching into its skull, second bouncing off of the mail shirt, and third piercing its links to sink into the Kadoshim's belly. It took no notice.\n\n_I can 't take its head with a knife._ She drew the sword at her belt and hacked two-handed into the creature as it sliced at and just missed Brina's face.\n\nCywen's sword sliced into its neck, flesh parting, blade grinding against bone.\n\n_That got its attention._\n\nIt turned its black eyes upon her and lunged, wrenching her sword from her fingertips, leaving it embedded in the Kadoshim's neck. It ignored that as well, seemingly intent upon Cywen's death. A hand snaked out and grabbed one of her knife-belts, dragging her closer to the Kadoshim's sword-tip. Then Brina was there, in the corner of Cywen's eye, arm raised, and she was shouting something in giantish. Amongst the garbled words from Brina's lips Cywen heard the word _lasair_ , for fire, then Brina threw something - a vial that exploded in the Kadoshim's face - and it erupted into fire, spreading in heartbeats down the Kadoshim's neck and consuming its torso, flames hungry and devouring, the instant smell of charring flesh and burning hair billowing out with waves of heat and smoke.\n\nCywen threw herself backwards as flames snaked along the Kadoshim's arm. She slammed onto the ground, saw the Kadoshim stagger away, reeling like a drunkard to crash into a Vin Thalun, the flames leaping onto him and in moments he was a human torch. Both Vin Thalun and Kadoshim collapsed to their knees, screaming, toppled to the ground, limbs thrashing, the Kadoshim stiffening and then going still, the now too-familiar sight of a shadow-demon appearing in the air above it.\n\n_So, the Kadoshim are not fans of fire, either, although it 's not the instant victory the taking of a head gives._\n\nCywen staggered to her feet, Brina nodding with a satisfied expression upon her face.\n\nA slavering, screeching howl drew their attention and they both spun to see a handful of Kadoshim running at them. Brina's hand frantically scrabbled inside her bag and pulled out another vial.\n\n_I thought they were medicines_ - _what has she been up to?_\n\nMore giantish words issued from Brina's mouth and she hurled the vial at the first Kadoshim, just a few paces from Cywen now. There was a blinding flash, a concussive explosion and then Cywen was flying through the air; the last thing she saw before darkness closed in upon her was Brina's face, an expression of profound surprise upon it.\n\n'Well, what a pleasant surprise,' she heard a voice say, somewhere above her. She opened her eyes, decided that was a mistake, pain thumping in her skull, and closed them again.\n\nA boot kicked her in the ribs, more pain in different places now, all clamouring for attention.\n\nShe opened her eyes again, looked up into a burned face, but still familiar.\n\nCalidus,' she said, voice hoarse. As she said his name he reached up and tugged at a blackened strip of flesh on his lip, it came away with a soft tearing sound. He grimaced and flicked it away.\n\n'Indeed,' he said. 'And what a pleasure it is to see you again. A feeling that I'd imagine is not mutual.' He smiled, a ghastly expression with half a lip missing.\n\nShe didn't bother replying, just pushed herself to her knees, realized her hands were bound in front of her.\n\nShe was still in the great hall, sitting on the wooden trapdoor she'd been so desperately trying to reach, though now it was mostly populated by the dead. Further away she saw Meical, pressed and held to his knees by three Kadoshim. He was covered in blood, no way of knowing if it was his own or his enemies'. Cywen suspected mostly the latter.\n\nCalidus walked away from Cywen, towards Meical.\n\n'Hasn't turned out quite as you'd hoped, has it?' Calidus said cheerfully.\n\nMeical just looked at him, stare flat, emotionless.\n\n'So. Let's get to the heart of this. Where is your puppet? Your champion? Your Bright Star?'\n\nJust more silence from Meical.\n\nA group of Kadoshim strode up, one stepping forward, flies buzzing about him in a cloud. He held something out in his hands. A black axe. Cywen had to stop herself from grinding her teeth when she saw it.\n\n_The starstone axe, taken from Balur._\n\n'Excellent,' Calidus grinned. 'Most satisfying. That makes two Treasures in one day.' He glanced at Skald's spear, still sunk into the great tree, the giant's skeleton draped about it. 'Now, all I need to make my day perfect is your Bright Star's head on a spike. So . . .'\n\nThere was a crashing, pounding rumble from behind Cywen, the now-familiar scrape of a draig's claws on stone.\n\n'Where is he?' Nathair cried from the draig's back as he drew near, glaring down at Meical. 'Where is your Bright Star?'\n\n'I was just asking the same question,' Calidus said. 'And now it's about time for an answer.'\n\n'Safe,' Meical said. 'He will come for you - he is a force of nature, Elyon's own wrath. You'd both best be looking over your shoulders from now on.'\n\n'Oh, please.' Calidus laughed.\n\n'This is far from over,' Meical growled.\n\n'Ah, now that's where you're wrong.' Calidus sighed. 'At least for you. I must admit that I'd hoped for more, Meical, and I'm sad to say it, but you're boring me. Legion, take his head.'\n\nMeical struggled in his captors' grip, but the three Kadoshim held him fast, two dragging his arms wide, the other pushing on his back with a booted foot until Meical's cheek ground into the stone floor.\n\nThe Kadoshim holding the axe raised it high and swung it down. There was a crunch and a resounding crack as the axe cut through Meical's neck and buried itself in the stone floor beneath him. His severed head rolled in a half-circle, eyes bulging. A mist formed in the air above his twitching torso, a stern-faced warrior, great white wings spread about him.\n\n'See how it feels,' Calidus said.\n\nThe wraith-like Ben-Elim glared at Calidus, then let out a bellowing, mournful roar - rage, frustration, defeat mixed together. The great white wings beat once, the air momentarily a gale, and then it was gone, evaporating.\n\nCalidus turned to face Cywen, a triumphant smile fading from his scorched features.\n\n'Now tell me, you little bitch,' he snarled. 'Where is your brother?'\n\n#### CHAPTER NINETY-THREE\n\n#### CORBAN\n\nCorban ran, the blood pounding in his skull, branches whipping his face. Storm was a blur through the trees just ahead of him.\n\nHe'd run down the hill and headed deep into thick underbrush, hoping it would halt the passage of the giant bears. By the sounds of crashing and snapping behind him his plan hadn't worked. He ploughed on, vine, root and thorn snaring and snatching at him. He stumbled, rebounded from a tree, carried on, the crashing behind him louder, closer.\n\n_I need to try something different._\n\nHe veered right, burst out of the undergrowth into a patch of soft forest litter and wide-spaced trees, put his head down and sprinted.\n\nThe sounds of bears and giant cries faded behind him, each stride opening the gap between them. He tried to work out his position, the direction he should be running in, heard the sound of running water to his left - _the river_ - and headed towards where he thought the trapdoor lay.\n\nSounds faded behind him.\n\n_I 'm going to do it._\n\nThen there was a ground-trembling explosion of undergrowth, sounding like whole trees were torn and uprooted, the pounding of huge paws and then a roaring that staggered him, sent him stumbling, then falling from his feet.\n\nHe rolled on the ground, glimpsed claws and fangs and fur bearing down upon him, the pale skin of a giant somewhere high above, heard more bears bellowing, further away, to left and right. Then he came to a halt, litter and leaves in his hair, up his nose, in his mouth. He reached for his sword.\n\nAhead of him he saw Storm skid to a halt, turn and look back for him.\n\n'On,' he commanded.\n\nShe did not move.\n\n'ON,' he shouted.\n\nStill she stood and stared at him.\n\n_Run on. Please. Go_ , he willed her.\n\nA bear and giant crashed out of the forest behind him.\n\nStorm snarled, legs bunching, and ran back towards him, her head low, a vein bulging in her chest as muscles pumped in contraction and extension.\n\nHe rolled to one knee, drew his sword, then Storm was bounding past him, legs coiling to leap at the bear converging upon them, her jaws gaping.\n\nThey slammed together, bear and wolven, a collision of flesh, bone, fur, tearing teeth and ripping claw. Storm sank her fangs deep into the bear's shoulder, her claws scrabbling for purchase, the momentum pulling her loose, tearing her free, leaving a great fold of flesh torn and flapping on the bear's flank. It bellowed in pain as Storm fell to the ground, the giant's war-hammer swooping through air, missing her head by a handspan. She rolled on the ground, gathered herself for another leap.\n\nThen Corban was up and running, the bear's charging momentum carrying it on, leaving Storm behind, surging straight at him. Corban swerved to the side, swayed out away from a slashing paw and talons and hacked two-handed with his sword, all his strength smashing it into the fur and flesh of the bear's side, blood spraying, ribs crunching and cracking. There was a stirring of air above him and he swayed backwards, dropped to a crouch and a war-hammer hissed over him, the giant wielding it snarling in frustration.\n\nIf the wound Storm inflicted had caused the bear pain, this one gave it agony. It screamed its torment and halted its charge, sliding, tearing up the ground, crashing into a tree, the timber splintering and spraying, then the bear was rolling and its rider was sent flying through the air, hurled into the gloom and undergrowth. Storm bounded forward, leaping onto the bear as it lay on its side, trying to rise, blood frothing from its nose and mouth. She sank her teeth into its throat, the bear thrashing, trying to rise, but its lungs weren't working properly, its legs scrambling for purchase. Then Storm shook her head, a violent twist and there was a wet tearing sound and a gouting fountain of blood and the bear was sinking into death.\n\nCorban ran to Storm, put a hand on her shoulder.\n\n'Good girl,' he murmured. 'Now let's get out of here.'\n\n'That's the second bear of mine that you and your kind have slain,' a voice said from the shadows.\n\nIldaer, warlord of the Jotun, emerged from the gloom, his war-hammer held loosely in one hand, his huge frame wrapped in leather and fur. At the same time two more bears and their riders crashed into view, lumbering towards them.\n\n'I remember you,' Ildaer said, moving closer. 'You stood over your friend at Gramm's hold.'\n\n'Why are you here?' Corban asked, eyes scanning the forest for routes of escape.\n\n'To give Jael my aid,' Ildaer said. He paused and cocked his head, listening to the faint sounds of battle that drifted up from Drassil.\n\n'Jael is defeated, his warband broken,' Corban said.\n\n'Then who is it that attacks you now?' Ildaer asked.\n\nCorban looked nervously towards Drassil.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n_I must get back there._\n\nIldaer's eyes looked Corban up and down. 'You have a new armring since Gramm's hold, I think.' He cocked his head to one side, frowned. 'Are you their lord?'\n\n'Come any closer and I'll be your death-giver,' Corban said.\n\n'Ah, I like that.' Ildaer nodded, looking at his warriors about him. 'Good spirit.'\n\nThere was a hissing sound and a spear punched into Ildaer's shoulder. He cried out and staggered back, fell against a tree, slid down it.\n\nTwo men burst out of the trees behind Corban: Atilius and Pax.\n\n'Corban,' Atilius yelled, and Corban didn't need calling twice, he turned and scrambled over the dead bear, slid down the other side and set off running, Storm bounding beside him, red tongue lolling. They caught up with Atilius and Pax in a dozen strides and then they were all sprinting through the trees.\n\nThere was some shouting and snarling behind them, then more crashing as bears lurched into motion.\n\n'This way,' Atilius said and veered left, taking them into thicker cover, squirming beneath and around a clump of huge trees that had fallen in some great storm, roots exposed like the husks of great wyrms.\n\n'Bears can't follow us here,' Atilius said. Beyond the fallen trees lay a thicket of long-thorn, Corban discovering how aptly it was named as he tried to navigate his way through, following a narrow fox trail that Atilius seemed to know well, the sound of water growing louder all the time. It was a long time later when they spilt into an open glade that edged a sharp drop to the river. They all paused to fill their lungs, Atilius passing Corban his water skin. Storm stood staring into the undergrowth.\n\n'My . . . thanks,' Corban breathed.\n\n'We heard the bears,' Pax said. 'Didn't know what they were when we heard them, mind, but we knew it wasn't good, and that you were out zhere somewhere.'\n\n'We need to get back to Drassil,' Corban said, suddenly remembering the horns he'd heard from the hill, the sounds of battle.\n\n'Aye. We'll follow the river, takes us close to the trapdoor,' Atilius said.\n\nStorm growled.\n\nThere was a whistling, sound, a _whump, whump, whump,_ as of something huge spinning through the air. They all had a moment to look up, then Atilius was hurtling backwards, blood and bone spraying in his wake, crunching into a tree, where he remained, pinned by the giant axe that had carved him near in two.\n\nPax screamed and a giant thundered out of the undergrowth.\n\nCorban grabbed Pax, shook him, the lad's eyes fixed on his da's body.\n\n'Drassil. Pax, you have to get back to Drassil. Get help if you can.'\n\nPax looked at him, crying, then nodded and ran.\n\nCorban drew his sword and turned to face the giant.\n\nIt came howling into the glade, pulling a dagger as long as his sword from its belt, eyes flitting to its axe in the tree. Corban did not wait for it, moved forwards, Balur and Tahir's voices sharp in his mind - _deflect the blow, nudge it, guide it, use your speed, your size as an advantage._\n\nThen Storm leaped, jaws clamping around the giant's wrist, blood spurting, the dagger falling. Corban lunged in as the giant raised a fist and punched Storm in the head. She didn't let go and then, before the giant even saw him, Corban was burying his blade in its belly, angling his blade high, under the ribs, slicing through a lung. Blood sluiced and it was sinking to its knees. Corban ripped his blade free, cut its throat and kicked it backwards.\n\nHe turned to follow Pax and something crunched into his knee, pain exploding, stealing his breath away. He dropped like a felled tree, saw a giant towering over him, war-hammer in its hand, another behind it holding a thick spear.\n\nHe rolled away, used his sword to lever himself onto the knee of his good leg, raised his sword.\n\nThe giant with the war-hammer laughed and kicked him in the chest. Corban heard ribs snapping, a thunder-clap in his head and he was rolling over and over.\n\nThe giant advanced. Corban's hand searched for his sword hilt, couldn't find it, pain pulsing from his chest and leg.\n\nThen Storm was standing over Corban, crouched low, snarling. The giant hesitated, the one behind with the spear moving into view. Before either could move, Storm was leaping, slamming into the first giant before he could swing his hammer. Her jaws snapped for his throat, teeth ripping, both of them crashing to the ground, rolling.\n\nCorban got to his feet, couldn't put any weight on his damaged leg, found his sword and used it as a crutch to hobble after them.\n\nThe giant was punching Storm as they rolled, repeatedly, heavy fists crunching into her ribs. Corban heard a crackling sound, then snapping. Storm whined, then her jaws were finally clamping around the giant's throat. She gave a savage wrench of her neck and head and blood jetted, the giant slumping, then lying still, Storm sinking across him. She whined as she tried to stand, then the other giant was standing over her, spear rising, Corban a dozen paces away. The spear came down, punching into Storm above the shoulder, angling down into her chest, at the same time Corban hurling himself at the back of the giant's knees, toppling him to the ground, leaving his spear in Storm.\n\nCorban howled with rage and fell onto the giant, his pain threatening to overwhelm him. He dragged his blade up as the giant tried to rise, stabbed it into the giant's groin, severing the artery high in the inner thigh. He collapsed upon the dying giant, struggling to breathe. He'd never felt pain like it, pulsing through him, a sharp spike in his chest every time he took a breath, but only one thought filled his mind.\n\n_Storm._\n\nHe left his sword buried in the giant, did not have the strength to tug it free, rolled onto his front and saw Storm lying flat and still, the spear protruding from her chest. He dug his hands into the ground, pulled, dragged himself towards her. He was sobbing, his vision blurred by the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He must have been saying her name as well, for she raised her head and looked at him, whining pitifully. Her tail thumped weakly on the ground, blood foaming from her mouth. Her front legs shifted, paws scratching in the dirt, and she moved, just a fraction. Then she did it again, and again, dragging herself towards him.\n\nThat was how they met, both battered, bloody, bones broken, upon a grassy ridge above a white-flowing river. Corban gripped the spear buried in her chest and pulled it free, Storm yelping. He threw it away, tried to stem the flow of blood that pulsed from the wound with his hands. Storm licked his face and then laid her head upon his shoulder. He buried his face in the fur of her neck and held her close to him.\n\nThere was crashing in the undergrowth, giant voices.\n\n_How long have I slept?_\n\nCorban groaned, lifted himself from Storm's side. She was still breathing, though in short, sharp breaths, not the long, deep movement of her chest that he had slept against so many times. She lifted her head to look at him with glazed, pain-filled eyes.\n\n_Hold on, girl. After everything I 've lost I'll not lose you as well._\n\nThe voices again, closer.\n\n_Got to move._\n\nHe tried to stand, pain exploding in his chest and leg, collapsed, almost fainted with the effort.\n\n_Right. Walking 's out of the question, then._\n\nHe listened to the sound of the river.\n\nThe thud of feet in the undergrowth, so close.\n\n_If they find us, they will kill us._\n\nHe gritted his teeth and pushed against Storm. Pain was pulsing in huge, rolling waves from his leg and chest. He ignored it, pushed again, strained harder. Storm whined, high-pitched, almost snapped at him. Then they were both slipping over the cliff edge, sliding down slick, sharp rocks, falling, then splashing into ice-cold water. The current took them, Corban clinging to Storm, desperately trying to hold her head above the water, spluttering and choking himself. He bounced off a rock, spun, his head ducking under the water, for a moment not knowing which way was up, then he was clear, gasping air.\n\nThe water calmed a little, carried them on until the current spat them out onto a rocky shelf, the steep sides rising over them, not much higher than one of the bears they'd been running from. Corban checked Storm, saw she was still breathing, then collapsed against her, utterly exhausted.\n\nHe woke with dawn, wet and shivering. Storm's breath came in a wet rattle. She opened her eyes when he moved, just lay with her head on the rock, too weak to move, looking at him.\n\nHe stroked the fur of her cheeks, above her amber eyes, remembered that first day when he'd saved her as a cub, Evnis looming over him, demanding her death. How he'd refused. And since that day she'd been his constant companion, his guardian, protector, friend.\n\nHe put a hand on her chest, felt her heart fluttering.\n\n_I have to get help for her. She needs a healer. She needs Brina._\n\nHis leg felt numb so he risked moving it. Pain erupted and he rolled over and vomited in the river.\n\nThen he was lurching upwards, being dragged, hanging suspended over Storm, her head rising a fraction, eyes tracking him. He lurched up again, dangling in the air, something hooked under his belt.\n\nAnother lurch and he was looking at two giants, one with a rope in its hand, attached to an iron hook that it removed from Corban's belt.\n\n'You were right to follow the river,' one said to the other.\n\n'Let me go,' Corban coughed.\n\n'Ha, I think not,' the giant said in common tongue. 'You have led us a merry chase. The others are searching for you all over Forn.'\n\n'We should put a spear through his heart,' the other one growled.\n\n'Ildaer wants him,' the first giant said.\n\n'What about that?' The other giant jutted its chin at Storm.\n\n'I'll not be going down there,' the first giant said with a shake of its broad head. 'Besides, there's no need. She is finished.'\n\nAs the two giants dragged Corban up the slope and through a glade, pain lancing through his leg and chest with every movement, every breath, he heard Storm howl behind him. It was a rattle, weak and fluid, yet long and mournful, and Corban felt his heart was being ripped apart.\n\nThey took him deeper into the forest, and soon Corban discovered the one thing that broke his heart more than listening to Storm's weak and fading howls.\n\nThe moment when she stopped howling.\nRead on for an extract from A TIME OF DREAD, Book One in the Of Blood and Bone quartet\nEXTRACT FROM\n\n_The Book of the Fallen_\n\n_A tattered extract discovered upon the corpse of a Kadoshim demon, the Year 131 of the Age of Lore:_\n\n_They think we are broken_.\n\n_We are not_.\n\n_They think we are defeated._\n\n_We are not_.\n\n_For over two thousand years, my brothers, we have fought our noble war, against Elyon the Great Tyrant and his servants, the Ben-Elim. Two thousand years our battleground was the Otherworld, that place of spirit, where all things are eternal. And then, little over a century ago, we saw the fulfilment of our long-crafted plan, to break into this world of flesh, to become flesh, so that we might wage war upon Elyon 's creation, mankind; to conquer and rule, or destroy, as we see fit_.\n\n_But we were betrayed, my brothers, and lured into a trap of the Ben-Elim 's making. On that day we fought like warriors-born, shaming the heroes about whom the people of this world tell tales. On that dread day of tribulation we fought with sharp iron, tooth and claw. Blood was spilt in rivers, but alas, we were outnumbered by the Ben-Elim and their allies, who were led by a maggot that men called a hero, Corban the Bright Star_.\n\n_Pah, I say to that, for Corban is long dead, and yet we are still here. One day I will spit on his grave, dig up his corpse and feast on his bones, for it was Corban who dared raise a blade to our master, our great Lord, Asroth, and it was Corban 's kin, Cywen, who cast the spell that entombed Asroth within a prison of iron_.\n\n_We fought on, long after that day, a hundred years of war, but always they were too many, and our numbers dwindled_.\n\n_And now the Ben-Elim hunt us, as do the followers of long-dead and thrice-cursed Corban_.\n\n_So, my brothers, I say to you that we must change the way we wage this war. Retreat to the shadows, dwell in the dark places and gather your strength. Bide your time, for our triumph is coming. The day when we unite again, when we set our Lord Asroth free, when we take back what is rightfully ours_.\n\n_Only do this: answer the call when it is given_.\n\n_They think this is the final chapter of our long defeat._\n\n_But they are wrong_.\n\nSo written by Gulla, High Captain of the Kadoshim until the restoration of our king, Asroth the Great.\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nBLEDA\n\n_The Year 132 of the Age of Lore, Reaper 's Moon_\n\n'I should be down there,' Bleda said, knuckles whitening on the grip of his bow. He was crouched upon the steep slope of a hill, looking down upon a scene of wonder.\n\nA war.\n\nHorses and their riders swirled upon the plain in constant motion, from this height seeming like two great flocks of birds looping ever closer, the distant rumble of hooves setting the ground trembling beneath Bleda's feet. As he stared in envy and fascination, the faint echo of hurled challenges and insults, the harbingers of violence, drifted up to him.\n\n'No, you should _not_ be down there,' a voice said behind him, Old Ellac absently rubbing the stump where his right hand used to be. The skin around his eyes creased and cracked like old leather as he squinted at the battle about to begin on the plain below.\n\n'Of course I should,' Bleda muttered. 'My mother is down there, leading our Clan. My brother rides one side of her, my sister the other.'\n\n_But not my father_.\n\n'Aye, but they are all more than ten summers old,' Ellac pointed out.\n\n'So?' Bleda snapped. 'I can fight, am more skilled with a bow than most. Than you.'\n\n'That's not hard these days.' Ellac snorted and cuffed Bleda across the head with his one hand.\n\nBleda immediately felt shame at his remark, more painful than the slap. He knew that neither of them wanted to be sitting on this hill while their kin fought and bled on the field below.\n\n_Your tongue is sharper than your sword_ , his father used to say to him.\n\n'Look,' Ellac said, pointing with his stump. 'Altan.'\n\nOn the plain below a lone rider separated from their Clan, instantly recognizable to Bleda as his older brother, Altan.\n\n_Seventeen summers is not so much older than me. Yet he is old enough to fight, and I am not_. Bleda scowled at the injustice of it, though none of his ire was directed at Altan. He loved his brother fiercely.\n\nAltan was galloping hard, curling close to the enemy warband. As he did so a rider emerged to meet him, galloping just as fast. Both warriors dipped in their saddles, arms extended as they drew their bows.\n\nBleda felt a jolt of fierce pride, as well as a cold fist of fear clench around his heart.\n\n_Aim true, Altan. I cannot lose you as well_.\n\nThe world seemed to slow, sound dimming as Bleda stared at the two champions.\n\nAnd then Altan was wheeling away, the other rider swaying in his saddle, toppling sideways, falling to the ground, dragged along as one foot snagged in a stirrup. Ellac let out a grunt of admiration and Bleda punched the air with his fist, whooping and yelling his pride. He felt Ellac's disapproval at his burst of emotion, the warriors of his Clan were supposed to wear the cold-face like a shield, but that was Altan down there, and he had just felled a champion of their ancient rivals.\n\nA swell of cheering rose up to them, changing into battlecries as the two warbands came together with a concussive crash. Bleda gulped, a squirm of anxiety uncoiling in his belly. He had seen death before, held his da's cold, wax-smooth hand, heard the tales of warriors back from their raids, even helped stitch their wounds - but this . . .\n\nThe death screams of men and horses echoed up to them, within moments the plain becoming a choking, seething mass of bodies, the splash of blood, the harsh clang of steel.\n\n'What's that?' Ellac said behind him, pointing to the skies. 'Your eyes are better than mine.'\n\n'Vultures and crows,' Bleda said as he squinted into the searing blue and glimpsed the silhouettes of wings.\n\n'Too big,' Ellac muttered.\n\nBleda tore his eyes away from the battle and stared. More and more winged shapes were appearing in the sky, speeding towards the battlefield, growing in size with their approach. Great white wings beating through the air, then Bleda saw the glint of sunlight on steel.\n\n'The Ben-Elim,' he whispered.\n\nWinged warriors wrapped in gleaming mail swooped down to the battle-plain, skimming above men's heads, stabbing indiscriminately with spear and sword, lifting men into the air, rising up steeply and dropping them, screaming, limbs flailing.\n\n'No!' Bleda hissed, hand reaching for arrows in his belted quiver as he stood, about to launch into a scrambling run down the hillside. Ellac grabbed his wrist.\n\n'We must help,' Bleda shouted. 'This is not the Ben-Elim's fight; they should stay out of it.'\n\n'They said they would come, would not allow the Clans to go to war,' Ellac said. 'And whether it's their fight or not, they are here now. Look.'\n\nTo the west of the battle the realm of Arcona stretched into the horizon, a never-ending sea of grass, the vast plains punctuated here and there by clusters of low-lying hills. From around the closest range Bleda saw a wall of dust rising up, knew such a cloud could only be stirred by the tramp of many feet. A great host was coming.\n\n_The Ben-Elim 's Holy Army. Giants upon their great bears, and their wall of shields_.\n\nThen Ellac was dragging him back up the hill, towards their tethered horses.\n\n'What are you doing? We must help my mother,' Bleda yelled, but Ellac ignored him, hoisted him into his saddle, and then, mounting agilely for a man with one hand, grabbed Bleda's reins. With a click of his tongue and touch of his heels against his horse's side they were cantering up the hill.\n\n'Please,' Bleda cried. As a prince of the Sirak it was a word that rarely touched his lips.\n\nEllac looked between Bleda and the battle.\n\n'I cannot let you go down there,' the old warrior said. 'Your mother would have my other hand, and my eyes as well.' He spurred his horse on, up the hill and away from the battle. Bleda looked back as they reached the crest and his heart lurched in his chest. On the field below all was chaos and blood, winged warriors diving and swooping, slaying any who came within reach. Then the battlefield was gone and they were riding hard for their camp.\n\nBleda stared at the horizon as he paced a track in the grass before their camp, still clutching his double-curved bow in his hand. His brother Altan had made it for him, taking moons for it to be finished, Bleda watching and learning with fascination.\n\n_It is too big for you_ , Altan had said to him, tousling his black hair. _It is a man 's bow, the draw too great for you, but how else will you become strong, eh?_\n\nThat had been over a year ago, and now Bleda could loose his third arrow before the first had struck its target.\n\nTension was thick in the air as everyone waited, behind him a crowd amassed of the young, the old and the infirm; all else who could sit on a horse and draw a bow had gone to fight. Gers and wagons stood empty and unattended, dogs barking, goats bleating.\n\n'There,' a voice said behind Bleda, and all looked to the skies. Winged shapes were appearing. And on the ground beneath them a dark smudge, riders approaching.\n\n'Mother,' Bleda whispered, recognizing her before all others.\n\nErdene, Queen of the Sirak, rode into their war-camp. Her helm was gone, head bowed, a long cut upon her shaved scalp. The thick warrior braid that had been neatly bound and coiled about her shoulder like a sleeping serpent was now torn and frayed, matted with blood. That morning her shirt of scalearmour had glistened in the sunlight, but now it was dulled and dented. What was left of her honour guard rode about her, silent and battered, and curled behind and around them was a sight that took Bleda's breath away.\n\nHuge bears, great shambling beasts of tooth and claw, and sitting upon them were giants: men and women wrapped in leather, steel and fur, axes and war-hammers slung across their backs. Swirling tattoos of vine and thorn coiled up their arms.\n\nErdene reined her horse in and her warriors stuttered to a halt.\n\n_Where is Altan? Where is Hexa?_ Bleda thought, his eyes searching the riders for his brother and sister, and then his feet were moving as he ran to his mother, Ellac stumbling behind him, trying and failing to catch him.\n\nErdene saw him and shook her head, but it was too late, and in heartbeats Bleda was at her side, staring up at his mother, bears and giants towering about him.\n\n'Altan and Hexa?' Bleda called up to his mother as he grabbed her boot.\n\nErdene looked down at him with an expression Bleda had never seen before.\n\nShame.\n\nShe blinked, as if not recognizing Bleda for a moment, then Erdene's eyes snapped into focus.\n\n'Run,' his mother said to him.\n\nBleda didn't know what to do; his mind and heart were filled with the Sirak iron code, which told him to wear his courage like a cloak, to live free and fight to the last breath for his Clan. To show no sign of weakness or fear, and to never, ever, surrender. But his mother had spoken. She was also his queen, and she had told him to _run_.\n\nHe turned, looked around wildly, saw the camp in chaos, giants and bears everywhere. Others were arriving, columns of normal-sized warriors on foot, clad in black leather, with huge, rectangular shields upon their arms, silver wings embossed upon them. They spread in tight-packed lines about the camp, surrounding everyone within it, and their shields came together with a resonating snap. Bleda glimpsed shadowed faces in silver helms, smaller figures appearing amongst them: children, he realized, offering water skins after a hard march. As he stared, he saw a figure staring back at him, pale and fair-haired, a girl, holding a water skin up to a warrior, even as she stared straight at him.\n\nShadows flitted across the ground and the sound of wings filled Bleda's ears as the Ben-Elim swooped low. One flew lower than the rest, great wings beating as he hovered above Erdene and Bleda a long moment, grass and dust swirling, then he alighted gently upon the ground. He was tall, taller than any man Bleda had seen, his hair raven-black, wearing a coat of bright mail and gripping a spear in his fist. Blood crusted the spear's blade.\n\n'Is this him?' the Ben-Elim asked, eyes lingering on Bleda a moment, then rising to Erdene.\n\nErdene was silent for so long that Bleda thought she would not answer.\n\n'You must be strong,' Erdene said to Bleda.\n\nFear trickled through Bleda, then, at something in his mother's voice, and in the way the winged warrior had looked at him.\n\nHe tried to master his fear, to control the prickling in his eyes that threatened tears.\n\n_No. I am Sirak. I am son to Erdene, Lord-of-all-she-sees_.\n\n'Good.' The Ben-Elim stooped down and grabbed Bleda by the collar of his tunic, hoisting him into the air. Bleda instinctively snatched for an arrow from his quiver, nocking it to his bow, but with a flick of his wrist the Ben-Elim slapped it from Bleda's grip, sending his bow falling to the ground. Bleda glared at the Ben-Elim, expecting his mother to intervene, to protect him, as she always had done, but she just sat upon her horse, looking at him with her grey eyes.\n\n'I am Israfil, Lord Protector of the Land of the Faithful, and you are coming with me,' the Ben-Elim said. 'A surety that your mother will keep the peace once we are gone.'\n\n'What? Where?' Bleda said, the Ben-Elim's words seeping through to him slowly, as if through water.\n\n'You are my ward, Bleda, and Drassil will be your new home,' the Ben-Elim said.\n\n_Ward. Drassil_.\n\nThe words set Bleda reeling as if they were blows. Drassil was the Ben-Elim's fortress, far to the west.\n\n_I am to be their ward. A prisoner, he means_.\n\n'No,' Bleda whispered. 'Mother?'\n\nA long silence, a look between Erdene and Israfil that spoke of pride and shame, of the victor and the defeated. The fear returned then, a chill in Bleda's heart, seeping into his veins, carrying a tremor to his lips.\n\n_The cold-face. Do not shame Mother. Do not shame my people_.\n\n'It is agreed,' Erdene said, her face a mask, only her eyes speaking her message.\n\n_You must be strong_.\n\n'It is the price that must be paid,' the Ben-Elim intoned. 'There will be peace in the Land of the Faithful. There is only one enemy, only one foe who shall be fought: the Kadoshim and their followers.'\n\n'No,' Bleda said, both denial and refusal. He felt hot tears bloom in his eyes, snatched at them, knowing the shame they brought.\n\n'Altan and Hexa will not allow you to do this,' Bleda said, anger and fear twisting his voice, then there was a rushing of air and a beating of wings as more Ben-Elim sped from the sky, alighting around Israfil. The first was fair-haired, a long scar running from forehead to chin. He threw something at Israfil's feet. They dropped with a thud, rolled in the grass and fell still.\n\nTwo heads, eyes bulging, blood still dripping.\n\nAltan and Hexa.\n\nThe world went silent. Bleda's vision was reduced to the severed heads of his brother and sister. He heard something, distantly, realized that it was him, that he was screaming, twisting and bucking in Israfil's grip, hands reaching to gouge the Ben-Elim's eyes, but Israfil held him at arm's length until slowly Bleda's strength drained away, like wine from a pierced skin. Israfil regarded Bleda with dark, emotionless eyes, then finally shifted his gaze to the fair-haired Ben-Elim who had cast the heads at Israfil's feet. Although Israfil asked no questions, did not even utter a word, the blond Ben-Elim spoke as if answering a reprimand, his eyes dropping.\n\n'They would not surrender,' he said, his feet shuffling in the dirt. 'They slew Remiel.' His eyes came up, fierce and defiant, and met Israfil's. 'They slew a Ben-Elim, gave me no choice.' Israfil held his gaze a long moment, then gave a curt nod. With a flick of his wrist he threw Bleda into the air, a giant catching him and placing him on the saddle in front of him. Bleda found new strength, fighting and squirming, tears blurring his vision, but the giant held him tight.\n\nIsrafil waved his hand and then the giant was tugging on his reins shouting a command, and the huge mountain of fur and muscle beneath Bleda was turning, lumbering away from the Ben-Elim and Bleda's mother, from his kin and people, away from everything he knew, away from Bleda's whole world.\n\nTowards his new home.\n\nTowards Drassil.\n_**Praise for The Faithful and the Fallen series**_\n\n'Great characters and plot - it gets faster and more fascinating by the page . . . A hell of a debut: highly recommended'\n\n**Conn Iggulden**\n\n'With all manner of battles, betrayals and revelations. I particularly enjoyed the battle scenes and duels . . . If it sounds like your thing, then it probably is'\n\n**Mark Lawrence**\n\n'A strong contender for the \"if you like _Game of Thrones_ , why not try this?\" award'\n\n_**Independent**_\n\n'John Gwynne hits all the right spots in his epic tale of good vs evil . . . Definitely one to watch'\n\n_**SFX**_\n\n'If you like a good old-fashioned tale of good vs evil, where the good guys wear white and the bad guys are really, really bad, then _Malice_ is perfect. So sit back, slip on those slippers and enjoy'\n\n_**Fantasy-Faction.com**_\n\n'With three-dimensional characters, a gripping plot and a world that became real to me, John Gwynne's _Malice_ is a great debut. In short, this is the kind of fantasy I love to read'\n\n_**Fantasy Book Critic**_\n\n'It's not often these days that I find a book I entirely immerse myself in. John Gwynne's first book _Malice_ is one of these books'\n\n_**Culturefly.co.uk**_\n\n'Gwynne pays homage to several amazing authors: David Eddings, David Gemmell, Raymond E. Feist and George R. R. Martin . . . Reading _Malice_ is like watching a finely balanced chess game being played out'\n\n_**BookThing.co.uk**_\n\n'A hugely impressive debut . . . . _Malice_ embraces the old favourites and breathes a new lease of life into them . . . The finale was literally on-the-edge-of-your-seat, nail-biting excitement'\n\n_**Written with a Sword**_\n\n'Definitely one of the best fantasy novels I've read all year. _Malice_ hits all the notes of a good fantasy'\n\n_**The Founding Fields**_\n\n'An enjoyable epic fantasy romp . . . Gwynne has taken the tried-and-true epic fantasy that has been written again and again and revived it, breathed fresh life into it, and made it something new'\n\n_**Book Worm Blues**_\n\n' _Malice_ is easily one of the best fantasy novels I read this year, and one which will appeal to most fans of the genre. With such an epic debut novel, John Gwynne is a writer to watch from now on'\n\n_**I Will Read Books**_\n\n'The prose is sharp, the pace works wonderfully . . . this series is building into one of my favourites of the last few years'\n\n_**Falcata Times**_\n\n' _Valour_ is hands down the best fantasy I have read in an age'\n\n_**Bookfrivolity.com**_\n\n' _Valour_ manages to surpass what was already a very strong debut, somehow managing to be even better than _Malice_ '\n\n_**Dominish Fantasy Reviews**_\n\n#### RUIN\n\nJOHN GWYNNE studied and lectured at Brighton University. He's been in a rock 'n' roll band, playing the double bass, and has travelled the USA and lived in Canada for a time. He is married with four children and lives in Eastbourne, running a small family business rejuvenating vintage furniture. His first novel, _Malice_ , won the David Gemmell Morningstar award for best debut fantasy. _Ruin_ is his third novel, following _Malice_ and _Valour_.\n\nwww.john-gwynne.com\nBY JOHN GWYNNE\n\n_The Faithful and the Fallen series_\n\nMALICE\n\nVALOUR\n\nRUIN\n\nWRATH\n\n_Of Blood and Bone series_\n\nA TIME OF DREAD\n\n#### ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n\nI can't believe we are three books into The Faithful and the Fallen. I'm still not used to seeing them on shelves in bookshops, with paper and cover art and everything, and here we are now with the third! As with _Malice_ and _Valour_ , writing _Ruin_ has been a rollercoaster of an experience, with a small warband of helping hands throughout.\n\nFirst of all I must thank my wife, Caroline, and my children, Harriett, James, Ed and Will for their unceasing and passionate support of all things Banished Lands, and also for allowing me to retreat into my very own fantasy world for a large chunk of last year. I did emerge from my ivory tower (messy desk!) for brief periods of weapons sparring (read: helping with homework), in which I tended to come off worse. This book wouldn't have been written without their support.\n\nThanks must also go to my agent, John Jarrold, without whom The Faithful and the Fallen would never have seen the light of day. He is a man of immeasurable class and a fantastic agent. There is no one I'd rather have in my corner.\n\nAlso my wonderful editor at Tor UK, Julie Crisp, one of the few people I've met more bloodthirsty than myself. Her talent and polishing skills are a constant source of amazement to me, without which The Faithful and the Fallen would have been a much duller affair. Of course, along with Julie I must thank Bella Pagan, Louise Buckley, Sam Eades, Rob Cox, James Long and all at Team Tor, a host of people that make this writing malarkey look easy - which I can assure you it is not!\n\nThanks must go to my copy-editor Jessica Cuthbert-Smith, a lady with a most remarkable eye for the minutest of details.\n\nAnd thanks of course to Will Hinton, my editor across the pond, as well as the whole team at Orbit US.\n\nI'd also like to thank those who have taken the time to read _Ruin_ and provide feedback. It is not a small book; indeed, I suspect it's large enough to bludgeon a fully grown giant to death. Firstly Edward and William Gwynne - to say they have read _Ruin_ is really an understatement. They've buried themselves within its pages, frequently reminding (catching me out!) on details I've neglected or overlooked (forgotten!). I must also confess to the dubious fact that _Ruin_ reduced Edward to tears - something I am coming to realize equates (hopefully) with a good bit in the book.\n\nOthers who have read and commented on _Ruin_ : my wife, Caroline; Mark Roberson; David Emrys - whose knowledge on the details of close-quarter combat has been both extremely helpful and mildly disturbing. I do not want to know how he's come by his expert knowledge! And of course, Sadak Miah, my oldest friend; one of two geeks who formed their very own Tolkien Club at school, with a quiz for any who wished to join! Reading seven chapters of _Ruin_ really isn't good enough, you know!\n\nI'd also like to thank my good friend Robert Sharpe, his brother John Sharpe and their friend Ciaran Mac Murchaidh for help and translatory (that's a word, now) skills in the use of Gaelic within this book.\n\nAnd finally, a huge thank you to all of you who have bought the books and taken The Faithful and the Fallen to heart. Truth and Courage!\n\nFirst published 2015 by Tor\n\nThis electronic edition published 2016 by Pan Books  \nan imprint of Pan Macmillan  \n20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR  \nAssociated companies throughout the world  \nwww.panmacmillan.com\n\nISBN 978-1-4472-5967-1\n\nCopyright (C) John Gwynne 2015  \nMap artwork (C) Fred van Deelen\n\nJacket illustration by Paul Young\n\nThe right of John Gwynne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nPan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.\n\nYou may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.\n\nVisit **www.panmacmillan.com** to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you're always first to hear about our new releases.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n# TABLE OF CONTENTS\n\nAcknowledgements\n\nMain Dates of Wilfred Owen's life\n\nIntroduction\n\nWilfred Owen's Preface\n\n_War Poems_\n\nStrange Meeting\n\nInsensibility\n\nApologia Pro Poemate Meo\n\nGreater Love\n\nThe Parable of the Old Man and the Young\n\nArms and the Boy\n\nAnthem for Doomed Youth\n\nThe Send-Off\n\nExposure\n\nThe Show\n\nSpring Offensive\n\nDulce et Decorum Est\n\nAsleep\n\nFutility\n\nThe Last Laugh\n\nThe Letter\n\nThe Sentry\n\nConscious\n\nA Terre\n\nDisabled\n\nMental Cases\n\nThe Chances\n\nThe Dead\u2014Beat\n\nS.I.W.\n\nSmile, Smile, Smile\n\nInspection\n\nThe Calls\n\nAt a Calvary near the Ancre\n\nLe Christianisme\n\nSoldier's Dream\n\nSonnet\n\nThe Next War\n\n_Other Poems, and Fragments_\n\nThe End\n\nThe Unretuming\n\nMiners\n\nHappiness\n\nShadwell Stair\n\nSix o'clock in Princes Street\n\nThe Roads Also\n\nHospital Barge at Cerisy\n\nTraining\n\nSonnet, to a Child\n\nTo Eros\n\nMy Shy Hand\n\nThe Kind Ghosts\n\nWinter Song\n\nMusic\n\nStorm\n\nTo My Friend\n\nFragment: Not one comer...\n\nFragment : Cramped in that funnelled hole...\n\nFragment : I saw his round mouth's crimson...\n\nFragment : As bronze may be much beautified...\n\nHas your Soul Sipped ?\n\n_Minor Poems, and Juvenilia_\n\nFrom my Diary, July 1914\n\nOn my Songs\n\nAntaeus : a Fragment\n\nThe Promisers\n\nThe Fates\n\nThis is the Track\n\nO World of many Worlds\n\nSong of Songs\n\nAll Sounds have been as Music\n\nBugles sang...\n\nThe One Remains\n\nTo the Bitter Sweet\u2014heart\n\nThe Sleeping Beauty\n\nSonnet Autumnal\n\n'Long Ages Past'\n\nPurple\n\nMaundy Thursday\n\nTo \u2014\n\nSpells and Incantation\n\nThe Imbecile\n\nBeauty\n\nBold Horatius\n\nElegy in April and September\n\nTo a Comrade in Flanders\n\nAppendix I Memoir, 1931, by Edmund Blunden\n\nAppendix II _Wild with all Regrets_\n\nAppendix III Four drafts of _Anthem for Doomed Youth_\n\nIndex of first lines\n\n# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n\nI WOULD like to thank the poet's brother, Harold Owen; his cousin, Leslie Gunston; Sir Osbert Sitwell; Siegfried Sassoon, and the British Museum authorities, for making available to me the drafts of the poems in their possession.\n\nTo Harold Owen I am deeply grateful also for allowing me to see the letters written by Wilfred to his family, for the many informative talks I have had with him about his brother, and for the encouragement and practical help he has given me.\n\nI owe a special debt to Dr. D. S. R. Welland, who generously put at my disposal his unrivalled knowledge of the Owen texts: his suggestions, criticisms, and careful checking of my work have been invaluable.\n\nIn common with every other reader of Owen's poetry, I am indebted to Siegfried Sassoon and Edmund Blunden, whose devoted editing of the poems, in their editions of 1920 and 1931, did so much for Owen's fame and has so considerably lightened the task of the present editor. I am grateful to Edmund Blunden also for allowing me to reprint, with a few minor alterations, the Memoir he wrote for the 1931 edition.\n\nC.D.I.\n\n# MAIN DATES OF WILFRED OWEN'S LIFE\n\n_March 18, 1893_  \nBorn, at Plas Wilmot, Oswestry, Shropshire, in the house of his maternal grandfather, Edward Shaw. The Owen family remained here till 1897.\n\n_1895_  \nBirth of Mary Owen.\n\n_1897_  \nBirth of Harold Owen. The family had moved to Shrewsbury in the spring of this year. After about a year, the Owens moved again-to Birkenhead.\n\n_1900_  \nBirth of Colin Owen.\n\n_April 30, 1900_  \nWilfred Owen registered for entry into the Birkenhead Institute. He joined the school on June 11 of this year, and remained there until 1907, when the family returned to Shrewsbury.\n\n_1907_  \nOwen began attending the Shrewsbury Technical School as a day boy.\n\n_September 1911_  \nMatriculated at London University.\n\n_October 1911 to summer 1913_  \nAt Dunsden vicarage, Oxfordshire, as pupil and lay assistant to the Reverend Herbert Wigan.\n\n_c. August 1913_ Obtained post as tutor in English at the Berlitz School of Languages, Bordeaux. Took up the post in September.\n\n_c. July 1914_  \nLeft Berlitz School, became tutor to two boys in a Catholic family in Bordeaux.\n\n_c. September 1915_  \nReturned to England.\n\n_October 22, 1915_  \nJoined the Artists' Rifles.\n\n_June 4, 1916_  \nCommissioned in Manchester Regiment.\n\n_c. December 29, 1916_  \nSailed to France on active service, attached to Lancashire Fusiliers.\n\n_March 19, 1917_  \nSent to isth Casualty Clearing Station. Owen returned to his battalion early in April: on May 1 or 2 he was again sent to the 13th Casualty Clearing Station, and from there to the 41st Stationary Hospital. In June he went into No. 1 General Hospital, from which he was returned to England, arriving at the Welsh Hospital, Netley, about June 18.\n\n_June 26, 1917_  \nTransferred to Craiglockhart War Hospital, Edinburgh.\n\n_November 1917_  \nDischarged from Craiglockhart: posted to Northern Cavalry Barracks, Scarborough.\n\n_August 31 or September 1, 1918_  \nReturned to France for active service.\n\n_October 1, 1918_  \nAwarded Military Cross.\n\n_November 4, 1918_  \nKilled in action, trying to get his men across the Sambre Canal.\n\n# INTRODUCTION\n\nWILFRED Owen must remain, in one respect at least, an enigma. His war poems, a body of work composed between January 1917, when he was first sent to the Western Front, and November 1918, when he was killed, seem to me certainly the finest written by any English poet of the First War and probably the greatest poems about war in our literature. His fame was posthumous\u2014he had only four poems published in his lifetime. The bulk of his best work was written or finished during a period of intense creative activity, from August 1917 (in one week of October he wrote six poems) to September 1918\u2014a period comparable with the _annus mirabilis_ of his admired Keats. The originality and force of their language, the passionate nature of the indignation and pity they express, their blending of harsh realism with a sensuousness unatrophied by the horrors from which they flowered, all these make me feel that Owen's war poems are mature poetry, and that in the best of them\u2014as in a few which he wrote on other subjects\u2014he showed himself a major poet.\n\nThe enigma lies in this maturity. Reading through what survives of the unpublished poetry Owen wrote before 1917, I found myself more and more amazed at the suddenness of his development from a very minor poet to something altogether larger. It was as if, during the weeks of his first tour of duty in the trenches, he came of age emotionally and spiritually. His earlier work, though an occasional line or phrase gives us a pre-echo of the run of words or tone of thought in his mature poetry, is for the most part no more promising than any other aspiring adolescent's of that period would have been. It is vague, vaporous, subjective, highly 'poetic' in a pseudo\u2014Keatsian way, with Tennysonian and Ninety\u2014ish echoes here and there: the verse of a youth in love with the _idea_ of poetry\u2014and in love with Love.\n\nAnd then, under conditions so hideous that they might have been expected to maim a poet rather than make him, Owen came into his own. No gradual development brought his work to maturity. It was a forced growth, a revolution in his mind which, blasting its way through all the poetic bric-\u00e0-brac, enabled him to see his subject clear\u2014'War, and the pity of War'. The subject made the poet: the poet made poems which radically changed our attitude towards war. The front-line poets who were Owen's contemporaries\u2014Sassoon, Rosenberg, Graves, Blunden, Osbert Sitwell\u2014played a most honourable part, too, in showing us what modern war was really like ; but it is Owen, I believe, whose poetry came home deepest to my own generation, so that we could never again think of war as anything but a vile, if necessary, evil.\n\nWilfred Edward Salter Owen was bom at Oswestry on March 18th, 1893, of middle-class stock. His father, a man of adventurous spirit, had taken himself to India at the age of eighteen, having obtained a job with the Peninsular Railways. After four years he returned to England, married, and took a post on the railway here. But he never reconciled himself to a career which gave so little scope for enterprise and adventure.\n\nWilfred's mother had been brought up in a Calvinistic and rigidly 'Victorian' atmosphere. Her family had been comfortably off ; but when her father died, it was found that he had lived on his capital. Throughout her married life, therefore, she had to subsist and bring up a family on her husband's salary alone. The straitened means of their parents were to affect profoundly the lives of Wilfred, his sister and his two brothers : it can also be surmised that the contrasting nature of his parents\u2014the father's independent, impatient spirit, the mother's gentleness, conventionality and deeply religious disposition\u2014helped to set up in Wilfred's mind that tension between opposites which so often creates the artist.\n\nBoth father and mother, though far from being intellectuals, were cultivated people. Mr. Owen was a well-informed man who kept up serious reading to the end of his life, and was not without discernment in the other arts, especially music. Mrs. Owen had shown, as a girl, considerable technical accomplishment in painting. The civilized atmosphere of the Owen home did much to compensate for the lack of those higher educational facilities which, money being so short, the parents could not give their children. Had Wilfred had the benefit of a University education, for instance, his intellectual development would have been more rapid; but his poetry would not necessarily have been the better for that.\n\nHis relationship with his mother, whose favourite he was, remained the closest one in his short life. Indeed, his letters to her* read like those of an only child, with the warmth and the touch of possessiveness which an only son so often shows towards his mother : in his adolescence, these letters tend to be 'literary' ; we are aware that he is trying to impress her, just as later, writing from France, he spares her few of the horrors, appealing\u2014though unconsciously and tacitly\u2014for her special sympathy. Towards his sister and younger brothers Owen is very much the eldest son : he writes to them at times almost as if he were their father, with quaint touches of pontificating and lecturing relieved by a levity which is often slightly condescending. We get the impression of a serious, clever but na\u00eff youth, a little smug, a little 'old-fashioned', who feels responsible for the younger members of his family, as might the eldest son of a widowed mother. We see, prefigured here, the sense of responsibility Owen was to feel as an officer towards his own men in France, and as a poet towards all the soldiers fighting and suffering there.\n\nIn boyhood, Wilfred Owen had many interests. He studied botany and archaeology, became a competent pianist, began to read widely, moving on from the Sherlock Holmes stories to Dickens, Scott, George Eliot and Ruskin. Years later he was to write from Craiglockhart War Hospital, \"Believe me, if the letter of Ruskin is little worshipped today, his spirit is everywhere. My one grudge against that Prophet is that he warned us so feebly against the War.\" It has been said that Owen was no great reader. Certainly, in his letters to his mother he does not often mention books\u2014or his own writing. But, when he died, he left a library of 325 volumes, which was not bad for a young man with very little money to spare. These included editions of many poets\u2014Dante, Chaucer, Goethe, Southey, Gray, Collins, Cowper, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, Bums, Browning and Tennyson, for instance; a number of French classics and text\u2014books; nearly all Shakespeare's plays; a fair sprinkling of novels, from Jane Austen to Hardy; and miscellaneous volumes attesting to his interests outside literature. Owen's reading was at random perhaps (as a poet's often is), and undirected; but he got through a good deal of it.\n\nAt what age he began writing verse, I have not been able to determine. But the poetic temperament was fully formed by the age of eighteen. In a letter of April 2nd, 1911, he wrote \"Leslie tells me you are often hearing the nightingale. Is it indeed so enchanting ? I crave to hear it, and yet I should almost be afraid lest it should not be as fine as I imagine it.\" Some MS. notes in Harold Owen's possession, undated, but probably of this period, fill out the picture of a youth oppressed by the vague dissatisfaction and disillusionment, the morbid negativism of adolescence:\n\n_Why have so many poets courted death?_\n\n  1. _Dissatisfaction when visiting some spot of literary or historical association.  \nThe impossibility of seeing the departed hero. Uncertainty of changes in buildings, and landscape_.\n  2. _Mental fatigue accompanying prolonged gazing at objects of art, paintings, sculpture._\n  3. _Same with beauties of Nature_ \u2014 _omnipotent sense of transience and temporality_.\n  4. _Perversity of my nature_ \u2014 _when alone, a lovely sight makes me long for someone else to enjoy it with me: with some equisite_ [sic] _scene or sound (nightingale) or solemn place... around me, a companion annoys me with lack of feeling, solemnity, sympathy (yea perception) of my emotion_.\n  5. _When I am reading or studying, I long to be out, up and doing. When out, on holidays, I feel time wasted and crave for a book_.\n\nOn the reverse of the folio Owen wrote.\n\n_Consummation is Consumption_\n\n_We cannot consummate our bliss and not consume_.\n\n_All joys are cakes and vanish in the eating_.\n\n_All bliss is sugar's melting in the mouth_.\n\nOwen was not so thoroughly introverted at this age as the above notes might suggest. He could look outwards. Writing to his brother Harold, then an art student, in June, 1911, he said,\n\n_I wished you could daub some representation of a Field, which I saw blazing with yellow charlock, backed by a Beech-wood of a deep green so nearly black that it puts one in mind of the colour of an ancient black coat assuming its green old-age tints_.\n\nSuch precise, and rather Hardy-esque, observation is as rare, though, in Owen's youthful letters as in his juvenilia. These early poems, glowing and grandiose like technicolour sunsets, were written in a state of infatuation. Owen had not merely fallen in love with Keats; he felt for him at once a reverence and a strong affinity. On seeing a MS. book of Keats's in the British Museum, he remarked (letter of September 17th, 1911),\n\n_His writing is rather large and slopes like mine_.... _He also has my trick of not joining letters in a word... I seem to be strangely familiar with it_.\n\nOn this characteristic of Owen, Osbert Sitwell justly observed\u2014\"He manifested a tremendous capacity for admiration, for reverence: a quality which perhaps every poet, however much of a rebel he may be in other directions, must needs possess.\"\n\nThe year _1911_ marked a new departure in Owen's life. He had been a pupil at the Birkenhead Institute from 1900 to 1907, then attended the Shrewsbury Technical School. In September, 1911, he matriculated at London University. Money, however, was too short for him to be able to take up courses there. So, in October, he went to Dunsden, Oxfordshire, as a pupil and lay assistant to the vicar.\n\nAt this time, Wilfred Owen was still a Christian believer, and there seemed a possibility that he might in due course enter Holy Orders, after studying theology and practising pastoral work under the vicar. The effect of Dunsden upon him, however, was far different from what had been anticipated. The vicar, though an amicable man, does not appear to have been a very inspiring one: from Wilfred's letters home, we learn that the Reverend Herbert Wigan possessed a large number of picture frames, and used to take his pupil into Reading to buy pictures of the right size to fit them. Neither Owen's fellow pupils nor the parishioners offered him any intellectual stimulus. He wrote (letter of January 26th, 1912),\n\n_But the isolation from any whose interests are the same as mine, the constant, inevitable mixing with persons whose influence will tend in the opposite direction_ (away from systematic study)\u2014 _this is a serious drawback_.\n\nBut, if intellectual companionship was lacking, his work at Dunsden (for which he received \u00a31 a month) did make one profound impression upon Owen's mind. Visiting among the rural slums of that Oxfordshire parish, he was brought up hard against certain facts of life\u2014squalor, sickness, and a poverty far more crippling than the straitened means of his own family. This experience must have knocked holes in his introspective, subjective habit of mind, and forced him to look outwards at the real world. The tremendous force of indignant compassion which sweeps through his war poems did not have its origin in the Western Front: we feel it first in certain letters from Dunsden.\n\n_... a gentle little girl of five, fast sinking under Consumption\u2014contracted after chicken-pox. Isn't it pitiable... the Father is permanently out of work, and the Mother I fancy half starving for the sake of four children. This, I suppose is only a typical_ case; _one of many_ Cases! _O hard word! How it savours of rigid, frigid professionalism ! How it suggests smooth and polished, formal, labelled, mechanical callousness!_\n\nLetter of March 23rd, 1912.\n\n_They may have_ (e.g. the fires of revolt may have died down) _in the bosoms of the muses, but not in my breast. I am increasingly liberalising and liberating my thought... From what I hear straight from the tight-pursed lips of wolfish ploughmen in their cottages, I might say there is material ready for another revolution_.\n\nLetter of April 23rd, 1912.\n\nThis awakening of a social conscience in Owen was soon followed by, if indeed it did not cause, a lapse from the Christian faith. On January 4th, 1913, in a letter to his mother, he declared,\n\n_I have murdered my false creed. If a true one exists, I shall find it. If not, adieu to the still falser creeds that hold the hearts of nearly all my fellow men_.\n\nFailure of conviction, and an illness, caused him to give up his work at Dunsden. In August of this year he obtained a post as English tutor at the Berlitz School of Languages in Bordeaux, and went out the next month to France, a country he had twice visited with his father between 1907 and 1910. He held this post until July 1914, when he became tutor to two boys in a Catholic family in the same city.\n\nDuring this period Owen suffered from recurrent minor ailments\u2014he had not been robust as a child, and the chilly damp of two Oxfordshire winters had done his health no good\u2014the details of which he assiduously reported in his letters home. Though it enabled him to improve his French, the job provided no great interest and only a bare living wage. He became a bit of a hypochondriac: he felt discouraged about his future, and had no certain conviction as to what he should do with his talents. What _was_ his vocation?\n\n_It is more like the call of an art which morning and evening makes me unhappy in my unfruitful labour. What art?... Any!_... _. I am happy with Art. I believe in_ Science _more wholeheartedly than in Art, but what good could I do in that way?_\n\n_Music? If only I dare say Yes! I certainly believe I could make a better musician than many who profess to be, and are accepted as such_.\n\n... _I love Music, Violin first. Piano next, with such_ strength _that I have to conceal the passion for fear it be thought weakness_...\n\n_My Temperament I have now no right to doubt. That I believe infallible; though it remains to know which, if any. Music, Painting, Sculpture, or Verse, is the most possible_.\n\nLetter of May 24th, 1914.\n\nSixteen months before this, Owen had written in an effervescent (and Keatsian) way.\n\n_For the first time in life, I feel I could fill volumes; if I once started to write. It would turn out a Philosophical Work, of course. Oh the irony of my old title of Philosopher ! *. I have become one without knowing it. It is a far, far different thing from what I imagined of yore..._ My _treatise on Philosophy would be a succession of interrogations from beginning to end_.\n\nLetter of January 24th, 1913.\n\nWhen Owen went to live with the Leger family, things took a brighter turn. In August 1914 he was introduced to M. Laurent Tailhade\u2014the first professional poet, so far as we know, he had ever met: the two struck up a friendship, Owen profiting by the older man's encouragement and example. Tailhade, too, had been intended for the Church, but had lost his Christian belief. With his employer, Mme. Leger, Owen was on excellent terms, their relationship having an element of light-hearted flirtatiousness: but at this time Owen was still under-developed emotionally, his idealism, and a streak of the puritan acquired, perhaps, from his mother, holding him back from closer contacts with women. In an undated letter from Bordeaux he had written, \"All women, without exception, _annoy_ me, and the mercenaries... I utterly detest.\" It is noticeable that, in his war poetry, Owen had no pity to spare for the suffering of bereaved women : even _Greater Love_ sees women as not quite worthy of the men who are dying in France.\n\nHis two pupils were bright, high-spirited boys who gave him no trouble. Owen evidently had a gift for getting on well with the young, and an unsentimental approach to them. A letter of January 29th, 1913, from Dunsden, shows that he thought a good deal about child psychology and education, and was well aware how strong an influence he could exercise upon young minds; \"Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by _studying to be pleased_ do we understand them.\" He adds later, with a prophetic foresight truer than he could have realized, \"I am convinced that I hold under my tongue, powers which would shake the foundations of many a spiritual life.\" Certainly, his spiritual influence on poets of my own generation was very great.\n\nWhen war broke out, Wilfred Owen, a provincial himself, was living the life of a cultivated, French provincial society. He was now twenty-one\u2014unsophisticated, inexperienced, still only intermittently sure of his vocation, but ardent and sensuous at the core. For a month or two, the war hardly touched him or the social circle in which he lived. His own attitude towards it was not that of a \"swimmer into cleanness leaping\" : it was nearer to that of certain Bloomsbury figures who resented the war as an unseemly disturbance of the private life ; but with this difference\u2014that Owen's protest was raw, violent, na\u00eff, deadly serious :\n\n_I feel my own life all the more precious and more dear in the presence of this deflowering of Europe. While it is true that the guns will effect a little useful weeding, I am furious with chagrin to think that the Minds, which were to have excelled the civilization of two thousand years, are being annihilated_ \u2014 _and bodies, the product of aeons of Natural Selection, melted down to pay for political statues_.\n\nLetter of August 28th, 1914.\n\nA month later, Owen was for the first time brought up hard against the facts of war. The experience, since he had a poet's inner toughness, proved salutary rather than traumatic. He visited a hospital in Bordeaux at which casualties had just arrived from the front\u2014a hospital grievously ill prepared for such an emergency, with an inadequate water-supply, where he witnessed operations being performed without anaesthetics. In a letter of September 23 to his brother Harold, he wrote:\n\n_One poor devil had his shin-bone crushed by a gun-carriage wheel, and the doctor had to twist it about and push it like a piston to get out the pus... I deliberately tell you all this to educate you to the actualities of war_.\n\nThe tone is ruthless and a little self-important; but Owen was a very young man, and young men do labour to educate their families. But there is a sharpness in the observation which comes like a premonition of the unrelenting factual truthfulness we find in Owen's war poems: he wanted to shock, but never for the mere sake of shocking.\n\nIn general, his letters of the Bordeaux period show a greater interest in other human beings, and a considerable talent for sketching their externals, but no deep perception of their natures, nor any desire to see deep into them. He was still egocentric, as a young poet must be; still repeating his \"need for study, intellectual training\"; still oscillating between confidence and self-distrust over his vocation\u2014on the one hand, \"I seem without a footing on life; but I have one... I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's\" (letter of February 6th, 1915); on the other hand, \"all last year and longer I have read no poetry, nor thought poetically\" (letter of February 18th, 1915). At the beginning of 1915 Owen was seriously considering whether he should take up an opening in business. He seems to have had no thoughts yet of enlisting: in any case he was bound by his contract with the Legers to stay in France till the end of the summer. It was not till June I5th that he first stated his intention of joining up as soon as his tutorial engagement was over, and there is no indication in his letters home that he had felt any conflict or compunction about remaining a civilian.\n\nHe came home in August or September, was accepted for the Army in October, and trained with the Artists' Rifles. On June 4th, 1916, he was commissioned in the Manchester Regiment. His early training took place in London, where he visited the Poetry Bookshop\u2014Harold Monro was \"very struck\" by some sonnets of Owen's, and \"told me what was fresh and clever, and what was second-hand and banal; and what Keatsian, and what 'modern',\" (letter of March 5th, 1916). Military training he found, as most 'temporary' soldiers find it, both arduous and tedious; apart from the discipline it inculcated, it was inevitably a playing-at-soldiers which could be only the sketchiest preparation for the realities of active service. In August, Owen contemplated a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps: \"Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.\" But he was too useful an infantry officer to release, and at the end of the year he received his orders to go out to France.\n\nLittle need be added to the picture of Owen's life during the next twenty-three months, which Edmund Blunden gave in his Memoir.* His first tour of duty, on the Somme sector, proved his staunchness as a man and made the fibre of his best poetry. This rapid maturing is seen not only in his verse but in his letter-writing, which loses its former doubts and affectations, and gains in honesty and eloquence. It is instructive to compare the passage quoted in Blunden's Memoir (p. 173), beginning \"But chiefly I thought of the very strange look on all faces in that camp,\" with a passage written a year earlier, when Owen was at the Etaples transit camp on his way to the front:\n\n_On all the officers' faces there is a harassed look that I have never seen before, and which in England never will be seen_ \u2014 _out of jails. The men are just as Bairnsfather has them_ \u2014 _expressionless lumps_.\n\nLetter of January 4th, 1917.\n\nFor those who have no memories of the First War, two things need to be said. For the combatants on the Western Front it became, compared with the Second War, a static one. In every sector, its background was very much the same\u2014a desolate landscape of trenches, craters, barbed wire, ruined buildings, splintered trees, mud, the corpses of animals and men. Writing home on February 4th, 1917, Owen described\n\n_the universal pervasion of_ Ugliness. _Hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language_.... _everything, unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug-outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious_.\n\nYet, though this ubiquitous landscape surpassed all the imagined horrors of Dante's Inferno, it provided the soldier poets with a settled familiar background, while trench warfare gave them long periods of humdrum passivity. Such conditions\u2014a stable background, a routine-governed outer life\u2014have so often proved fruitful for the inner lives of poets that we may well attribute the excellence of the First-War poetry, compared with what was produced in the Second War\u2014a war of movement\u2014partly to the kind of existence these poets were leading: another reason could be, of course, that they were better poets.\n\nSecondly, we shall not fully understand the poetry of protest written by Owen, Sassoon and others, unless we realize how great was the gulf between the fighting man and the civilian at home, and between the front-line soldier and the brass-hat. To the soldier, those on the other side of the barbed wire were fellow sufferers; he felt less hostility towards them than towards the men and women who were profiting by the war, sheltered from it, or wilfully ignorant of its realities. Shortly after Owen was sent for a second time out of the line\u2014a victim of 'neurasthenia' caused, he said, by \"living so long by the _disiecta membra_ of a friend\", he wrote (letter of May 2nd, 1917),\n\n_Already I have comprehended a light which will never filter into the dogma of any national church: namely that one of Christ's essential commands was. Passivity at any price! Suffer dishonour and disgrace, but never resort to arms. Be bullied, be outraged, be killed; but do not kill_...\n\n_Christ is literally in no man's land. There men often hear his voice. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life\u2014for a friend_.\n\n_Is it spoken in English only and French? I do not believe so_.\n\nThis was not the Christ of Owen's religious upbringing; it was the one whom David Gascoyne addressed many years later as 'Christ of Revolution and of Poetry'. He appears again in a letter Owen wrote to Osbert Sitwell on July 4th, 1918, when he was training troops in England and himself preparing to return to the front;\n\n_For 14 hours yesterday I was at work\u2014teaching Christ to lift his cross by numbers, and how to adjust his crown; and not to imagine he thirst till after the last halt. I attended his Supper to see that there were not complaints; and inspected his feet that they should be worthy of the nails. I see to it that he is dumb, and stands at attention before his accusers. With a piece of silver I buy him every day, and with maps I make him familiar with the topography of Golgotha_.\n\nWilfred Owen went back to the front line because he felt that there he would be in a stronger position to voice his protest against the war, and speak for his comrades. On October 4th, 1918, he wrote home about the action in which he won his Military Cross, a battle which\n\n_passed the limits of my Abhorrence. I lost all my earthly faculties, and fought like an angel... You will guess what has happened when I say I am now commanding the Company, and in the line had a boy lance-corporal as my Sergeant-Major. With this corporal, who stuck to me and shadowed me like your prayers, I captured a German Machine Gun and scores of prisoners_...\n\n_My nerves are in perfect order_.\n\nA month later, to the day, he was killed.\n\nWhat Wilfred Owen's future as a poet would have been, had he survived the war, it is impossible to say. War is the subject of nearly all his best poems, and a reference point in others, such as _Miners_. It is true that he wrote a few poems of great merit on other subjects. But when, during the great productive period, he sought to write or finish such poems, we often notice in them a regression to his immature manner. It is interesting to speculate upon what subjects might have fired his imagination and possessed his whole mind, as did the war experience. Would the vein of savage indignation prove exhausted, or might Owen have found it renewed in the struggle against social injustice which animated some of his poetic successors ? It seems possible; but his honesty, fervour and sensuousness might have been directed elsewhere to produce a Catullan kind of love-poetry. My own conviction is that, whatever poetry he turned to, he would have proved himself in it a poet of a high order. His dedication was complete: he passionately wanted to survive the war, so that he might continue to write poetry.\n\nCertainly, in the writings of his last two years, he showed himself both a serious poet and an increasingly self-critical one. If we follow the successive drafts of the poems over which he worked longest\u2014 _Anthem for Doomed Youth_ , for instance*\u2014we can see how admirably he kept sharpening the language, focusing ever more clearly his theme. Clumsiness there sometimes is, in these later poems; but nothing facile, and no shallow amateurism. Even his juvenilia, undistinguished though for the most part they are, present one promising feature\u2014a gift for sustaining, in the sonnet form particularly, what musicians call _legato\u2014_ , for keeping the movement of the verse running unbroken through an elaborate syntactical structure.\n\nThe language and rhythms of Owen's mature poetry are unmistakably his own: earlier influences have been absorbed, and we recognize in the style an achieved poetic personality. But it was achieved not solely through the impact of war: the seeds of it can be found in such early lines as\n\n... _the lie_\n\n_Of landscapes whereupon my windows lean_\n\nor\n\n_I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing_\n\nor\n\n_For us, rough knees of boys shall ache with revrence_\n\nor\n\n_I shall be bright with their unearthly brightening_.\n\nAlthough his later work was largely cleared of derivativeness and false poeticism, Owen was not a technical innovator except in one respect\u2014his consistent use of consonantal end\u2014 rhymes (grained\/ground; tall\/toil). For a detailed discussion of this device, I would refer the reader to Chapter Six of D. S. R. Welland's book on Owen.* Consonantal rhyme, and other forms of assonance, are common in Welsh poetry and had been used previously in English by Vaughan, Emily Dickinson and Hopkins. There is no evidence that Owen had read any of the three last; nor could he read Welsh\u2014his parents were both English and he was born in England. The first surviving poem in which he experiments with consonantal rhyme is _From My Diary, July 1914_ , while _Has your soul sipped?_ (see note, p. IIS) may be another early experiment. A letter of April 10th, 1916, also shows his mind running on it: \"We had Night Operations again. I was isolated scouting\u2014felt like scooting.\" Dr. Welland puts up an interesting case for Owen's having been introduced to this device by the poetry of Jules Romains, a volume of which, making frequent use of _accords_ , came out in 1913.\u2020; On the other hand, as Welland recognizes, Owen may well have discovered it for himself: a young poet's head is full of chiming sounds: it is a matter of nerve and skill, not necessarily of outside authority, whether he comes to use, deliberately and successfully, chimes which to orthodox ears would sound discordant.\n\nAgain, it has been noticed how Owen tends to have a lower-pitched vowel following a higher one as its rhyme; and this has been explained as a method of stressing the nightmare quality or the disillusionment of the experience about which he was writing. It may be so. But, lacking a theoretical statement by Owen about his rhyme, we should be cautious in attributing its workings to any _methodical_ practice. Poets, when they have such urgent things to say as Owen had, seldom attend so consciously to musical detail; the harmonies of the poem, and its discords, are prompted by the meaning rather than imposed upon it. Nevertheless, Dr. Welland is justified in saying that Owen's consonantal rhyming \"is right for this poetry because its note of haunting uneasiness, of frustration and melancholy, accords perfectly with the theme and the mood\".\n\nBy temperament and force of circumstances, Owen had led a solitary life, cut off from any close fraternity with other men, out of touch with the cultural movements of pre-war England. Shy and diffident as he was, this previous isolation must have heightened the sense of comradeship he felt when, in the army, he found himself accepted by his fellows and able to contribute to the life of a working unit. The old solitude was fertilized by the new fraternity, to enlarge his emotional and imaginative scope. Laurent Tailhade's eloquently uttered pacifist beliefs had, no doubt, impressed themselves upon the young Owen; but I can find no evidence that Owen was influenced by his poetry. At the Craiglockhart War Hospital, Owen met a man whose poetry and pacifism appealed to him alike. Siegfried Sassoon brought out, in a way almost embarrassing to him, all the younger poet's capacity for hero-worship: he had been a most gallant Company commander; he had written poems and a prose manifesto condemning the war in an uncompromising manner. No wonder Owen felt at first like a disciple towards him.\n\nIt was a sign of Owen's integrity and growing independence as a poet that his work was not radically affected by his admiration for this new friend. In a few satirical or colloquial poems, such as _The Letter, The Chances_ , or _The Dead Beat_ , we may perceive Sassoon's influence; but Owen must have known that Sassoon's ironic and robust satire was not for him, and he continued in the tragic-elegiac vein which he had started working before he met the other poet. What Sassoon gave him was technical criticism, encouragement, and above all the sense of being recognized as an equal by one whose work he respected; it meant the end of his isolation as an artist.\n\nIn a letter from which I have already quoted, Wilfred Owen described himself as \"a conscientious objector with a very seared conscience\". He had come to see the war as absolutely evil in the agonies and senseless waste it caused: on the other hand, only as a combatant could he conscientiously and effectively speak for the men who were suffering from it. This conflict within himself, which Dr. Welland has discussed at length,* was a basic motive of the war poems. It is a conflict every honest poet must face under the conditions of modern total war; for, if he refuse to take any part in it, he is opting out of the human condition and thus, while obeying his moral conscience, may well be diminishing himself as a poet. This conflict is seldom overt in Owen's war poetry, which, although it makes use of his personal experiences, is remarkably objective: his 'seared conscience' and his inward responses to that experience provided a motive power, not a subject, of the poetry.\n\nLooking once again at this poetry, thirty-five years after I first read it, I realize how much it has become part of my life and my thinking\u2014so much so that I could hardly attempt dispassionate criticism of it. Now, as then, I find Owen's war poetry most remarkable for its range of feeling and for the striking-power of individual lines. \"He's lost his colour very far from here\" would stand out even in a play by Shakespeare or Webster: \"Was it for this the clay grew tall?\" has a Sophoclean magnificence and simplicity. Ranging from the visionary heights of _Strange Meeting_ or _The Show_ to the brutal, close-up realism of _Mental Cases_ or _The Dead-Beat_ , from the acrid indignation of such poems as _Dulce Et Decorum Est_ to the unsentimental pity of _Futility or Conscious_ , and from the lyricism of _The Send-Off_ to the nervous dramatic energy we find in _Spring Offensive_ , the war poems reveal Owen as a poet superbly equipped in technique and temperament alike. He was not afraid to be eloquent; and because he was speaking urgently for others, not for selfaggrandisement, his eloquence never ballooned into rhetoric. The war experience purged him of self-pity and poetic nostalgia. During his great productive year, the pressure of his imaginative sympathy was high and constant, creating poems that will remain momentous long after the circumstances that prompted them have become just another war in the history books. They, and the best of his poems not directly concerned with war, are in language and character all of a piece.\n\n### _The Text_\n\nThe bulk of Wilfred Owen's autograph poems are in the British Museum, to which they were presented by the Friends of the National Libraries in 1934. Other MS. drafts, and transcripts, are privately owned. My notes to the poems indicate the present whereabouts of all the drafts I have been able to trace. In the notes, I use the following abbreviations :\n\nBM | British Museum  \n---|---  \nSS | Siegfried Sassoon, or his edition of 1920  \nEB | Edmund Blunden, or his edition of 1931  \nHO | Harold Owen, the poet's brother  \nLG | Leslie Gunston, the poet's cousin  \nOS | Sir Osbert Sitwell, Bart.\n\nI have already paid tribute to the admirable work performed by Mr. Sassoon, Professor Blunden and Dr. Welland in tackling the textual problems set by the MS. drafts. Owen wrote a number of drafts and part-drafts of many of these poems, and it is not always possible to determine the order in which these drafts were composed. Where I have occasion to compare what we can be reasonably sure was his final draft with earlier ones, I indicate the former by _BM_ (a), the latter by _BM_ (b).\n\nI have myself worked through all the available MS. material, seeking amongst the numerous deletions and variants with which some even of the final drafts face an editor, to discover Owen's intention or to arrive at the most satisfactory text where that intention is not clear. In general, my text will not often be found to differ greatly from Blunden's, though I have made a considerable number of small emendations to his : such changes, small or great, are pointed out in the notes.\n\nIn two poems, Blunden's text differs from that in any of the extant drafts and I have been unable to trace a MS. source. The poems in question are _The Unreturning_ and _It is not Death_. There can be no doubt that Professor Blunden had MS. authority for the versions he printed ; but unfortunately the material he collected for his edition has been dispersed, and he is unable to help me over this matter. His version of _Shadwell Stair_ gives 'lapping Thames' for the 'full Thames' which appears in the only MS. draft I can trace. In certain other poems\u2014 _Greater Love, Conscious, To My Friend_ \u2014Blunden conflated two or more MS. drafts ; these, and other minor points, are mentioned in my notes.\n\nThe purpose of the notes is not to give a complete _apparatus criticus_ , but chiefly to record such variants as show how Owen improved a line or a passage through successive workings, or variants which are of intrinsic interest. I have also, where possible, drawn upon his correspondence to comment upon the specific experience that went to the making of a given poem and thus fixes the date after which the poem was written.\n\nSince it is not possible to date a great number of these poems, I have arranged them in a non-chronological order. Part One gives all the completed poems which are directly concerned with the war: first, those treating it in a more general, distanced way; then those which convey the soldier's first experiences of war; then the poems which describe action and its aftermaths. In Part Two I have placed poems on other subjects, or not primarily concerned with the war, together with some fragments. Part Three offers a selection of Owen's juvenilia and minor poems, chosen to illustrate some of the things I have said about his youthful work and sensibility.\n\nC. DAY LEWIS\n\n* Unless otherwise stated, all quotations from Owen's correspondence are from letters written to his mother.\n\n* A family nickname.\n\n* See Appendix 1.\n\n* See Appendix 2.\n\n* _Wilfred Owen: a Critical Study_ (London: 1960).\n\n\u2020 But no copy of Romains' work was found amongst Owen's books; and I can discover no reference to Romains in his correspondence.\n\n* op. cit. Chapter Five.\n\n# PREFACE\n\nTHIS book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them.\n\nNor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War.\n\nAbove all I am not concerned with Poetry.\n\nMy subject is War, and the pity of War.\n\nThe Poetry is in the pity.\n\nYet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.\n\n(If I thought the letter of this book would last, I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives\u2014 survives Prussia\u2014my ambition and those names will have achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders....)\n\n# WAR POEMS\n# Strange Meeting\n\nIt seemed that out of battle I escaped\n\nDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped\n\nThrough granites which titanic wars had groined.\n\nYet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,\n\nToo fast in thought or death to be bestirred.\n\nThen, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared\n\nWith piteous recognition in fixed eyes,\n\nLifting distressful hands as if to bless.\n\nAnd by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,\n\nBy his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.\n\nWith a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;\n\nYet no blood reached there from the upper ground,\n\nAnd no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.\n\n\"Strange friend,\" I said, \"here is no cause to mourn.\"\n\n\"None,\" said that other, \"save the undone years,\n\nThe hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,\n\nWas my life also; I went hunting wild\n\nAfter the wildest beauty in the world,\n\nWhich lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,\n\nBut mocks the steady running of the hour,\n\nAnd if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.\n\nFor of my glee might many men have laughed,\n\nAnd of my weeping something had been left,\n\nWhich must die now. I mean the truth untold,\n\nThe pity of war, the pity war distilled.\n\nNow men will go content with what we spoiled,\n\nOr, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.\n\nThey will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.\n\nNone will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.\n\nCourage was mine, and I had mystery,\n\nWisdom was mine, and I had mastery:\n\nTo miss the march of this retreating world\n\nInto vain citadels that are not walled.\n\nThen, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,\n\nI would go up and wash them from sweet wells,\n\nEven with truths that lie too deep for taint.\n\nI would have poured my spirit without stint\n\nBut not through wounds; not on the cess of war.\n\nForeheads of men have bled where no wounds were.\n\nI am the enemy you killed, my friend.\n\nI knew you in this dark: for so you frowned\n\nYesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.\n\nI parried; but my hands were loath and cold.\n\nLet us sleep now....\"\n\nBM has final draft, and five drafts of a passage leading up to and including the present 11. 28\u201339. HO had one early draft, which he presented to the editor of this edition.\n\n1. 10: BM (a) has _dead_ deleted: also, cancelled, _Yet slumber droned all down that sullen hall_. This line is omitted by S. S.\n\nBetween 11. 13 and 14 Owen wrote and cancelled _But all was sleep. And no voice called for men_.\n\n1. 15 : EB _the other_ ,\n\n1. 25: BM (a) has 'the _one thing_ war distilled' altered to _'the pity_ war distilled.'\n\n1. 39: in BM (a) this line is circled and arrowed to become the final line of the poem. _Let us sleep now_ appears to have been written in later and tentatively. HO ends poem with the present penultimate line, below which Owen has written _But not in war_.\n\n1. 40: BM (b) gives _I was a German conscript, and your friend_.\n\n# _Insensibility_\n\nI\n\nHappy are men who yet before they are killed\n\nCan let their veins run cold.\n\nWhom no compassion fleers\n\nOr makes their feet\n\nSore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.\n\nThe front line withers,\n\nBut they are troops who fade, not flowers\n\nFor poets' tearful fooling:\n\nMen, gaps for filling:\n\nLosses, who might have fought\n\nLonger; but no one bothers.\n\nII\n\nAnd some cease feeling\n\nEven themselves or for themselves.\n\nDullness best solves\n\nThe tease and doubt of shelling,\n\nAnd Chance's strange arithmetic\n\nComes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.\n\nThey keep no check on armies' decimation.\n\nIII\n\nHappy are these who lose imagination:\n\nThey have enough to carry with ammunition.\n\nTheir spirit drags no pack,\n\nTheir old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.\n\nHaving seen all things red,\n\nTheir eyes are rid\n\nOf the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.\n\nAnd terror's first constriction over,\n\nTheir hearts remain small-drawn.\n\nTheir senses in some scorching cautery of battle\n\nNow long since ironed,\n\nCan laugh among the dying, unconcerned.\n\nIV\n\nHappy the soldier home, with not a notion\n\nHow somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,\n\nAnd many sighs are drained.\n\nHappy the lad whose mind was never trained:\n\nHis days are worth forgetting more than not.\n\nHe sings along the march\n\nWhich we march taciturn, because of dusk,\n\nThe long, forlorn, relentless trend\n\nFrom larger day to huger night.\n\nV\n\nWe wise, who with a thought besmirch\n\nBlood over all our soul,\n\nHow should we see our task\n\nBut through his blunt and lashless eyes?\n\nAlive, he is not vital overmuch;\n\nDying, not mortal overmuch;\n\nNor sad, nor proud,\n\nNor curious at all.\n\nHe cannot tell\n\nOld men's placidity from his.\n\nVI\n\nBut cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,\n\nThat they should be as stones;\n\nWretched are they, and mean\n\nWith paucity that never was simplicity.\n\nBy choice they made themselves immune\n\nTo pity and whatever mourns in man\n\nBefore the last sea and the hapless stars;\n\nWhatever mourns when many leave these shores;\n\nWhatever shares\n\nThe eternal reciprocity of tears.\n\nBM has one draft; HO has one draft, heavily corrected.\n\n1.5: BM has _Dances on the hard ground_ deleted.\n\n_Feel not_\n\n1. 8: BM has _That one should_ , _poetic_ deleted.\n\n1. 55: EB gives _moans_. BM has _mourns_ cancelled and _moans_ substituted. I prefer _mourns_ , as did SS.\n\n# _Apologia Pro Poemate Meo_\n\nI, too, saw God through mud,\u2014\n\nThe mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.\n\nWar brought more glory to their eyes than blood,\n\nAnd gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.\n\nMerry it was to laugh there\u2014\n\nWhere death becomes absurd and life absurder.\n\nFor power was on us as we slashed bones bare\n\nNot to feel sickness or remorse of murder.\n\nI, too, have dropped off fear\u2014\n\nBehind the barrage, dead as my platoon,\n\nAnd sailed my spirit surging light and clear\n\nPast the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;\n\nAnd witnessed exultation\u2014\n\nFaces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,\n\nShine and lift up with passion of oblation,\n\nSeraphic for an hour; though they were foul.\n\nI have made fellowships\u2014\n\nUntold of happy lovers in old song.\n\nFor love is not the binding of fair lips\n\nWith the soft silk of eyes that look and long,\n\nBy Joy, whose ribbon slips,\u2014\n\nBut wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;\n\nBound with the bandage of the arm that drips;\n\nKnit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.\n\nI have perceived much beauty\n\nIn the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;\n\nHeard music in the silentness of duty;\n\nFound peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.\n\nNevertheless, except you share\n\nWith them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,\n\nWhose world is but the trembling of a flare,\n\nAnd heaven but as the highway for a shell,\n\nYou shall not hear their mirth:\n\nYou shall not come to think them well content\n\nBy any jest of mine. These men are worth\n\nYour tears. You are not worth their merriment.\n\n_November_ 1917.\n\nBM has two drafts, the earlier unfinished and entitled _Apologia pro Poema Disconsolatia Mea_. HO has three early drafts, one entitled\n\n_The Unsaid_.\n\n1. 4: HO _And glee, that almost made the gloom worth while_.\n\n1. 8: HO _For God forgets Christ then, and blesses murder_.\n\n# _Greater Love_\n\nRed lips are not so red\n\nAs the stained stones kissed by the English dead.\n\nKindness of wooed and wooer\n\nSeems shame to their love pure.\n\nO Love, your eyes lose lure\n\nWhen I behold eyes blinded in my stead!\n\nYour slender attitude\n\nTrembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,\n\nRolling and rolling there\n\nWhere God seems not to care;\n\nTill the fierce love they bear\n\nCramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.\n\nYour voice sings not so soft,\u2014\n\nThough even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,\u2014\n\nYour dear voice is not dear,\n\nGentle, and evening clear,\n\nAs theirs whom none now hear,\n\nNow earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.\n\nHeart, you were never hot\n\nNor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;\n\nAnd though your hand be pale,\n\nPaler are all which trail\n\nYour cross through flame and hail:\n\nWeep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.\n\nBM has five drafts, two of them cancelled. The text given here follows a fair copy, with last-moment changes, made by Owen, and presented to E. Blunden by S. Sassoon.\n\n1. 4: BM (a) has _seems weak_ (not cancelled), and _shame_ in the margin.\n\n1. 8: all BM drafts have _beautiful: exquisite_ is given by EB.\n\n1. 10: earlier drafts give _Where God seems not to care;_ BM (a) substitutes _skies_ for _God_\n\n1. 18: BM (a) has _gagged_\n\n# _The Parable of the Old Man and the Young_\n\nSo Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,\n\nAnd took the fire with him, and a knife.\n\nAnd as they sojourned both of them together,\n\nIsaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,\n\nBehold the preparations, fire and iron.\n\nBut where the lamb for this burnt-offering?\n\nThen Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,\n\nAnd builded parapets and trenches there,\n\nAnd stretch\u00e8d forth the knife to slay his son.\n\nWhen lo! an angel called him out of heaven,\n\nSaying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,\n\nNeither do anything to him. Behold,\n\nA ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;\n\nOffer the Ram of Pride instead of him.\n\nBut the old man would not so, but slew his son,\n\nAnd half the seed of Europe, one by one.\n\nBM has one draft. OS has one draft.\n\nEB and SS give _MEN_ in title: BM gives _MAN_.\n\nI. 8: BM has _And built a parapet of earth and wood_ , deleted.\n\nII. 12\u201316: OS gives\n\n_Neither do anything to him, thy son_.\n\n_Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns_\n\n_A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead_.\n\n_But the old man would not so, but slew his son_.\n\n1. 16: omitted by SS.\n\n# _Arms and the Boy_\n\nLet the boy try along this bayonet-blade\n\nHow cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;\n\nBlue with all malice, like a madman's flash;\n\nAnd thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.\n\nLend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads\n\nWhich long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,\n\nOr give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,\n\nSharp with the sharpness of grief and death.\n\nFor his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.\n\nThere lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;\n\nAnd God will grow no talons at his heels,\n\nNor antlers through the thickness of his curls.\n\nBM has two drafts. OS has one draft, dated _3.5.18_.\n\n1. 5: EB gives _bullet-heads_\n\n# _Anthem for Doomed Youth_\n\nWhat passing-bells for these who die as cattle?\n\nOnly the monstrous anger of the guns.\n\nOnly the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle\n\nCan patter out their hasty orisons.\n\nNo mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,\n\nNor any voice of mourning save the choirs,\u2014\n\nThe shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;\n\nAnd bugles calling for them from sad shires.\n\nWhat candles may be held to speed them all?\n\nNot in the hands of boys, but in their eyes\n\nShall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.\n\nThe pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;\n\nTheir flowers the tenderness of patient minds,\n\nAnd each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.\n\nBM has four drafts. HO has two, together with a draft of the first six lines. LG has one draft.\n\nThe poem is entitled _Anthem for Dead Youth_ in the earlier drafts: in the final one, _Dead_ is cancelled and _Doomed_ substituted.\n\n1. 5: EB gives _No mockeries for them from prayers or bells_. The line appears thus in the final draft, but with _form_ and _or_ cancelled, and _no_ and _nor_ written above; also, _now_ is inserted below _mockeries_.\n\n1. 13: BM (a) has alternatives, _silent_ and _patient_ , together with a deleted variant, _sweet white_. The previous drafts show a large number of variants for the epithet. Owen did not hit upon _silent_ till the final draft: _patient_ was then pencilled in, presumably at SS's suggestion when Owen showed him the poem at Craiglockhart in September, 1917.\n\n_Silent_ contrasts with the various loud noises featured in the octave, and chimes with the plangent long _i's_ of the sestet\u2014Owen's _sweet white_ suggests that he needed this sound here. But _patient_ gives the stronger sense, and carries on the alliteration of the previous line and the first five lines of the octave.\n\nAn early BM draft, substituting _you_ for _these_ , makes the poem more directly personal\u2014\n\n## _Anthem for Dead Youth_\n\nWhat passing-bells for you who die in herds?\n\n\u2014Only the monstrous anger of the guns!\n\n\u2014Only the stuttering rifles' rattled words\n\nCan patter out your hasty orisons.\n\nNo chants for you, nor balms, nor wreaths, nor bells,\n\nNor any voice of mourning, save the choirs,\n\nAnd long-drawn sighs of wailing shells;\n\nAnd bugles calling for you from sad shires.\n\nWhat candles may we hold to speed you all?\n\nNot in the hands of boys, but in their eyes\n\nShall shine [the] holy lights of our goodbyes.\n\nThe pallor of girls' brows must be your pall.\n\nYour flowers, the tenderness of comrades' minds,\n\nAnd each slow dusk, a drawing-down of blinds.\n\n# _The Send-Off_\n\nDown the close, darkening lanes they sang their way\n\nTo the siding-shed,\n\nAnd lined the train with faces grimly gay.\n\nTheir breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray\n\nAs men's are, dead.\n\nDull porters watched them, and a casual tramp\n\nStood staring hard,\n\nSorry to miss them from the upland camp.\n\nThen, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp\n\nWinked to the guard.\n\nSo secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.\n\nThey were not ours:\n\nWe never heard to which front these were sent.\n\nNor there if they yet mock what women meant\n\nWho gave them flowers.\n\nShall they return to beatings of great bells\n\nIn wild train-loads?\n\nA few, a few, too few for drums and yells,\n\nMay creep back, silent, to still village wells\n\nUp half-known roads.\n\nBM has five drafts, three entitled _The Draft_. HO has one part-draft.\n\nOwen evidently had difficulty in deciding the form of this poem: the earlier drafts begin, respectively\u2014\n\n(i) _Softly down darkening lanes they sang their way_\n\n_And no word said_.\n\n_They filled the train with faces vaguely gay_\n\n_And shoulders covered all white with wreath and spray_\n\n_As men's are, dead_.\n\n(ii) _Low-voiced through darkening lanes they sang their way to the cattle-shed_.\n\n_And filled the train with faces grimly gay_.\n\n_Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray, as men's are, dead_.\n\n(iii) _Down the wet darkening lanes they sang their way to the cattle-shed_\n\n_And lined the train with faces grimly gay_.\n\n_Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray_\n\n_As men's are, dead_.\n\n1. 19: all five drafts have _to still village wells_. In the final draft, however, followed by EB, _still_ is cancelled, as is an alternative, _strange_. Both metre and rhythm require a monosyllable here, and it seems probable that Owen would have inserted one in a final revision. I have therefore restored _still_.\n\nThe part-draft appears in a letter home, dated May 4, 1918, in which Owen writes, _I have long 'waited' for a final stanza_ to The Draft ( _which begins_ \u2014\n\n1\n\n\" _Down the deep, darkening lanes they sang their way_\n\n_To the waiting train_ ,\n\n_And filled its doors with faces grimly gay_ ,\n\n_And heads and shoulders white with wreath and spray_ ,\n\n_As men's are, slain.\"_\n\n4\n\n_Will they return, to beatings of great bells_ ,\n\n_In wild train-loads?_\n\n_A few, a few, too few for drums and yells_ ,\n\n_May walk back, silent, to their village wells_ ,\n\n_Up half-known roads_.\n\n# _Exposure_\n\nOur brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us...\n\nWearied we keep awake because the night is silent...\n\nLow, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient...\n\nWorried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous.\n\nBut nothing happens.\n\nWatching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,\n\nLike twitching agonies of men among its brambles.\n\nNorthward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,\n\nFar off, like a dull rumour of some other war.\n\nWhat are we doing here?\n\nThe poignant misery of dawn begins to grow...\n\nWe only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.\n\nDawn massing in the east her melancholy army\n\nAttacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray,\n\nBut nothing happens.\n\nSudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.\n\nLess deathly than the air that shudders black with snow,\n\nWith sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew;\n\nWe watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,\n\nBut nothing happens.\n\nPale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces\u2014\n\nWe cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare,\n\nsnow-dazed,\n\nDeep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,\n\nLittered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.\n\nIs it that we are dying?\n\nSlowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed\n\nWith crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;\n\nFor hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;\n\nShutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,\u2014\n\nWe turn back to our dying.\n\nSince we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;\n\nNor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.\n\nFor God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;\n\nTherefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,\n\nFor love of God seems dying.\n\nTo-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,\n\nShrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp.\n\nThe burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,\n\nPause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,\n\nBut nothing happens.\n\nBM has two drafts and several part-drafts. Owen dated this poem, _February 1916:_ EB points out that this must be a slip of the pen for _February 1917_.\n\nI. 17 : EB gives _deadly_\n\nII. 38\u20139: _The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp_ ,\n\n{ _Look dumbly on their faces_ ,\u2014 _bricks; their stark eyes,\u2014ice Pause over half\u2014known faces; all their eyes are red_ }.\n\nI am indebted to Dr. Welland for the following notes on the last six lines of this poem.\n\n_\"Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,_\n\n_Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp_.\n\n_This_ is a pencilled correction (above the line) of a previously inserted _the_. I am sure that it is _this_ , but there is just enough ambiguity about it to justify retaining EB's preferable reading. Similarly, the pencilled correction to the last line of the previous stanza appears to have _the_ inserted between _for_ and _love_ , but the horizontal line may be read either as the crossing of the _t_ or as a cancellation.\n\n1. 39: It is possible to read the last word as _red_ because of an ink loop above the final letter, but it is surely a slip of the pen: the half-rhyme demands _ice_ which he uses in two previous attempts at this line (once on each sheet).\"\n\n# _The Show_\n\nWe have fallen in the dreams the ever-living\n\nBreathe on the tarnished mirror of the world,\n\nAnd then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.\n\nW. B. YEATS\n\nMy soul looked down from a vague height, with Death,\n\nAs unremembering how I rose or why,\n\nAnd saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,\n\nGray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,\n\nAnd pitted with great pocks and scabs of plagues.\n\nAcross its beard, that horror of harsh wire,\n\nThere moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.\n\nIt seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs\n\nOf ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.\n\nBy them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped\n\nRound myriad warts that might be little hills.\n\nFrom gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,\n\nAnd vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.\n\n(And smell came up from those foul openings\n\nAs out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)\n\nOn dithering feet upgathered, more and more,\n\nBrown strings, towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,\n\nAll migrants from green fields, intent on mire.\n\nThose that were gray, of more abundant spawns,\n\nRamped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.\n\nI saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten,\n\nI watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.\n\nWhereat, in terror what that sight might mean,\n\nI reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.\n\nAnd Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.\n\nAnd He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid\n\nIts bruises in the earth, but crawled no further,\n\nShowed me its feet, the feet of many men,\n\nAnd the fresh-severed head of it, my head.\n\nBM has one draft: HO has one early draft, heavily corrected and untitled.\n\nII. 1\u20135: HO, _He looked down, from the great height of death_ ,\n\n_Having forgotten how he died, and why_.\n\n_He saw the earth face grey and sunk with dearth_\n\n_And cratered like the moon's with hollow woe_ ,\n\n_All pitted with great pocks and scabs of plague_.\n\nI. 6: BM has, Across { _the horror of its beard of wire_ , deleted. its horrid beard of prickly wire,}\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated January 19, 1917, Owen writes that No Man's Land _is pockmarked like a body of foulest disease and its odour is the breath of cancer... No Man's Land under snow is like the face of the moon, chaotic, crater-ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness_.\n\n# _Spring Offensive_\n\nHalted against the shade of a last hill,\n\nThey fed, and lying easy, were at ease\n\nAnd, finding comfortable chests and knees,\n\nCarelessly slept. But many there stood still\n\nTo face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,\n\nKnowing their feet had come to the end of the world.\n\nMarvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled\n\nBy the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,\n\nFor though the summer oozed into their veins\n\nLike an injected drug for their bodies' pains,\n\nSharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,\n\nFearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.\n\nHour after hour they ponder the warm field\u2014\n\nAnd the far valley behind, where the buttercup\n\nHad blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,\n\nWhere even the little brambles would not yield,\n\nBut clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;\n\nThey breathe like trees unstirred.\n\nTill like a cold gust thrills the little word\n\nAt which each body and its soul begird\n\nAnd tighten them for battle. No alarms\n\nOf bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste\u2014\n\nOnly a lift and flare of eyes that faced\n\nThe sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.\n\nO larger shone that smile against the sun,\u2014\n\nMightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.\n\nSo, soon they topped the hill, and raced together\n\nOver an open stretch of herb and heather\n\nExposed. And instantly the whole sky burned\n\nWith fury against them; earth set sudden cups\n\nIn thousands for their blood; and the green slope\n\nChasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.\n\nOf them who running on that last high place\n\nLeapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up\n\nOn the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,\n\nOr plunged and fell away past this world's verge,\n\nSome say God caught them even before they fell.\n\nBut what say such as from existence' brink\n\nVentured but drave too swift to sink,\n\nThe few who rushed in the body to enter hell,\n\nAnd there out-fiending all its fiends and flames\n\nWith superhuman inhumanities,\n\nLong-famous glories, immemorial shames\u2014\n\nAnd crawling slowly back, have by degrees\n\nRegained cool peaceful air in wonder\u2014\n\nWhy speak not they of comrades that went under?\n\nBM has one draft: SS has one part-draft, ending _But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing arms_ , and with a footnote by Owen, _Is this worth going on with?_ \/ _I don't want to write anything to which a soldier would say No Compris!_\n\nI. 10: SS. _Like the injected drug for their bones' pains_ ,\n\nI. 14: SS. _buttercups_\n\nI. 18: BM has _All their strange day_ cancelled at the beginning of this line. The words weaken the line: on the other hand, Owen would probably have written a substitute for them in a final revision, since the other short lines in BM (39, 45) also have indications of being unfinished.\n\nII. 30\u20141: SS. _and soft sudden cups Opened in thousands for their blood:_ this version, deleted, appears in BM.\n\nI. 31: SS. _slopes_\n\nI. 34: I follow EB's reading, though it is cancelled in the BM MS.\n\nI am indebted to Dr. Welland for the following note on this line\u2014\n\n\"My impression is that Owen changed it as follows:\n\n(a) _unseen_ was cancelled and _surf of_ substituted above\n\n(b) he then cancelled _Leapt to the unseen_ and substituted above _Breasted the shrieking_\n\n(c) next he cancelled _the shrieking_ , put in another _the_ before it and _even rapture of bullets_ after it, and then cancelled _Breasted_\n\nThe best alternative to EB I can suggest is\n\n_Breasted the surf of bullets, or went up_\n\nI can find no MS. authority for EB's _swift unseen bullets;_ what I read as _surf of_ he reads as _swift_ , but then its placing suggests it ought to come after _unseen_. The only virtue of my emendation is that it retains the swimming image that WO's changes indicate he was developing here; _surf of_ has been underlined but not cancelled, and I can see no way of satisfactorily using the _even rapture of bullets_.\n\nI. 39: BM shows a gap between _Ventured_ and _but_ , suggesting that Owen would, in a final revision, have inserted a word to lengthen this line to the normal five-stress metre of the poem.\n\nI. 45: BM gives _the cool & peaceful air_, with _the_ cancelled. EB has, I believe, mistaken the ampersand for a comma, but the sign is similar to an ampersand between _fiends_ and _flames_ four lines above. Here again I think Owen would have made a five-stress line in final revision.\"\n\n# _Dulce Et Decorum Est_\n\nBent double, like old beggars under sacks,\n\nKnock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,\n\nTill on the haunting flares we turned our backs\n\nAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.\n\nMen marched asleep. Many had lost their boots\n\nBut limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;\n\nDrunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots\n\nOf tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.\n\nGas! Gas! Quick, boys!\u2014An ecstasy of fumbling,\n\nFitting the clumsy helmets just in time;\n\nBut someone still was yelling out and stumbling\n\nAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...\n\nDim, through the misty panes and thick green light,\n\nAs under a green sea, I saw him drowning.\n\nIn all my dreams, before my helpless sight,\n\nHe plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.\n\nIf in some smothering dreams you too could pace\n\nBehind the wagon that we flung him in,\n\nAnd watch the white eyes writhing in his face,\n\nHis hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;\n\nIf you could hear, at every jolt, the blood\n\nCome gargling from the froth\u2014corrupted lungs,\n\nObscene as cancer, bitter as the cud\n\nOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,\u2014\n\nMy friend, you would not tell with such high zest\n\nTo children ardent for some desperate glory,\n\nThe old Lie: Dulce et decorum est\n\nPro patria mori.\n\nBM has two drafts, the earlier of which gives, beneath the title. _To Jessie Pope etc_ (cancelled), and _To a certain Poetess_. HO has two drafts, one subscribed _To Jessie Pope etc_ , the other, _To a certain Poetess_.\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated August 1917, Owen wrote _Here is a gas poem, done yesterday_.\n\nI. 8; BM (a) has _tired, outstripped_   deleted, and the line reads _Of gas\u2014shells dropping softly that dropped behind_. EB amended to _Of gas\u2014shells dropping softly behind_. The earlier BM draft shows two alternatives for this line, both of ten syllables. HO (a) gives _Of tired, outstripped five\u2014nines that dropped behind._ HO (b) gives _Of disappointed shells that dropped behind_.\n\nAfter line 8, BM (b) has four lines which in the later version were first altered a little, then cancelled\u2014\n\n_Then somewhere near in front: Whew... fup... fop... fup..._\n\n_Gas\u2014shells or duds? We loosened masks, in case_ \u2014\n\n_And listened... Nothing... Far rumouring of Krupp..._\n\n_Then stinging poison hit us in the face_.\n\nI. 20: HO (b) _His hanging face, tortured for your own sin_\n\nI. 23: EB omits _Obscene as cancer_\n\nII. 23-4: these were substituted, at a late stage of composition, for\n\n_And think how, once, his head was like a bud,_\n\n_Fresh as a country rose, and keen, and young_ ,\u2014\n\n# _Asleep_\n\nUnder his helmet, up against his pack,\n\nAfter the many days of work and waking,\n\nSleep took him by the brow and laid him back.\n\nAnd in the happy no-time of his sleeping,\n\nDeath took him by the heart. There was a quaking\n\nOf the aborted life within him leaping...\n\nThen chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.\n\nAnd soon the slow, stray blood came creeping\n\nFrom the intrusive lead, like ants on track.\n\nWhether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking\n\nOf great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,\n\nHigh pillowed on calm pillows of God's making\n\nAbove these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,\n\nAnd these winds' scimitars;\n\n\u2014Or whether yet his thin and sodden head\n\nConfuses more and more with the low mould,\n\nHis hair being one with the grey grass\n\nAnd finished fields of autumns that are old...\n\nWho knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!\n\nHe sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold\n\nThan we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!\n\nBM has three drafts, one entitled _Lines on a soldier whom shrapnel killed asleep_. LG has one draft, dated _Nov. 14_ , _1917_.\n\n_the aborted life_\n\nI. 6: BM (b), _Of frustrated life like child within him leaping_,\n\nI. 9: BM (b), _From under that collapse like ants on track_.\n\nI. 12: BM (a), _And pillowed on high pillows of God's making_ ,\n\nI. 18: LG, _Of finished fields, and wire\u2014scrags rusty\u2014old_ ,\n\nIn a letter to LG, with whom he had just spent a day's leave, enclosing the above poem, Owen describes how, walking back to Winchester alone _over the long backs of the downs_ , he _could almost see the dead lying about in the hollows of the downs_.\n\n# _Futility_\n\nMove him into the sun\u2014\n\nGently its touch awoke him once,\n\nAt home, whispering of fields unsown.\n\nAlways it woke him, even in France,\n\nUntil this morning and this snow.\n\nIf anything might rouse him now\n\nThe kind old sun will know.\n\nThink how it wakes the seeds,\u2014\n\nWoke, once, the clays of a cold star.\n\nAre limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,\n\nFull\u2014nerved\u2014still warm\u2014too hard to stir?\n\nWas it for this the clay grew tall?\n\n\u2014O what made fatuous sunbeams toil\n\nTo break earth's sleep at all?\n\nBM has two drafts, one of them cancelled. Dr. D. S. R. Welland possesses facsimiles of two drafts, which were owned by the late Miss Vera Hewland, and are believed to have been destroyed after her death in 1960. In both, I. S is _In Wales, whispering of fields unsown_.\n\nII. 10-11: BM (a) has\n\nBM (b) has two variants\u2014\n\n# _The Last Laugh_\n\n'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.\n\nWhether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,\n\nThe Bullets chirped\u2014In vain! vain! vain!\n\nMachine-guns chuckled,\u2014Tut-tut! Tut-tut!\n\nAnd the Big Gun guffawed.\n\nAnother sighed,\u2014'O Mother, mother! Dad!'\n\nThen smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.\n\nAnd the lofty Shrapnel-cloud\n\nLeisurely gestured,\u2014Fool!\n\nAnd the falling splinters tittered.\n\n'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,\n\nTill, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.\n\nAnd the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;\n\nRabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;\n\nAnd the Gas hissed.\n\nHO has one draft. OS has two drafts, one entitled _The Last Word_.\n\nI. 10: OS, _And the Splinters spat and tittered_.\n\nAn earlier draft, entitled _Last Words_ , was enclosed in a letter to his mother, dated February 18, 1918:\n\n\" _O_ _Jesus Christ!\" one fellow sighed_.\n\n_And kneeled, and bowed, tho' not in prayer, and died_.\n\n_And the Bullets sang \"In Vain\"_ ,\n\n_Machine Guns chuckled \"Vain\"_ ,\n\n_Big Guns guffawed \"In Vain\"_.\n\n_\"Father and mother!\" one boy said_.\n\n_Then smiled\u2014at nothing, like a small child; being dead_.\n\n_And the Shrapnel Cloud_\n\n_Slowly gestured \"Vain\"_ ,\n\n_The falling splinters muttered \"Vain\"_.\n\n_\"My love!\" another cried, \"My love, my bud!\"_\n\n_Then, gently lowered, his whole face kissed the mud_.\n\n_And the Flares gesticulated, \"Vain\"_ ,\n\n_The Shells hooted, \"In Vain\"_ ,\n\n_And the Gas hissed, \"In Vain.\"_\n\n# _The Letter_\n\nWith B.E.F. June 10. Dear Wife,\n\n(O blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife.)\n\nI'm in the pink at present, dear.\n\nI think the war will end this year.\n\nWe don't see much of them square-'eaded 'Uns.\n\nWe're out of harm's way, not bad fed.\n\nI'm longing for a taste of your old buns.\n\n(Say, Jimmie, spare's a bite of bread.)\n\nThere don't seem much to say just now.\n\n(Yer what? Then don't, yer ruddy cow!\n\nAnd give us back me cigarette!)\n\nI'll soon be 'ome. You mustn't fret.\n\nMy feet's improvin', as I told you of.\n\nWe're out in rest now. Never fear.\n\n(VRACH! By crumbs, but that was near.)\n\nMother might spare you half a sov.\n\nKiss Nell and Bert. When me and you\u2014\n\n(Eh? What the 'ell! Stand to? Stand to!\n\nJim, give's a hand with pack on, lad.\n\nGuh! Christ! I'm hit. Take 'old. Aye, bad.\n\nNo, damn your iodine. Jim? 'Ere!\n\nWrite my old girl, Jim, there's a dear.)\n\nBM has one draft.\n\n# _The Sentry_\n\nWe'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,\n\nAnd gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell\n\nHammered on top, but never quite burst through.\n\nRain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,\n\nKept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,\n\nAnd choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.\n\nWhat murk of air remained stank old, and sour\n\nWith fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men\n\nWho'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,\n\nIf not their corpses....\n\nThere we herded from the blast\n\nOf whizz\u2014bangs, but one found our door at last,\u2014\n\nBuffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,\n\nAnd thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping\n\nAnd sploshing in the flood, deluging muck\u2014\n\nThe sentry's body; then, his rifle, handles\n\nOf old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.\n\nWe dredged him up, for killed, until he whined\n\n\"O sir, my eyes\u2014I'm blind\u2014I'm blind, I'm blind!\"\n\nCoaxing, I held a flame against his lids\n\nAnd said if he could see the least blurred light\n\nHe was not blind; in time he'd get all right.\n\n\"I can't,\" he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge\u2014bulged like squids',\n\nWatch my dreams still; but I forgot him there\n\nIn posting Next for duty, and sending a scout\n\nTo beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about\n\nTo other posts under the shrieking air.\n\nThose other wretches, how they bled and spewed,\n\nAnd one who would have drowned himself for good,\u2014\n\nI try not to remember these things now.\n\nLet dread hark back for one word only: how\n\nHalf listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,\n\nAnd the wild chattering of his broken teeth,\n\nRenewed most horribly whenever crumps\n\nPummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath\u2014\n\nThrough the dense din, I say, we heard him shout\n\n\"I see your lights!\" But ours had long died out.\n\nBM has one full draft and a fragment of an earlier draft: SS has one draft.\n\nII. _5-6_ : SS and EB, _Kept slush waist\u2014high that, rising hour by hour_ ,\n\n_Choked up the steps..._\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated January 16, 1917, Owen mentions the episode of a sentry blown down into a dug-out and blinded.\n\n# _Conscious_\n\nHis fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.\n\nHis eyes come open with a pull of will,\n\nHelped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.\n\nThe blind-cord drawls across the window-sill...\n\nWhat a smooth floor the ward has! What a rug!\n\nWho is that talking somewhere out of sight ?\n\nWhy are they laughing? What's inside that jug?\n\n\"Nurse! Doctor!\"\u2014\"Yes; all right, all right.\"\n\nBut sudden evening muddles all the air\u2014\n\nThere seems no time to want a drink of water,\n\nNurse looks so far away. And here and there\n\nMusic and roses burst through crimson slaughter.\n\nHe can't remember where he saw blue sky.\n\nMore blankets. Cold. He's cold. And yet so hot.\n\nAnd there's no light to see the voices by;\n\nThere is no time to ask\u2014he knows not what.\n\nBM has three drafts, one in four\u2014line stanzas: EB conflated these: I follow his text, but for II. 11 and 12.\n\nII. 1-4 BM (b) gives\n\n_His fingers flutter, conscious of the sheet_.\n\n_His eyes come open with a pull of will,_\n\n_Helped by the yellow mayflowers on the sill_.\n\n_\u2014How calm the place is! God! How clean! How sweet!_\n\nI. 7: BM (b), _Three flies are creeping round the shiny jug_...\n\nI. 9: BM (b), _But sudden dusk bewilders all the air_.\n\nI. 11: SS and EB give _everywhere:_ all BM drafts give _here and there_\n\nI. 12: SS and EB give _burnt:_ all BM drafts give _burst_\n\nIn a letter dated _May 8, 1917_ , written from hospital to his sister Mary, Owen mentioned _great blue bowls of yellow Mayflowers_ in the ward.\n\n# _A Terre_\n\n(BEING THE PHILOSOPHY OF MANY SOLDIERS)\n\nSit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell.\n\nBe careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.\n\nBoth arms have mutinied against me,\u2014brutes.\n\nMy fingers fidget like ten idle brats.\n\nI tried to peg out soldierly,\u2014no use!\n\nOne dies of war like any old disease.\n\nThis bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.\n\nI have my medals ?\u2014Discs to make eyes close.\n\nMy glorious ribbons?\u2014Ripped from my own back\n\nIn scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)\n\nA short life and a merry one, my buck!\n\nWe used to say we'd hate to live dead\u2014old,\u2014\n\nYet now... I'd willingly be puffy, bald,\n\nAnd patriotic. Buffers catch from boys\n\nAt least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose\n\nLittle I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,\n\nShooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.\n\nWell, that's what I learnt,\u2014that, and making money.\n\nYour fifty years ahead seem none too many?\n\nTell me how long I've got? God! For one year\n\nTo help myself to nothing more than air!\n\nOne Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?\n\nSpring wind would work its own way to my lung,\n\nAnd grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.\n\nMy servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!\n\nWhen I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.\n\nHere in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought\n\nHow well I might have swept his floors for ever.\n\nI'd ask no nights off when the bustle's over,\n\nEnjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced\n\nAgainst a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,\n\nLess live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,\n\nLess warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan ?\n\nI'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,\n\nYes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?\n\nO Life, Life, let me breathe,\u2014a dug-out rat!\n\nNot worse than ours the existences rats lead\u2014\n\nNosing along at night down some safe rut,\n\nThey find a shell-proof home before they rot.\n\nDead men may envy living mites in cheese,\n\nOr good germs even. Microbes have their joys,\n\nAnd subdivide, and never come to death.\n\nCertainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.\n\n\"I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone\",\n\nShelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:\n\nThe dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.\n\n\"Pushing up daisies\" is their creed, you know.\n\nTo grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,\n\nFor all the usefulness there is in soap.\n\nD'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?\n\nSome day, no doubt, if...\n\nFriend, be very sure\n\nI shall be better off with plants that share\n\nMore peaceably the meadow and the shower.\n\nSoft rains will touch me,\u2014as they could touch once,\n\nAnd nothing but the sun shall make me ware.\n\nYour guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;\n\nOr, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.\n\nDon't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.\n\nSoldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,\n\nBut here the thing's best left at home with friends.\n\nMy soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,\n\nTo climb your throat on sobs; easily chased\n\nOn other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.\n\nCarry my crying spirit till it's weaned\n\nTo do without what blood remained these wounds.\n\nBM has one draft. For an interesting earlier draft of this poem, see Appendix 3.\n\nI. 11: SS, _my brick_\n\nI. 37: BM originally had _Not worse than fighting\u2014men's the life rats led_. Owen altered to the text here printed, except that he later substituted _lives_ for _existences_ : I have followed SS and EB in restoring _existences_.\n\nI. 38: SS, some _safe vat_ \u2014a misreading of Owen's handwriting.\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated April 1918, Owen wrote _This afternoon I was retouching a photographic representation of an officer dying of wounds_ , and quotes a version of the first twelve lines of the poem above.\n\n# _Disabled_\n\nHe sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,\n\nAnd shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,\n\nLegless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park\n\nVoices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,\n\nVoices of play and pleasure after day,\n\nTill gathering sleep had mothered them from him.\n\nAbout this time Town used to swing so gay\n\nWhen glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,\n\nAnd girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,\u2014\n\nIn the old times, before he threw away his knees.\n\nNow he will never feel again how slim\n\nGirls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands;\n\nAll of them touch him like some queer disease.\n\nThere was an artist silly for his face,\n\nFor it was younger than his youth, last year.\n\nNow, he is old; his back will never brace;\n\nHe's lost his colour very far from here,\n\nPoured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,\n\nAnd half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,\n\nAnd leap of purple spurted from his thigh.\n\nOne time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,\n\nAfter the matches, carried shoulder-high.\n\nIt was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,\n\nHe thought he'd better join.\u2014He wonders why.\n\nSomeone had said he'd look a god in kilts,\n\nThat's why; and may be, too, to please his Meg;\n\nAye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts\n\nHe asked to join. He didn't have to beg;\n\nSmiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.\n\nGermans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,\n\nAnd Austria's, did not move him. And no fears\n\nOf Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts\n\nFor daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;\n\nAnd care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;\n\n_Esprit de corps_ ; and hints for young recruits.\n\nAnd soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.\n\nSome cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.\n\nOnly a solemn man who brought him fruits\n\n_Thanked_ him; and then inquired about his soul.\n\nNow, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,\n\nAnd do what things the rules consider wise,\n\nAnd take whatever pity they may dole.\n\nTo-night he noticed how the women's eyes\n\nPassed from him to the strong men that were whole.\n\nHow cold and late it is! Why don't they come\n\nAnd put him into bed? Why don't they come?\n\nBM has two drafts, and a fragment. OS has one draft. The earlier BM gives a stanza, later cancelled, between the present stanzas two and three\u2014\n\n_Ah ! He was handsome when he used to stand_\n\n_Each evening on the curb or by the quays_.\n\n_His old soft cap slung half-way down his ear;_\n\n_Proud of his neck, scarfed with a sunburn band_ ,\n\n_And of his curl, and all his reckless gear_ ,\n\n_Down to the gloves of sun-brown on his hand._\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated October 14, 1917, Owen said that SS _when they were together showed him_ [Robert Graves] _my longish war-piece_ , Disabled.\n\n# _Mental Cases_\n\nWho are these ? Why sit they here in twilight?\n\nWherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,\n\nDrooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,\n\nBaring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?\n\nStroke on stroke of pain,\u2014but what slow panic,\n\nGouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?\n\nEver from their hair and through their hands' palms\n\nMisery swelters. Surely we have perished\n\nSleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?\n\n\u2014These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.\n\nMemory fingers in their hair of murders,\n\nMultitudinous murders they once witnessed.\n\nWading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,\n\nTreading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.\n\nAlways they must see these things and hear them,\n\nBatter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,\n\nCarnage incomparable, and human squander\n\nRucked too thick for these men's extrication.\n\nTherefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented\n\nBack into their brains, because on their sense\n\nSunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;\n\nDawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.\n\n\u2014Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,\n\nAwful falseness of set-smiling corpses.\n\n\u2014Thus their hands are plucking at each other;\n\nPicking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;\n\nSnatching after us who smote them, brother,\n\nPawing us who dealt them war and madness.\n\nBM has one finished draft, with alternative title, _The Aliens,_ deleted. BM has also a fragmentary draft, possibly an early attempt at this poem, with cancelled title, _Purgatorial Passions_. OS has one draft. Dr. Welland possesses a facsimile of a draft, entitled _The Deranged_ , formerly owned by Miss Vera Hewland, and believed to have been destroyed after her death in 1960.\n\nAfter the last line BM (a) has a space, then _Time_ _will not make:_ since these four words are not cancelled, we may presume that Owen had an idea of continuing the poem.\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated May 26, 1918, Owen wrote _I've been busy this evening with my terrific poem {at present) called_ The Deranged.\n\nI. 19: OS, _twinge tormented_\n\nI. 22: OS, _wound fresh\u2014bleeding_.\n\nII. 25-28: OS, _Thus their fingers pick and pluck each other_ ,\u2014\n\n_Picking the hard scourge that scourged them, brother_ ,\n\n_Plucking us who dealt them war and madness_.\n\n# _The Chances_\n\nI mind as 'ow the night afore that show\n\nUs five got talkin',\u2014we was in the know.\n\n\"Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it.\n\nFirst wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it!\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" says Jimmy,\u2014an' 'e's seen some scrappin'\u2014\n\n\"There ain't no more nor five things as can 'appen:\n\nYe get knocked out; else wounded\u2014bad or cushy;\n\nScuppered; or nowt except yer feelin' mushy.\"\n\nOne of us got the knock-out, blown to chops.\n\nT'other was 'urt, like, losin' both 'is props.\n\nAn' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites,\n\n'Ad the misfortoon to be took be Fritz.\n\nNow me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Amighty,\n\n(Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty).\n\nBut poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not;\n\n'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e 'ad;\n\n'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot,\n\nThe bloody lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.\n\nBM has three drafts: HO has two drafts. The spelling in the text above follows BM, which EB amended.\n\nI. 6: EB omits _no_.\n\nI. 10: BM has _loosin_ '\n\n# _The Dead-Beat_\n\nHe dropped,\u2014more sullenly than wearily,\n\nLay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,\n\nAnd none of us could kick him to his feet;\n\nJust blinked at my revolver, blearily;\n\n\u2014Didn't appear to know a war was on,\n\nOr see the blasted trench at which he stared.\n\n\"I'll do 'em in,\" he whined. \"If this hand's spared,\n\nI'll murder them, I will.\"\n\nA low voice said,\n\n\"It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,\n\nDreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead:\n\nBold uncles, smiling ministerially;\n\nMaybe his brave young wife, getting her fun\n\nIn some new home; improved materially.\n\nIt's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun.\"\n\nWe sent him down at last, out of the way.\n\nUnwounded;\u2014stout lad, too, before that strafe.\n\nMalingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, \"Not half!\"\n\nNext day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:\n\n\"That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray.\"\n\nBM has one draft. HO has six earlier drafts and part-drafts, two written in four-line stanzas, one dated _Sept. 1917_ , another _Oct. 1917_. LG has one draft, in four-line stanzas, with (TRUE, _in the incidental)_ written beside the title, which I print below. In a letter to LG, dated _22 Aug. 1917_ , enclosing this draft, Owen said, _after leaving him, I wrote something in Sassoon's style_.\n\n_He dropped, more sullenly than wearily,_\n\n_Became a lump of stench, a clot of meat,_\n\n_And none of us could kick him to his feet_.\n\n_He blinked at my revolver, blearily_.\n\n_He didn't seem to know a war was on_ ,\n\n_Or see or smell the bloody trench at all...._\n\n_Perhaps he saw the crowd at Caxton Hall_ ,\n\n_And that is why the fellow's pluck's all gone_ \u2014\n\n_Not that the Kaiser frowns imperially_.\n\n_He sees his wife, how cosily she chats;_\n\n_Not his blue pal there, feeding fifty rats_.\n\n_Hotels he sees, improved materially;_\n\n_Where ministers smile ministerially_.\n\n_Sees Punch still grinning at the Belcher bloke;_\n\n_Bairnsfather, enlarging on his little joke,_\n\n_While Belloc prophecies of last year, serially_.\n\n_We sent him down at last, he seemed so bad,_\n\n_Although a strongish chap and quite unhurt_.\n\n_Next day I heard the Doc's fat laugh: \"That dirt_\n\n_You sent me down last night's just died. So glad!\"_\n\nAgainst II. 13 and 16, Owen has written _These lines are years old!!_\n\nAgainst II. 19-20, _Those are the very words!_\n\n# _S.I.W_\n\nI will to the King,\n\nAnd offer him consolation in his trouble,\n\nFor that man there has set his teeth to die,\n\nAnd being one that hates obedience,\n\nDiscipline, and orderliness of life,\n\nI cannot mourn him.\n\nW. B. YEATS\n\nI. THE PROLOGUE\n\nPatting good-bye, doubtless they told the lad\n\nHe'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;\n\nFather would sooner him dead than in disgrace,\u2014\n\nWas proud to see him going, aye, and glad.\n\nPerhaps his mother whimpered how she'd fret\n\nUntil he got a nice safe wound to nurse.\n\nSisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse;\n\nBrothers\u2014would send his favourite cigarette.\n\nEach week, month after month, they wrote the same,\n\nThinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut,\n\nBecause he said so, writing on his butt\n\nWhere once an hour a bullet missed its aim\n\nAnd misses teased the hunger of his brain.\n\nHis eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand\n\nReckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand\n\nFrom the best sand-bags after years of rain.\n\nBut never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,\n\nUntrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld\n\nFor torture of lying machinally shelled,\n\nAt the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.\n\nHe'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol.\n\nTheir people never knew. Yet they were vile.\n\n\"Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!\"\n\nSo Father said.\n\nII. THE ACTION\n\nOne dawn, our wire patrol\n\nCarried him. This time, Death had not missed.\n\nWe could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough.\n\nCould it be accident ?\u2014Rifles go off...\n\nNot sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)\n\nIII. THE POEM\n\nIt was the reasoned crisis of his soul\n\nAgainst more days of inescapable thrall,\n\nAgainst infrangibly wired and blind trench wall\n\nCurtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire,\n\nSlow grazing fire, that would not bum him whole\n\nBut kept him for death's promises and scoff,\n\nAnd life's half-promising, and both their riling.\n\nIV. THE EPILOGUE\n\nWith him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,\n\nAnd truthfully wrote the Mother, \"Tim died smiling\".\n\nBM has one draft. HO has an early draft, written in four-line stanzas. _S.I.W_. is an abbreviation for Self-Inflicted Wound.\n\nI. 4: BM has _aye_ with the _e_ deleted.\n\nI. 11: SS omits this line.\n\nI. 19: BM has _hourly_ and _regularly_ , both cancelled, and _machinally_ substituted.\n\nII. SO\u20145: heavily corrected in BM: it seems clear that Owen would have wished to do more work on this section of the poem.\n\nI. 30: BM has _Against the rack that would not kill him whole_ , and _Against war, and its no more bearable thrall_ , both deleted.\n\nI.31: BM has _infranchibly_ [sic], and _dungeoning_ cancelled in favour of _blind_\n\nI. 34: BM has _life's riling and reviling_ , deleted; _death's perjury and_\n\n(riling\u2014\n\nruling deleted but for _death's:_ and finally _and scoffs_ , with the final s's cancelled.\n\nI. 35: BM has _And_ and _For_ both cancelled at the beginning of the line.\n\nSS gives this passage\u2014\n\n_It was the reasoned crisis of his soul_.\n\n_Against the fires that would not burn him whole_\n\n_But kept him for death's perjury and scoff_\n\n_And life's half\u2014promising, and both their riling_.\n\nA MS. formerly in the possession of the late Miss Vera Hewland, which is believed to have been destroyed after her death, gave the following poem\u2014an early version of _S.I.W_.\n\nHE DIED SMILING\n\n_Patting goodbye, his father said, \"My lad,_\n\n_You'll always show the Hun a brave man's face_.\n\n_I'd rather you were dead than in disgrace_.\n\n_We're proud to see you going, Jim, we're glad.\"_\n\n_His mother whimpered, \"Jim, my boy, I frets_\n\n_Until ye git a nice safe wound, I do.\"_\n\n_His sisters said: why couldn't they go too_.\n\n_His brothers said they'd send him cigarettes_.\n\n_For three years, once a week, they wrote the same,_\n\n_Adding, \"We hope you use the T.M. Hut.\"_\n\n_And once a day came twenty Navy Cut_.\n\n_And once an hour a bullet missed its aim_.\n\n_And misses teased the hunger of his brain_.\n\n_His eyes grew scorched with wincing, and his hand_\n\n_Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, like sand_\n\n_From sandbags that have stood three years of rain_.\n\n# _Smile, Smile, Smile_\n\nHead to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned\n\nYesterday's _Mail_ ; the casualties (typed small)\n\nAnd (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.\n\nAlso, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned\n\n\"For,\" said the paper, \"when this war is done\n\nThe men's first instinct will be making homes.\n\nMeanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,\n\nIt being certain war has but begun.\n\nPeace would do wrong to our undying dead,\u2014\n\nThe sons we offered might regret they died\n\nIf we got nothing lasting in their stead.\n\nWe must be solidly indemnified.\n\nThough all be worthy Victory which all bought,\n\nWe rulers sitting in this ancient spot\n\nWould wrong our very selves if we forgot\n\nThe greatest glory will be theirs who fought,\n\nWho kept this _nation in integrity_.\"\n\nNation?\u2014The half-limbed readers did not chafe\n\nBut smiled at one another curiously\n\nLike secret men who know their secret safe.\n\n(This is the thing they know and never speak,\n\nThat England one by one had fled to France,\n\nNot many elsewhere now, save under France.)\n\nPictures of these broad smiles appear each week,\n\nAnd people in whose voice real feeling rings\n\nSay: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.\n\n23 _rd September_ 1918.\n\nBM has one draft: HO has one.\n\nI. 8 : SS _just begun_.\n\nI. 18: BM has _lived_ deleted in favour of _limbed_\n\nThe earlier draft, below, in H.O.'s possession, is written on the back of a letter to Owen from a brother-officer, dated _11.9.18_. It is untitled. It is interesting that in this poem\u2014the last, as far as we know, that Owen wrote\u2014he returned to traditional rhyming.\n\n_Head to limp head, sunk\u2014eyed wounded scanned_\n\n_Yesterday's news: the casualties (typed small)_\n\n_And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul_.\n\n_Also they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned_ ,\n\n_\"For,\" said the paper, \"when the war is done_\n\n_The men's first instinct will be for their homes_.\n\n_Meanwhile our need is ships, tanks, aerodromes_ ,\n\n_It being certain war is but begun_.\n\n_Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,_\n\n_Our glorious sons might even regret they died_\n\n_If we got nothing lasting in their stead_\n\n_But lived on, tired and unindemnified_.\n\n_All will be worthy victory, which all bought_.\n\n_Yet we who labour on this ancient spot_\n\n_Would wrong our very selves if we forgot_\n\n_The greatest glory will be theirs, who fought\u2014_\n\n_Who kept the nation in integrity.\"_\n\nNATION ? _The half\u2014legged, half\u2014lunged did not chafe_\n\n_But smiled at one another curiously_\n\n_Like secret men who know their secret safe_.\n\n_(This is the thing they know and never speak_ \u2014\n\n_This Nation, one by one, has fled to France_\n\n_And none lay elsewhere now, save under France.)_\n\n_Pictures of their broad smiles appear in sketches,_\n\n_And people say, \"They're happy now, poor wretches.\"_\n\n# _Inspection_\n\n\"You! What d'you mean by this ?\" I rapped.\n\n\"You dare come on parade like this?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, it's\u2014\u2014 \" \" 'Old yer mouth,\" the sergeant snapped.\n\n\"I takes 'is name, sir?\"\u2014\"Please, and then dismiss.\"\n\nSome days \"confined to camp\" he got,\n\nFor being \"dirty on parade\".\n\nHe told me, afterwards, the damn\u00e8d spot\n\nWas blood, his own. \"Well, blood is dirt,\" I said.\n\n\"Blood's dirt,\" he laughed, looking away\n\nFar off to where his wound had bled\n\nAnd almost merged for ever into clay.\n\n\"The world is washing out its stains,\" he said.\n\n\"It doesn't like our cheeks so red:\n\nYoung blood's its great objection.\n\nBut when we're duly white-washed, being dead,\n\nThe race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.\"\n\nNot in BM. HO has two drafts, the earlier entitled _DIRT_.\n\nI. 10: HO (a) shows _he'd lain and bled_ and _his body had bled_ rejected in favour of text above.\n\nI. 15: HO (a), _pipe\u2014clayed_ cancelled, and _white\u2014washed_ substituted. HO (b) opens with\n\n_\"Rear rank one pace step back. March !\"_\n\n_I shouted; and inspected the Platoon_.\n\n_Their necks were craned like collars stiff with starch;_\n\n_All badges glittered like the great bassoon_.\n\n_Boots dubbined; rifles clean and oiled;_\n\n_Belts blancoed; straps\u2014The sergeant's cane_\n\n_Prodded a lad whose haversack was soiled_\n\n_With some disgraceful muddy stain_.\n\nThis version then continues, in four\u2014line stanzas, with the sense of the HO (a) text.\n\n# _The Calls_\n\nA dismal fog\u2014hoarse siren howls at dawn.\n\nI watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn\n\nBackwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn.\n\nBut I'm lazy, and his work's crazy.\n\nQuick treble bells begin at nine o'clock,\n\nScuttling the schoolboy pulling up his sock,\n\nScaring the late girl in the inky frock.\n\nI must be crazy; I learn from the daisy.\n\nStem bells annoy the rooks and doves at ten.\n\nI watch the verger close the doors, and when\n\nI hear the organ moan the first amen,\n\nSing my religion's\u2014same as pigeons'.\n\nA blatant bugle tears my afternoons.\n\nOut clump the clumsy Tommies by platoons,\n\nTrying to keep in step with rag-time tunes,\n\nBut I sit still; I've done my drill.\n\nGongs hum and buzz like saucepan-lids at dusk,\n\nI see a food-hog whet his gold-filled tusk\n\nTo eat less bread, and more luxurious rusk.\n\nThen sometimes late at night my window bumps\n\nFrom gunnery-practice, till my small heart thumps\n\nAnd listens for the shell-shrieks and the crumps,\n\nBut that's not all.\n\nFor leaning out last midnight on my sill\n\nI heard the sighs of men, that have no skill\n\nTo speak of their distress, no, nor the will!\n\nA voice I know. And this time I must go.\n\nBM has one draft. _Calls from my Window_ is cancelled and the present title substituted. The last three stanzas, printed as a separate poem in EB, seem to me clearly a part of _The Calls_.\n\nAfter I. 19, BM shows _I've had my fill_ and _Here I've no rime that's proper_ , both deleted.\n\nI. 23: _And I remember last December_ \u2014a reference to Owen's first tour of duty in the trenches\u2014has been cancelled.\n\nI. 27: EB omits _this time_.\n\n# _At a Calvary near the Ancre_\n\nOne ever hangs where shelled roads part.\n\nIn this war He too lost a limb,\n\nBut His disciples hide apart;\n\nAnd now the Soldiers bear with Him.\n\nNear Golgotha strolls many a priest,\n\nAnd in their faces there is pride\n\nThat they were flesh-marked by the Beast\n\nBy whom the gentle Christ's denied.\n\nThe scribes on all the people shove\n\nAnd brawl allegiance to the state,\n\nBut they who love the greater love\n\nLay down their life; they do not hate.\n\nNot in BM. Text taken from a draft in the handwriting of the poet's mother, in Harold Owen's possession. LG also has a transcript.\n\nI. 10: EB gives _bawl_\n\n# _Le Christianisme_\n\nSo the church Christ was hit and buried\n\nUnder its rubbish and its rubble.\n\nIn cellars, packed-up saints lie serried,\n\nWell out of hearing of our trouble.\n\nOne Virgin still immaculate\n\nSmiles on for war to flatter her.\n\nShe's halo'd with an old tin hat,\n\nBut a piece of hell will batter her.\n\nQUIVI\u00c8RES.\n\nNot in BM. HO has one draft.\n\n# _Soldier's Dream_\n\nI dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears;\n\nAnd caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts;\n\nAnd buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts;\n\nAnd rusted every bayonet with His tears.\n\nAnd there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs,\n\nNot even an old flint-lock, nor even a pikel.\n\nBut God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael;\n\nAnd when I woke he'd seen to our repairs.\n\nThe text is taken from a draft sent to O.S. in July or August, 1918\u2014 I give below an earlier version of the poem, of which HO has two drafts: Owen referred to this version in a letter to SS, dated November 27, 1917, calling it _The last piece from Craiglockhart:_ the early version was therefore written in October, 1917.\n\n_I dreamed that Christ had fouled the big\u2014gun gears,_\n\n_And made a permanent stoppage in all bolts_\n\n_And buckled, with a smile, Mausers and Colts_ ,\n\n_And rusted every bayonet with His tears_.\n\n_And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs_.\n\n_So we got out, and gathering up our plunder_\n\n_Of pains, and nightmares for the night, in wonder_ _!_ \u2014\n\n_Leapt the communication trench like flares_.\n\n_But at the port, a man from U.S.A_.\n\n_Stopped us, and said: You go right back this minute_.\n\n_I'll follow. Christ, your miracle ain't in it,_\n\n_I'll get those rifles mended by today_.\n\n# _Sonnet_\n\nON SEEING A PIECE OF OUR ARTILLERY BROUGHT INTO ACTION\n\nBe slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,\n\nGreat gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse;\n\nSway steep against them, and for years rehearse\n\nHuge imprecations like a blasting charm!\n\nReach at that Arrogance which needs thy harm,\n\nAnd beat it down before its sins grow worse;\n\nSpend our resentment, cannon,\u2014yea, disburse\n\nOur gold in shapes of flame, our breaths in storm.\n\nYet, for men's sakes whom thy vast malison\n\nMust wither innocent of enmity,\n\nBe not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done,\n\nSafe to the bosom of our prosperity.\n\nBut when thy spell be cast complete and whole,\n\nMay God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!\n\nBM has one draft.\n\n# _The Next War_\n\nWar's a joke for me and you,\n\nWhile we know such dreams are true.\n\nSIEGFRIED SASSOON\n\nOut there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death;\n\nSat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,\u2014\n\nPardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.\n\nWe've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,\u2014\n\nOur eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.\n\nHe's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed\n\nShrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft;\n\nWe whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.\n\nOh, Death was never enemy of ours!\n\nWe laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.\n\nNo soldier's paid to kick against his powers.\n\nWe laughed, knowing that better men would come,\n\nAnd greater wars; when each proud fighter brags\n\nHe wars on Death\u2014for lives; not men\u2014for flags.\n\nBM has six drafts. The final draft has, subscribed to the title and cancelled, _A_ _Postscript to Siegfried Sassoon's letter to Robert Graves, ending_ \u2014and then quotes the two lines as epigraph.\n\nEB follows this final draft in the main, but makes a few minor alterations based on what appears to be the penultimate draft. I print the EB version except for 1. 14.\n\n1. 14: EB has _He wars on Death\u2014for Life; not men\u2014for flags_.\n\nBM (a) has _He fights on Death, for lives; not men, for flags_.\n\nBM (b) has _He wars on Death,\u2014for lives; not men\u2014\u2014for flags_.\n\n_Wars on_ is evidently preferable to _Fights on_ : and _lives_ avoids the slickness of _Death\/Life_\n\n# OTHER POEMS, AND FRAGMENTS\n# _The End_\n\nAfter the blast of lightning from the east,\n\nThe flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot Throne;\n\nAfter the drums of time have rolled and ceased,\n\nAnd by the bronze west long retreat is blown,\n\nShall Life renew these bodies ? Of a truth\n\nAll death will he annul, all tears assuage ?\u2014\n\nOr fill these void veins full again with youth,\n\nAnd wash, with an immortal water, Age ?\n\nWhen I do ask white Age he saith not so:\n\n\"My head hangs weighed with snow.\"\n\nAnd when I hearken to the Earth, she saith:\n\n\"My fiery heart shrinks, aching. It is death\n\nMine ancient scars shall not be glorified,\n\nNor my titanic tears, the seas, be dried.\"\n\nBM has three drafts.\n\nI.2: BM (a) has _high_ cancelled in favour of _loud_ , and _the Throne, the Chariot_ cancelled in favour of _the Chariot Throne;_\n\nI.4: BM (b). _Space's retreat in a bronze sunset blown_.\n\nSS, _And from the bronze west_.\n\nI.5: BM (a) shows _Shall_\n\nI.6: EB, _Will He annul_. Owen's emendations in the previous line indicate that he wished the Deity to be kept out of this poem.\n\nI.7: EB, _Fill the void veins of Life again with youth_ ,\n\nI.10: all three BM drafts have _everlasting snow_ , but in the final one _everlasting_ has been struck out and not replaced. Though Owen nowhere else departs from the normal length of the sonnet line, I find the line far more effective without _everlasting_ , and therefore follow EB in printing it thus.\n\nI.14: EB and earlier BM drafts give _the sea_. In the final draft _sea_ was written first, then an i added.\n\n# _The Unreturning_\n\nSuddenly night crushed out the day and hurled\n\nHer remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.\n\nThen fell a stillness such as harks appalled\n\nWhen far-gone dead return upon the world.\n\nThere watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.\n\nEach one whom Life exiled I named and called.\n\nBut they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled,\n\nAnd never one fared back to me or spoke.\n\nThen peered the indefinite unshapen dawn\n\nWith vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,\n\nThe weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained.\n\nAnd while I wondered on their being withdrawn,\n\nGagged by the smothering wing which none unbinds,\n\nI dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.\n\nBM has two drafts: HO has one. I am unable to discover the source of the EB version printed above, which differs at points from BM and HO.\n\nI. 1: BM has _A ponderous night_\n\nI. 2: BM has _The remnants of the light behind the Vald_.\n\nII. 5\u20138: BM has _I thought upon those dead, all dumb, all thralled_.\n\n_I yearned towards life's exiles, and I called,_\n\n_But never one fared back to me, none spoke_ ,\n\n_from his_\n\n_But not one sleeper out of  woke_,\n\nim\n\nI. 9: BM has _Then yawned the _\n\npiteous\n\nI. 10: BM has _The  gloam, as sad as_\n\nI. 11: BM has _Even the hour_\n\nI. 12: BM has _And as I wondered on them, being withdrawn_ ,\n\nI. 13: BM has _The smothering Dark, whence None unbinds_ ,\n\n# _Miners_\n\nThere was a whispering in my hearth,\n\nA sigh of the coal,\n\nGrown wistful of a former earth\n\nIt might recall.\n\nI listened for a tale of leaves\n\nAnd smothered ferns;\n\nFrond-forests; and the low, sly lives\n\nBefore the fawns.\n\nMy fire might show steam-phantoms simmer\n\nFrom Time's old cauldron,\n\nBefore the birds made nests in summer,\n\nOr men had children.\n\nBut the coals were murmuring of their mine,\n\nAnd moans down there\n\nOf boys that slept wry sleep, and men\n\nWrithing for air.\n\nAnd I saw white bones in the cinder-shard.\n\nBones without number;\n\nFor many hearts with coal are charred\n\nAnd few remember.\n\nI thought of some who worked dark pits\n\nOf war, and died\n\nDigging the rock where Death reputes\n\nPeace lies indeed.\n\nComforted years will sit soft-chaired\n\nIn rooms of amber;\n\nThe years will stretch their hands, well-cheered\n\nBy our lives' ember.\n\nThe centuries will burn rich loads\n\nWith which we groaned,\n\nWhose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids\n\nWhile songs are crooned.\n\nBut they will not dream of us poor lads\n\nLost in the ground.\n\nBM has one draft, a fair copy.\n\nI. 8 : probably a mis-spelling _f_ _or faurs_.\n\nI. 19: BM has _Many the muscled bodies charred_ , uncancelled, and written above it, in brackets, the present text.\n\nI. 34: BM has _Left_ , uncancelled, and below it, in brackets, _Lost_ In a letter to his mother, dated January 17, 1918, Owen wrote _I send you the Coal poem_.\n\n# _Happiness_\n\nEver again to breathe pure happiness,\n\nThe happiness our mother gave us, boys?\n\nTo smile at nothings, needing no caress?\n\nHave we not laughed too often since with joys?\n\nHave we not wrought too sick and sorrowful wrongs\n\nFor her hands' pardoning? The sun may cleanse,\n\nAnd time, and starlight. Life will sing sweet songs,\n\nAnd gods will show us pleasures more than men's.\n\nYet heaven looks smaller than the old doll's-home,\n\nNo nestling place is left in bluebell bloom,\n\nAnd the wide arms of trees have lost their scope.\n\nThe former happiness is unreturning:\n\nBoys' griefs are not so grievous as our yearning,\n\nBoys have no sadness sadder than our hope.\n\nBM has one draft; HO has one. A third draft, presented by the poet's mother, is in the Bodleian Library.\n\nII. 1\u20142: HO (dated Feb., 1917), gives\n\n_Ever to know unhoping happiness,_\n\n_Harboured in heaven, being a Mother's boy._\n\nThe last phrase was doubtless too confessional for the poet's liking.\n\nI. 6: EB has _their hands'_ : BM and Bodleian both have _her hands'_\n\nII. 9\u201414: I prefer these lines, from the BM draft, to the Bodleian draft as printed by EB;\u2014\n\n_But the old Happiness is unreturning_.\n\n_Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning,_\n\n_Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope._\n\n_We who have seen the gods' kaleidoscope,_\n\n_And played with human passions for our toys_ ,\n\n_We know men suffer chiefly by their joys._\n\nI. 9: The end of this line is heavily emended: another possible reading would be _Yet heaven looks smaller than the old doll's-house rooms_ : the next line could be deciphered as ending with _bluebell blooms,_\n\nI. 13: Bodleian has sestet as printed in note above, but with _human_ and _vital_ deleted, and _fragile_ substituted.\n\nIn a letter to his mother, dated February 25, 1917, Owen says that he has finished this poem.\n\n# _Shadwell Stair_\n\nI am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.\n\nAlong the wharves by the water-house,\n\nAnd through the dripping slaughter-house,\n\nI am the shadow that walks there.\n\nYet I have flesh both firm and cool,\n\nAnd eyes tumultuous as the gems\n\nOf moons and lamps in the lapping Thames\n\nWhen dusk sails wavering down the pool.\n\nShuddering the purple street-arc bums\n\nWhere I watch always; from the banks\n\nDolorously the shipping clanks,\n\nAnd after me a strange tide turns.\n\nI walk till the stars of London wane\n\nAnd dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.\n\nBut when the crowing syrens blare\n\nI with another ghost am lain.\n\nBM has two drafts.\n\nI. 7: BM (a) gives _the full Thames_\n\n# _Six o'clock in Princes Street_\n\nIn twos and threes, they have not far to roam,\n\nCrowds that thread eastward, gay of eyes;\n\nThose seek no further than their quiet home,\n\nWives, walking westward, slow and wise.\n\nNeither should I go fooling over clouds,\n\nFollowing gleams unsafe, untrue,\n\nAnd tiring after beauty through star-crowds,\n\nDared I go side by side with you;\n\nOr be you in the gutter where you stand,\n\nPale rain-flawed phantom of the place,\n\nWith news of all the nations in your hand,\n\nAnd all their sorrows in your face.\n\nBM has one draft. HO has the following prose notes for the poem:\u2014\n\n_Princes St., Edinburgh_\n\n_The Sunday crowd, by families and couples,_\n\n_Enjoy the air. They are resigned to war_\n\n_For them the war is but a chalking of the pavement._\n\n_Gas-driven busses_\n\n_sugarless tea enslavement_\n\n_But plenty of handsome men in kilts and trews_\n\nI. 9: EB gives _on the gutter_\n\n# _The Roads Also_\n\nThe roads also have their wistful rest,\n\nWhen the weathercocks perch still and roost,\n\nAnd the town is a candle-lit room\u2014\n\nThe streets also dream their dream.\n\nThe old houses muse of the old days\n\nAnd their fond trees leaning on them doze,\n\nOn their steps chatter and clatter stops,\n\nOn their doors a strange hand taps.\n\nMen remember alien ardours\n\nAs the dusk unearths old mournful odours.\n\nIn the garden unborn child souls wail\n\nAnd the dead scribble on walls.\n\nThough their own child cry for them in tears,\n\nWomen weep but hear no sound upstairs.\n\nThey believe in loves they had not lived\n\nAnd in passion past the reach of the stairs\n\nTo the world's towers or stars.\n\nBM has two drafts, both untitled and tentative, conflated by EB for the present text.\n\nI. 3: EB retained a cancelled _quiet like_ before _a candle-lit room_\n\nII. 9\u201412: One BM draft has here\u2014\n\n_They remember alien ardours and far futures_\n\n_And the smiles not seen in happy features_.\n\n_Their begetters call them from the gutters._\n\n_In the gardens unborn child-souls wail,_\n\n_And the dead scribble on walls._\n\n# _Hospital Barge at C\u00e9risy_\n\nBudging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,\n\nA barge round old C\u00e9risy slowly slewed.\n\nSoftly her engines down the current screwed\n\nAnd chuckled in her, with contented hum.\n\nTill fairy tinklings struck their croonings dumb.\n\nThe waters rumpling at the stern subdued.\n\nThe lock-gate took her bulging amplitude.\n\nGently from out the gurgling lock she swum.\n\nOne reading by that sunset raised his eyes\n\nTo watch her lessening westward quietly,\n\nTill, as she neared the bend, her funnel screamed.\n\nAnd that long lamentation made him wise\n\nHow unto Avalon, in agony,\n\nKings passed in the dark barge, which Merlin dreamed.\n\n_December_ 8, 1917.\n\nBM has three drafts; HO has one.\n\nI. 8: HO and earlier BM drafts give _gently into_ , which EB follows.\n\nThe final BM draft has _into_ deleted and _from out_ inserted. I prefer this, as a new stage in the barge's progress, to the EB text, which makes the line a repetition of the previous line's meaning.\n\n# _Training_\n\nNot this week nor this month dare I lie down\n\nIn languor under lime trees or smooth smile.\n\nLove must not kiss my face pale that is brown.\n\nMy lips, parting, shall drink space, mile by mile;\n\nStrong meats be all my hunger; my renown\n\nBe the clean beauty of speed and pride of style.\n\nCold winds encountered on the racing Down\n\nShall thrill my heated bareness; but awhile\n\nNone else may meet me till I wear my crown.\n\n_June_ 1918.\n\nBM has one draft.\n\n1. 4: _parting_ could be read as _panting_ in the MS. The latter suits the theme of running; the former fits better the metaphor of _shall drink space._\n\n# _Sonnet_\n\nTO A CHILD\n\nSweet is your antique body, not yet young.\n\nBeauty withheld from youth that looks for youth.\n\nFair only for your father. Dear among\n\nMasters in art. To all men else uncouth\n\nSave me, who know your smile comes very old,\n\nLearnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods;\n\nFor earlier suns than ours have lent you gold,\n\nSly fauns and trees have given you jigs and nods.\n\nBut soon your heart, hot-beating like a bird's,\n\nShall slow down. Youth shall lop your hair,\n\nAnd you must learn wry meanings in our words.\n\nYour smile shall dull, because too keen aware;\n\nAnd when for hopes your hand shall be uncurled,\n\nYour eyes shall close, being opened to the world.\n\nBM has one draft, and some notes for the poem.\n\nI. 8: BM, _fawns_ : the sense of the preceding lines suggest that this is a mis-spelling. See also p. 91, 1. 8, where _fawns_ is probably a mis-spelling for _fauns_.\n\nI. 14: EB, _open_\n\n# _To Eros_\n\nIn that I loved you, Love, I worshipped you.\n\nIn that I worshipped well, I sacrificed.\n\nAll of most worth I bound and burnt and slew:\n\nOld peaceful lives; frail flowers; firm friends; and Christ.\n\nI slew all falser loves; I slew all true,\n\nThat I might nothing love but your truth, Boy.\n\nFair fame I cast away as bridegrooms do\n\nTheir wedding garments in their haste of joy.\n\nBut when I fell upon your sandalled feet,\n\nYou laughed; you loosed away my lips; you rose.\n\nI heard the singing of your wings' retreat;\n\nFar-flown, I watched you flush the Olympian snows,\n\nBeyond my hoping. Starkly I returned\n\nTo stare upon the ash of all I burned.\n\nBM has two drafts.\n\nII. l\u20143: both BM drafts give punctuation as above. EB gives\n\n_In that I loved you, Love, I worshipped you,_\n\n_In that I worshipped well, I sacrificed_\n\n_All of most worth. I bound and burnt and slew_\n\n_Old peaceful lives; frail flowers; firm friends; and Christ_.\n\nI. 4: BM (b) has _The innocent small things, far friends and Christ._\n\n# _My Shy Hand_\n\nMy shy hand shades a hermitage apart,\n\nO large enough for thee, and thy brief hours.\n\nLife there is sweeter held than in God's heart,\n\nStiller than in the heavens of hollow flowers.\n\nThe wine is gladder there than in gold bowls.\n\nAnd Time shall not drain thence, nor trouble spill.\n\nSources between my fingers feed all souls,\n\nWhere thou mayest cool thy lips, and draw thy fill.\n\nFive cushions hath my hand, for reveries;\n\nAnd one deep pillow for thy brow's fatigues;\n\nLanguor of June all winterlong, and ease\n\nFor ever from the vain untravelled leagues.\n\nThither your years may gather in from storm,\n\nAnd Love, that sleepeth there, will keep thee warm.\n\nBM has three drafts and one part-draft. LG has one draft, entitled _Sonnet to Beauty_ , and dated _Aug. 29\u201430, 1917._\n\nII. 1\u20142: an early draft gives\n\n_You hold in your pure hand a world apart_\n\n_O large enough for me, and my brief hours!_\n\nII. 5\u20148: LG has\n\n_The wine is deeper there than in life's bowls;_\n\n_And Time shall not spill there; nor Equity_\n\n_Weigh there; for sense shall still our swaying souls;_\n\n_And odours drape a sleep o'er Memory._\n\n# _The Kind Ghosts_\n\nShe sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost looms\n\nOut of the stillness of her palace wall,\n\nHer wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms.\n\nShe dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,\n\nNot marvelling why her roses never fall\n\nNor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms.\n\nThe shades keep down which well might roam her hall.\n\nQuiet their blood lies in her crimson rooms\n\nAnd she is not afraid of their footfall.\n\nThey move not from her tapestries, their pall,\n\nNor pace her terraces, their hecatombs,\n\nLest aught she be disturbed, or grieved at all.\n\n_July_ 30, 1918.\n\nBM has one draft, heavily marked to indicate alliteration and internal rhyming. In stanza 1, _s_ , _st_ , _l_ and _d_ are thus marked; in stanza 2, _g_ , _n_ , _m_ , _golden_ and _roses_ , _dreams_ and _sweet;_ in stanza 3, _shades_ and _afraid, quiet_ and _crimson, afraid_ and _footfall;_ in stanza 4, _p_ and _t._\n\n# _Winter Song_\n\nThe browns, the olives, and the yellows died,\n\nAnd were swept up to heaven; where they glowed\n\nEach dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,\n\nAnd when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,\n\nFell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.\n\nFrom off your face, into the winds of winter,\n\nThe sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;\n\nBut they shall gleam again with spiritual glinter,\n\nWhen paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,\n\nAnd through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.\n\n_October_ 18, 1917.\n\nBM has four drafts.\n\nI. 8: _sudden_ and _rosy_ are cancelled in favour of _spiritual._\n\n# _Music_\n\nI have been urged by earnest violins\n\nAnd drunk their mellow sorrows to the slake\n\nOf all my sorrows and my thirsting sins.\n\nMy heart has beaten for a brave drum's sake.\n\nHuge chords have wrought me mighty: I have hurled\n\nThuds of God's thunder. And with old winds pondered\n\nOver the curse of this chaotic world,\u2014\n\nWith low lost winds that maundered as they wandered.\n\nI have been gay with trivial fifes that laugh;\n\nAnd songs more sweet than possible things are sweet;\n\nAnd gongs, and oboes. Yet I guessed not half\n\nLife's symphony till I had made hearts beat,\n\nAnd touched Love's body into trembling cries,\n\nAnd blown my love's lips into laughs and sighs.\n\n_October_ 1916\u20141917.\n\nBM has five drafts: HO has one draft, on the reverse of a draft letter from Craiglockhart.\n\nThis poem is an interesting example of Owen's occasional regression, even at this late date, into his earlier, lush way of writing. The last two lines are obviously influenced by Keats: lines 1\u20143 are Ninety-ish: I. 10 might have been written by Rupert Brooke: but lines 6\u20149 have the movement and language of the mature Owen. The number of attempts he made at this poem, over a considerable period, reveal his uncertainty and uneasiness in the task of absorbing his influences.\n\nI. 12: EB has _Life's sympathy._\n\n# _Storm_\n\nHis face was charged with beauty as a cloud\n\nWith glimmering lightning. When it shadowed me\n\nI shook, and was uneasy as a tree\n\nThat draws the brilliant danger, tremulous, bowed.\n\nSo must I tempt that face to loose its lightning.\n\nGreat gods, whose beauty is death, will laugh above,\n\nWho made his beauty lovelier than love.\n\nI shall be bright with their unearthly brightening.\n\nAnd happier were it if my sap consume;\n\nGlorious will shine the opening of my heart;\n\nThe land shall freshen that was under gloom;\n\nWhat matter if all men cry aloud and start,\n\nAnd women hide bleak faces in their shawl,\n\nAt those hilarious thunders of my fall?\n\n_October_ 1916.\n\nBM has one draft, a fair copy.\n\nI. 8: here, in a relatively immature poem, is a line foreshadowing Owen's mature style.\n\n# _To My Friend_\n\n(WITH AN IDENTITY DISC)\n\nIf ever I had dreamed of my dead name\n\nHigh in the heart of London, unsurpassed\n\nBy Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,\n\nThere seeking a long sanctuary at last,\u2014\n\nOr if I onetime hoped to hide its shame,\n\n\u2014Shame of success, and sorrow of defeats,\u2014\n\nUnder those holy cypresses, the same\n\nThat shade always the quiet place of Keats,\n\nNow rather thank I God there is no risk\n\nOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.\n\nLet my inscription be this soldier's disc.....\n\nWear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.\n\nBut may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,\n\nUntil the name grow blurred and fade away.\n\nBM has five drafts. I follow the EB text, which is largely a conflation of two of these drafts.\n\nI. 2: two drafts have a reference here to Westminster\u2014Poet's Corner is implied.\n\nI. 11: this line evidently gave Owen great trouble. EB's version is clearly preferable to any of those in the consecutive BM drafts (e.g. _But let my death be memoried on this disc_ ): it is to be found on a separate folio, where the following lines have been jotted down\u2014\n\n_Well, here's a meeter tombstone; and no risk_\n\n_Of mason's marring it with_\n\n_For let my inscription be this soldier's disc._\n\nAn early draft of this poem appears in a letter to Owen's brother, Colin. The poet says that he _started it yesterday_ : the letter is dated _March 24_ , (1917).\n\n_If ever I had dreamed of my dead name_\n\n_High in the heart of London; unsurpassed_\n\n_By Time forever; and the fugitive, Fame_ ,\n\n_There taking a long sanctuary at last_ ,\n\n\u2014 _I'll better that. Yea, now, I think with shame_\n\n_How once I wished it hidd'n from its defeats_\n\n_Under those holy cypresses, the same_\n\n_That, mourn around the quiet place of Keats_.\n\n_Now rather let's be thankful there's no risk_\n\n_Of gravers scoring it with hideous screed._\n\n_For let my gravestone be this body-disc_\n\n_Which was my yoke. Inscribe no date, nor deed._\n\n_But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day..._\n\n_Until the name grow vague and wear away._\n\n# _Fragment: Not one Corner..._\n\nNot one corner of a foreign field\n\nBut a span as wide as Europe,\n\nDeep as ( ).\n\nI looked and saw.\n\nAn appearance of a titan's grave,\n\nAnd the length thereof a thousand miles.\n\nIt crossed all Europe like a mystic road,\n\nOr as the Spirits' Pathway lieth on the night.\n\nAnd I heard a voice crying,\n\nThis is the Path of Glory.\n\nThis BM fragment was printed by EB in his notes. It is all that Owen completed of a poem to be called _An Imperial Elegy_ or _Libretto for Marche Fun\u00e8bre._\n\n# _Fragment: Cramped in that Funnelled Hole_\n\nCramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn\n\nOpen a jagged rim around; a yawn\n\nOf death's jaws, which had all but swallowed them\n\nStuck in the bottom of his throat of phlegm.\n\nThey were in one of many mouths of Hell\n\nNot seen of seers in visions; only felt\n\nAs teeth of traps; when bones and the dead are smelt\n\nUnder the mud where long _ago_ they fell\n\nMixed with the sour sharp odour of the shell.\n\nBM has three attempts at this poem on a single folio: each is heavily corrected, but none cancelled. I follow EB in printing the third of these drafts.\n\nI. 4: EB, _middle_\n\nI. 5: BM has a variant, printed in brackets by EB, _And they remembered Hell has many mouths_\n\n# _Fragment: I saw his Round Mouth's Crimson..._\n\nI saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell,\n\nLike a Sun, in his last deep hour;\n\nWatched the magnificent recession of farewell,\n\nClouding, half gleam, half glower,\n\nAnd a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.\n\nAnd in his eyes\n\nThe cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,\n\nIn different skies.\n\nBM has one draft, untitled.\n\n# _Fragment: As Bronze may be much Beautified_\n\nAs bronze may be much beautified\n\nBy lying in the dark damp soil,\n\nSo men who fade in dust of warfare fade\n\nFairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.\n\nLike pearls which noble women wear\n\nAnd, tarnishing, awhile confide\n\nUnto the old salt sea to feed,\n\nMany return more lustrous than they were.\n\nBut what of them buried profound,\n\nBuried where we can no more find,\n\nWho\n\nLie dark for ever under abysmal war _?_\n\nBM has one draft, untitled.\n\n# _Has Your Soul Sipped?_\n\nHas your soul sipped\n\nOf the sweetness of all sweets?\n\nHas it well supped\n\nBut yet hungers and sweats?\n\nI have been witness\n\nOf a strange sweetness,\n\nAll fancy surpassing\n\nPast all supposing.\n\nPassing the rays\n\nOf the rubies of morning,\n\nOr the soft rise\n\nOf the moon; or the meaning\n\nKnown to the rose\n\nOf her mystery and mourning.\n\nSweeter than nocturnes\n\nOf the wild nightingale\n\nOr than love's nectar\n\nAfter life's gall.\n\nSweeter than odours\n\nOf living leaves,\n\nSweeter than ardours\n\nOf dying loves.\n\nSweeter than death\n\nAnd dreams hereafter\n\nTo one in dearth\n\nOf life and its laughter.\n\nOr the proud wound\n\nThe victor wears\n\nOr the last end\n\nOf all wars.\n\nOr the sweet murder\n\nAfter long guard\n\nUnto the martyr\n\nSmiling at God;\n\nTo me was that Smile,\n\nFaint as a wan, worn myth,\n\nFaint and exceeding small,\n\nOn a boy's murdered mouth.\n\nThough from his throat\n\nThe life-tide leaps\n\nThere was no threat\n\nOn his lips.\n\nBut with the bitter blood\n\nAnd the death-smell\n\nAll his life's sweetness bled\n\nInto a smile.\n\nHO has one draft.\n\nOn the reverse of the last folio, the poet jotted down _Marlboro' and Other Poems\/Chas Sorely_ [sic]. Sorley's book was published in January, 1916. If Owen noted this title within a few months after its publication, it would indicate that the poem above was an early experiment in consonantal rhyme.\n\nThe fragment given below was printed separately in EB, and appears to be a later version of certain stanzas in the above.\n\n_It is not death_\n\n_Without hereafter_\n\n_To one in dearth_\n\n_Of life and its laughter,_\n\n_Nor the sweet murder_\n\n_Dealt slow and even_\n\n_Unto the martyr_\n\n_Smiling at heaven:_\n\n_It is the smile_\n\n_Faint as a [waning] myth_ ,\n\n_Faint, and exceeding small_\n\n_On a boy's murdered mouth._\n\n# MINOR POEMS, AND JUVENILIA\n# _From My Diary, July 1914_\n\nLeaves\n\nMurmuring by myriads in the shimmering trees.\n\nLives\n\nWakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.\n\nBirds\n\nCheerily chirping in the early day.\n\nBards\n\nSinging of summer, scything thro' the hay.\n\nBees\n\nShaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.\n\nBoys\n\nBursting the surface of the ebony pond.\n\nFlashes\n\nOf swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.\n\nFleshes\n\nGleaming with wetness to the morning gold.\n\nA mead\n\nBordered about with warbling water brooks.\n\nA maid\n\nLaughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.\n\nThe heat\n\nThrobbing between the upland and the peak.\n\nHer heart\n\nQuivering with passion to my pressed cheek.\n\nBraiding\n\nOf floating flames across the mountain brow.\n\nBrooding\n\nOf stillness; and a sighing of the bough.\n\nStirs\n\nOf leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;\n\nStars\n\nExpanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.\n\nBM has one draft.\n\nThis poem is the earliest finished example of Owen's use of consonantal rhyming.\n\nll. 1\u20132: BM has uncancelled variant, _Leaves \/Drenched in mist: mist on the Pyrenees_.\n\nll. 3\u20134: deleted in BM.\n\nl. 10: BM, _blooms_\n\n# _On My Songs_\n\nThough unseen Poets, many and many a time,\n\nHave answered me as if they knew my woe,\n\nAnd it might seem have fashioned so their rime\n\nTo be my own soul's cry; easing the flow\n\nOf my dumb tears with language sweet as sobs,\n\nYet are there days when all these hoards of thought\n\nHold nothing for me. Not one verse that throbs\n\nThrobs with my head, or as my brain is fraught.\n\n'Tis then I voice mine own weird reveries:\n\nLow croonings of a motherless child, in gloom\n\nSinging his frightened self to sleep, are these.\n\nOne night, if thou shouldst lie in this Sick Room\n\nDreading the Dark thou darest not illume;\n\nListen; my voice may haply lend thee ease.\n\nBM has one draft: HO has one, dated Jan. 4, 1913.\n\nll. 6\u20138 are significant as expressing, at this early date, Owen's occasional dissatisfaction with the traditional poetry which so powerfully influenced him.\n\n# _Antaeus: A Fragment_\n\nSo neck to stubborn neck, and obstinate knee to knee,\n\nWrestled those two; and peerless Heracles\n\nCould not prevail, nor get at any vantage...\n\nSo those huge hands that, small, had snapped great snakes,\n\nLet slip the writhing of Antaeus' wrists:\n\nThose hero's hands that wrenched the necks of bulls,\n\nNow fumbled round the slim Antaeus' limbs,\n\nBaffled. Then anger swelled in Heracles,\n\nAnd terribly he grappled broader arms.\n\nAnd yet more firmly fixed his grasp\u00e9d feet.\n\nAnd up his back the muscles bulged and shone\n\nLike climbing banks and domes of towering cloud.\n\nAnd they who watched that wrestling say he laughed,\n\nBut not so loud as on Eurystheus of old.\n\nHO has one draft, sent by the poet to his mother in a letter dated July 17, 1917. Owen spells _Antaeas_ throughout.\n\nIn a letter to Leslie Gunston, dated _Wednesday, July, 1917_ , Owen said, _Last week I wrote (to order) a strong bit of Blank: on Antaeas v. Heracles. These are the best lines, methinks_ ( _N.B. Antaeas deriving strength from his Mother Earth nearly licked old Herk_ ).\u2014\n\n...How Earth herself empowered him with her touch,\n\nGave him the grip and stringency of Winter,\n\nAnd all the ardour of th' invincible Spring;\n\nHow all the blood of June glutted his heart,\n\nAnd all the glow of huge autumnal storms\n\nStirred on his face, and flickered from his eyes.\n\n# _The Promisers_\n\nWhen I awoke, the glancing day looked gay;\n\nThe air said: Fare you fleetly; you will meet him!\n\nAnd when the prosp'rous sun was well begun,\n\nI heard a bird say: Sweetly you shall greet him!\n\nThe sun fell strong and bold upon my shoulder;\n\nIt hung, it clung as it were my friend's arm.\n\nThe birds fifed on before, shrill-piping pipers,\n\nRight down to town; and there they ceased to charm.\n\nAnd there I wandered till the noon came soon,\n\nAnd chimed: The time is hastening with his face!\n\nSly twilight said: I bring him; wait till late!\n\nBut darkness harked forlorn to my lone pace.\n\nBM has one draft, on Craiglockhart War Hospital writing-paper.  \nl. 5: EB, _felt_\n\n# _The Fates_\n\nThey watch me, those informers to the Fates,\n\nCalled Fortune, Chance, Necessity, and Death;\n\nTime, in disguise as one who serves and waits,\n\nEternity, as girls of fragrant breath.\n\nI know them. Men and Boys are in their pay,\n\nAnd those I hold my trustiest friends may prove\n\nAgents of Theirs to take me if I stray\n\nFrom fatal ordinance. If I move they move, _\u2014_\n\nEscape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes,\n\nO Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate!\n\nAnd when the cordon tightens of the spies\n\nLet the close iris of your eyes grow great.\n\nSo I'll evade the vice and rack of age\n\nAnd miss the march of lifetime, stage by stage.\n\nBM has one draft, with _2nd Draught_ written beside the title. LG has one draft.\n\nl. _9:_ BM, _ordnance_.\n\nll. 1\u20132: LG, _They watch me, shadowing, to inform the Fates,_\n\n_Those constables called Fortune, Chance, and Death;_\n\nl. 13: LG, _So I'll evade the press-gang raid of age_\n\nThe LG draft is dated by the poet _June 2, '17._ This date is printed in EB. But, in his letter to Leslie Gunston, which is headed Craiglockhart War Hospital\/ _July_ _1, 1917_ , the poet wrote _Late last night I very hastily draughted a Fate sonnet_ , and writes out this sonnet below, with ( _2nd Draught_ ) beside the title. Evidently his dating of _June 2, '17_ was a slip of memory.\n\n# _This is the Track_\n\nThis is the track my life is setting on,\n\nSpacious the spanless way I wend;\n\nThe blackness of darkness may be held for me?\n\nAnd barren plunging without end?\n\nWhy dare I fear? For other wandering souls\n\nBurn thro' the night of that far bourne.\n\nAnd they are light unto themselves; and aureoles\n\nSelf-radiated there are worn.\n\nAnd when in after-times we make return\n\nRound solar bounds awhile to run,\n\nThey gather many satellites astern\n\nAnd turn aside the very sun.\n\nBM has one draft, and one part-draft. See next page for another version of this poem.\n\n# _O World of many Worlds_\n\nO World of many Worlds; O life of lives,\n\nWhat centre hast thou? Where am I?\n\nO whither is it thy fierce onrush drives?\n\nFight I, or drift; or stand or fly?\n\nThe loud machinery spins, thy work in touch;\n\nWheels whirl in systems, zone in zone.\n\nI myself, having sometime moved with such,\n\nWould strike a centre of mine own.\n\nLend hand, O Fate, for I am down, am lost!\n\nFainting by violence of the Dance...\n\nAh thanks, I stand\u2014the floor is crossed,\n\nAnd I am where but few advance.\n\nI see men far below me where they swarm...\n\nHaply above me\u2014be it so!\n\nDoes space to compass-points confirm,\n\nAnd can we say a star stands high or low?\n\nNot more complex the millions of the stars\n\nThan are the hearts of mortal brothers;\n\nAs far remote as Neptune from small Mars\n\nIs one man's nature from another's.\n\nBut all hold course unalterably fixed;\n\nThey follow destinies foreplanned:\n\nI envy not these lives their faith unmixed,\n\nI would not step with such a band.\n\nTo be a meteor, fast, eccentric, lone,\n\nLawless; in passage through all spheres,\n\nWarning the earth of wider ways unknown\n\nAnd rousing men with heavenly fears\u2014\n\nThis is the track reserved for my endeavour;\n\nSpanless the erring way I wend.\n\nBlackness of darkness is my meed for ever?\n\nAnd barren plunging without end?\n\nO glorious fear! Those other wandering souls\n\nHigh burning through that outer bourne\n\nAre lights unto themselves. Fair aureoles\n\nSelf-radiated there are worn.\n\nAnd when in after times those stars return\n\nAnd strike once more earth's horizon,\n\nThey gather many satellites astern,\n\nFor they are greater than this system's sun.\n\nBM has one draft.\n\nThis poem, with its faint echoes both of Shelley and Hardy, is chiefly interesting for being so much at variance, in thought and language, with the bulk of Owen's immature work.\n\n# _Song of Songs_\n\nSing me at morn but only with your laugh;\n\nEven as Spring that laugheth into leaf;\n\nEven as Love that laugheth after Life.\n\nSing me but only with your speech all day,\n\nAs voluble leaflets do; let viols die;\n\nThe least word of your lips is melody!\n\nSing me at eve but only with your sigh!\n\nLike lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,\n\nSlowly and low, the sense that no songs say.\n\nSing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!\n\nLet youth's immortal-moaning chords be heard\n\nThrobbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.\n\nThis is the form in which the poem appeared in the Craiglockhart magazine, under Owen's editorship. BM has a draft, considerably emended, which differs in some respects from the above.\n\nThe poem is interesting as an example of Owen's relapse into the 'poetic' manner of his juvenilia.\n\n# _All Sounds have been as Music_\n\nAll sounds have been as music to my listening:\n\nPacific lamentations of slow bells,\n\nThe crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,\n\nShuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:\n\nBugles that sadden all the evening air,\n\nAnd country bells clamouring their last appeals\n\nBefore [the] music of the evening prayer;\n\nBridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.\n\nGurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,\n\nThe gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,\n\nWhisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,\n\nThe warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.\n\nThe orchestral noises of October nights\n\nBlowing   symphonetic storms\n\nOf startled clarions\n\nDrums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and  .\n\nThrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,\n\nBees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.\n\nBM has one draft, untitled. 'This poem, and the one printed on the next page, appear to be two attempts at a single poem.\n\nI. 11: EB, _grasses_\n\nI. 17: EB, _clear blue_\n\n# _Bugles Sang_\n\nBugles sang, saddening the evening air,\n\nAnd bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.\n\nVoices of boys were by the river-side.\n\nSleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.\n\nThe shadow of the morrow weighed-on men.\n\nVoices of old despondency resigned,\n\nBowed by the shadow of the morrow, slept.\n\n  dying tone\n\nOf receding voices that will not return.\n\nThe wailing of the high far-travelling shells\n\nAnd the deep cursing of the provoking  .\n\nThe monstrous anger of our taciturn guns.\n\nThe majesty of the insults of their mouths.\n\nBM has one draft, untitled.\n\n# _1914_\n\nWar broke: and now the Winter of the world\n\nWith perishing great darkness closes in.\n\nThe foul tornado, centred at Berlin,\n\nIs over all the width of Europe whirled,\n\nRending the sails of progress. Rent or furled\n\nAre all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin\n\nFamines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.\n\nThe grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.\n\nFor after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,\n\nAnd Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,\n\nAn Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,\n\nA slow grand age, and rich with all increase.\n\nBut now, for us, wild Winter, and the need\n\nOf sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed.\n\nBM has two drafts, one entitled _The Seed_ and dated _1914._ HO has two drafts. The poem is of interest both for its resemblances and its unlikenesses to the state of mind expressed in Rupert Brooke's _1914._\n\nI. 3: BM (b), _The cylone of the pressure on Berlin_\n\nI. 8: BM (b), _earth's great autumn_\n\nI. 10: BM (b), _blazed to perfect strength_\n\nII. 11\u201412: BM (b), _There fell a slow grand age, a harvest home,_\n\n_Quietly ripening, rich with all increase._\n\nI. 13: BM (b), _But now the exigent winter_\n\n# _The One Remains_\n\nI sometimes think of those pale, perfect faces\n\nMy wonder has not looked upon, as yet;\n\nAnd of those others never to be met;\n\nAnd often pore I on the secret traces\n\nLeft in my heart, of countenances seen,\n\nAnd lost as soon as seen,\u2014but which mine eye\n\nRemembers as my old home, or the lie\n\nOf landscapes whereupon my windows lean.\n\nAnd as for those long known and worshipped long,\n\nBut now, alas! no longer, and the song\n\nOf voices that have said 'Adieu, we part,'\n\nTheir reminiscences would cease my heart,\n\nExcept I still hoped find, some time, some place,\n\nAll beauty, once for ever, in one face.\n\nBM has one draft: HO has three drafts.\n\n# _To the Bitter Sweet-heart: a Dream_\n\nOne evening Eros took me by the hand,\n\nAnd having folded feathers round my head,\n\nOr sleep like feathers, towards a far hope sped,\n\nI groping, for he bade me understand\n\nHe would soon fill with Your's my other hand.\n\nBut when I heard his singing wings expand\n\nMy face fell deeply in his shoulder.\n\nSweet moons we flew thus, yet I waned not older\n\nBut in his exquisiteness I flagged, unmanned\n\nTill, when his wings were drooping to an end,\n\nFeeling my empty hand fulfilled with His,\n\nI knew Love gave himself my passion-friend.\n\nSo my old quest of you requited is,\n\nAmpler than e'er I asked of your girl's grace.\n\nI shall not ask you more, nor see your face.\n\nLG has one draft.\n\n# _The Sleeping Beauty_\n\nSojourning through a southern realm in youth,\n\nI came upon a house by happy chance\n\nWhere bode a marvellous Beauty. There, romance\n\nFlew faerily until I lit on truth\u2014\n\nFor lo! the fair Child slumbered. Though, forsooth,\n\nShe lay not blanketed in drowsy trance,\n\nBut leapt alert of limb and keen of glance,\n\nFrom sun to shower; from gaiety to ruth;\n\nYet breathed her loveliness asleep in her:\n\nFor, when I kissed, her eyelids knew no stir.\n\nSo back I drew tiptoe from that Princess,\n\nBecause it was too soon, and not my part,\n\nTo start voluptuous pulses in her heart,\n\nAnd kiss her to the world of Consciousness.\n\nBM has one draft: HO has four drafts.\n\nI have included this poem for the sake of the last four lines, which reveal something important about the young Owen's temperament or state of mind.\n\n# _Sonnet Autumnal_\n\nIf it be very strange and sorrowful\n\nTo scent the first night-frost in autumntide:\n\nIf on the sombre day when Summer died\n\nMen shuddered, awed to hear her burial:\n\nAnd if the dissolution of one rose\n\n(Whereof the future holds unnumbered store)\n\nEngender human tears,\u2014ah! how much more\n\nSorrows and suffers he whose sense foreknows\n\nThe weakening and the withering of a love,\n\nThe dying of a love that had been dear!\n\nWho feels upon a hand, but late love-warm,\n\nA hardness of indifference, like a glove;\n\nAnd in the dead calm of a voice may hear\n\nThe menace of a drear and mighty storm.\n\nBM has two drafts: HO has one draft, with title deleted.\n\nI. 3: BM (b) _moaning eve_\n\nI. 6: BM (b) _abundant store_\n\nThough its thought and expression are conventional, this early poem shows promise in its command of legato and elaborate syntax.\n\n# _Long Ages Past_\n\nLong ages past in Egypt thou wert worshipped\n\nAnd thou wert wrought from ivory and beryl.\n\nThey brought thee jewels and they brought their slain,\n\nThy feet were dark with blood of sacrifice.\n\nFrom dawn to midnight, O my painted idol,\n\nThou satest smiling, and the noise of killing\n\nWas harp and timbrel in thy pale jade ears:\n\nThe livid dead were given thee for toys.\n\nThou wert a mad slave in a Persian palace,\n\nAnd the King loved thee for thy furious beauty,\n\nAnd all men heard thy ravings with a smile\n\nBecause thy face was fairer than a flower.\n\nBut with a little knife so wantonly\n\nThou slewest women and thy pining lovers,\n\nAnd on thy lips the stain of crimson blood,\n\nAnd on thy brow the pallor of their death.\n\nThou art the dream beheld by frenzied princes\n\nIn smoke of opium\u2014thou art the last fulfilment\n\nOf all the wicked, and of all the beautiful.\n\nWe hold thee as a poppy to our mouths,\n\nFinding with thee forgetfulness of God.\n\nThou art the face reflected in a mirror\n\nOf wild desire, of pain, of bitter pleasure.\n\nThe witches shout thy name beneath the moon,\n\nThe fires of Hell have held thee in their fangs.\n\nOS has one draft, dated _31.X.14._ I have corrected punctuation and some odd mis-spellings, e.g. _wumen_ _,_ _whitches_ _._\n\n# _Purple_\n\nVividly gloomy, with bright darkling glows\n\nOf fine stars, or night-sparkling southern shores;\n\nStain of strong fruits, wines, passions, and the cores\n\nOf all quick hearts! Yet from its deepness blows\n\nAroma and romance of violets;\n\nSoftness of far land, lost; pacific lift\n\nOf smoke through quiet trees; and that wild drift\n\nOf smoulder where the flame of evening sets.\n\nYea, that columnar, thunder-throning cloud\n\nWears it so stately that therein the King\n\nStands before men, and lies in death's hands, proud.\n\nPurest, it is a diamond dawn of Spring,\n\nAnd yet the Veil of Venus and youth's skin\n\nMauve-marbled; purpling young Love's mouth for sacred sin.\n\nBM has two drafts: HO has one draft.\n\nI. 9: for _that_ , BM has _those_ , which is impossible because of _cloud wears._\n\nI. 10: the last word of this line is illegible, except for a _g_ at the end; but rhyme and sense suggest that it is _King._\n\n# _Maundy Thursday_\n\nBetween the brown hands of a server-lad\n\nThe silver cross was offered to be kissed.\n\nThe men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,\n\nAnd knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.\n\n(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)\n\nThen mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,\n\n(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)\n\nYoung children came, with eager lips and glad.\n\n(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)\n\nThen I, too, knelt before that acolyte.\n\nAbove the crucifix I bent my head:\n\nThe Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:\n\nAnd yet I bowed, yea, kissed\u2014my lips did cling\n\n(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)\n\nBM has one draft.\n\nIt is a pity we cannot date this poem with any certainty, for it has an edge of truthfulness, an unconventionality, and a self-revelation which make it the most impressive of Owen's juvenilia. The last five lines suggest it may have been written at the end of his Dunsden period when Owen lost his belief in orthodox Christianity and was moving towards the warm humanism that distinguishes his mature poetry.\n\n# _To\u2014_\n\nThree rompers run together, hand in hand.\n\nThe middle boy stops short, the others hurtle:\n\nWhat bumps, what shrieks, what laughter turning turtle.\n\nLove, racing between us two, has planned\n\nA sudden mischief: shortly he will stand\n\nAnd we shall shock. We cannot help but fall;\n\nWhat matter? Why, it will not hurt at all,\n\nOur youth is supple, and the world is sand.\n\nBetter our lips should bruise our eyes, than He,\n\nRude love, out-run our breath; you pant, and I,\n\nI cannot run much farther; mind that we\n\nBoth laugh with love; and having tumbled, try\n\nTo go forever children, hand in hand.\n\nThe sea is rising... and the world is sand.\n\n_May_ 10, 1916.\n\n_London._\n\nBM has one draft.\n\nI. 4: BM gives\n\nI. 14: BM has _sea_ and _wash_ , both cancelled.\n\n# _Spells and Incantation (a Fragment)_\n\nA vague pearl, a wan pearl\n\nYou showed me once: I peered through far-gone winters\n\nUntil my mind was fog-bound in that gem.\n\nBlue diamonds, cold diamonds\n\nYou shook before me, so that out of them\n\nGlittered and glowed vast diamond dawns of spring.\n\nTiger-eyed rubies, wrathful rubies\n\nYou rolled. I watched their hot hearts fling\n\nFlames from each glaring summer of my life.\n\nQuiet amber, mellow amber\n\nYou lifted; and behold the whole air rife\n\nWith evening, and the auburn autumn cloud....\n\nThese are the opening stanzas of an unfinished poem. BM has six pages of drafts and part-drafts, including some further stanzas which are markedly inferior to those I have printed.\n\n# _The Imbecile_\n\nThe imbecile with long light hair, so light\n\nThat in the moon it shineth white;\n\nThe imbecile with fair long hair, so long\n\nIt falleth all her length along,\n\nShe nothing knoweth of her wrong.\n\nThe imbecile with large green eyes, so clear\n\nTherein her strange soul's deeps appear;\n\nThe imbecile with large clear eyes, so green\n\nYou see her very dreams between,\n\nFoldeth her angel hands serene.\n\nBM has one draft, with _Problems A_ written above the title. HO has one draft, and another draft in French, with a list of consonantal rhymes on the reverse.\n\nThis poem was possibly written during the Dunsden period: cf. Preface, p. 16.\n\n# _Beauty_\n\nThe beautiful, the fair, the elegant,\n\nIs that which pleases us, says Kant,\n\nWithout a thought of interest or advantage.\n\nI used to watch men when they spoke of beauty\n\nAnd measure their enthusiasm. One,\n\nAn old man, seeing a ( ) setting sun\n\nPraised it ( ) a certain sense of duty\n\nTo the calm evening and his time of life.\n\nI know another man that never says a Beauty\n\nBut of a horse;\n\nMen seldom speak of beauty, beauty as such,\n\nNot even lovers think about it much.\n\nWomen of course consider it for hours\n\nIn mirrors;\n\nBM has one draft, together with a page of attempts at further lines.\n\nI print a version of the latter below: Owen intended the culmination of the poem to be the beauty of getting a flesh wound serious enough to send one back to 'Blighty'.\n\n_A shrapnel ball_\n\n_Just where the wet skin glistened when he swam._\n\n_Like a full-opened sea-anemone._\n\n_We both said 'What a beauty! What a beauty, lad!'_\n\n_I knew that in that flower he saw a hope_\n\n_Of living on, and seeing again the roses of his home._\n\n_Beauty is that which pleases and delights,_\n\n_Not bringing personal advantage-_ _Kant._\n\n_But later on I heard_\n\n_A canker worked into that crimson flower_\n\n_And that he sank with it_\n\n_And laid it with the anemones off Dover._\n\n# _Bold Horatius_\n\nHaving, with bold Horatius, stamped her feet\n\nAnd waved a final swashing arabesque\n\nO'er the brave days of old, she ceased to bleat,\n\nSlapped her Macaulay back upon the desk,\n\nResumed her calm gaze and her lofty seat.\n\nThere, while she heard the classic lines repeat,\n\nOnce more the teacher's face clenched stem;\n\nFor through the window, looking on the street,\n\nThree soldiers hailed her. She made no return.\n\nOne was called 'Orace whom she would not greet.\n\nBM has two drafts.\n\nI. 2: EB gives _fisty arabesque_ : BM (b) has _fisty_ deleted.\n\n# _Elegy in April and September_\n\n(jabbered among the trees)\n\nHush, thrush!\n\nHush, missen-thrush, I listen...\n\nI heard the flush of footsteps through the loose leaves,\n\nAnd a low whistle by the water's brim.\n\nBe still, daffodil!\n\nAnd wave me not so bravely.\n\nYour gay gold lily daunts me and deceives,\n\nWho follow gleams more golden and more slim.\n\nLook, brook!\n\nO run and look, O run!\n\nThe vain reeds shook... Yet search till gray sea heaves,\n\nAnd I will wind among these fields for him.\n\nGaze, daisy!\n\nStare up through haze and glare,\n\nAnd mark the hazardous stars all dawns and eves,\n\nFor my eye withers, and his star wanes dim.\n\nBM has two drafts of this poem, one entitled _Ode to a Poet reported Missing: later reported Killed._ HO has one draft. I print the first four stanzas only: the remaining three are markedly inferior.\n\n# _To a Comrade in Flanders_\n\nSeeing we never spied frail Fairyland,\n\nThough small we crouched by bluebells, moon by moon,\n\nAnd are too late for Lethe's tide; too soon\n\nFor that new bridge that leaves old Styx half-spanned:\n\nNor meekly unto Mecca caravanned;\n\nNor bugled Asgard, skilled in magic rune;\n\nNor yearned for far Nirvana, the sweet swoon;\n\nAnd are from Paradise cursed out and banned:\n\nLet's die back to those hearths we died for. Thus\n\nShall we be gods there. Death shall be no sev'rance.\n\nIn dull, dim chancels, flower new shrines for us.\n\nFor us, rough knees of boys shall ache with rev'rance;\n\nFor girls' breasts are the clear white Acropole\n\nWhere our own mothers' tears shall heal us whole.\n\n_Sept._ 1916.\n\nBM has three drafts. LG has one draft, entitled _A New Heaven!_ ( _To_ _-on Active Service_.) The sonnet shows Owen at his most romantic in the octave, but moving towards his mature style in the sestet.\n\n# APPENDIX I\n\n# MEMOIR (1931)\n\nby Edmund Blunden\n\nTWELVE years of uneasy peace have passed since the War, among its final victims, took Wilfred Owen, and ten since the choice edition of his poems by his friend Siegfried Sassoon revealed to lovers of poetry and the humanities how great a glory had departed. It is impossible to become deeply acquainted with Owen's work and not to be haunted by comparisons between his genius and his premature death and the wonder and tragedy of his admired Keats. The sense of his promise and achievement has deepened since 1920, and his former editor has been conspicuous among those who have urged the preparation of a new and enlarged volume of Owen's poems, with such biographical notice as can and should be prefixed to them. The reader, who has in his hands a collection of poems by Owen more than twice as extensive as the previous one, will share the present editor's feelings of gratitude to Mrs. Owen and to Mr. Sassoon, who have made the volume possible by the careful preservation and liberal communication of the manuscripts, and whatever documents provided the substance of the memoir. Mrs. Owen, in sending a store of Owen's early notebooks and loose papers for this book, mentions an episode not unfamiliar in the lives of true poets, yet occasioning some natural tears to the devotee of this poet: \"He gave me a sack full to bum once, with strict orders 'not to reserve a sheet'. I of course did as he wished-tho' it was like buming my heart.\"\n\nThere survives, however, a quantity of manuscript by Owen, which he had no leisure to organize. Much of it represents the early period of his enthusiasm for poetry, when he was finding his own way to the secrets of style, and discovering the forms of verse on which he would build up his own House Beautiful. These papers are chiefly remarkable as picturing the isolation in which a poet discerns that he is a poet, the delight and difficulty of the high calling to which he finds himself born, and the fruitful uses of practice in thought and its richest verbal presentation. In them, the young Owen is, without knowing it, the guarantor of the eventual poet who, plunged into the abysses of the breaking of nations, has skill to speak. Their fancies, devices, luxuries, concords enabled him to meet the shocks and amazements of immense suffering with the courage of a masterly artist. But I digress too soon and too widely. Early and late, Owen was a productive poet, and that fact, coupled with the fate that denied him opportunity to decide his own poetry, makes the task of editing his manuscripts complicated. Ideas, images, and musical hints rose up in his mind so fast that many of his poems exist in several versions, of which the ultimate 'fair copy' is not to be certainly separated. In reconsidering this problem, and in offering the reader the text and notes before him, I must pay my tribute to the earlier care and insight of Mr. Sassoon, who, it will be remembered, expressed his indebtedness in the preparation of his edition to Miss Edith Sitwell.\n\nWilfred Owen was born at Plas Wilmot, Oswestry, on March 18, 1893. Another town in which Owen's name is honoured, while the details of his association are scanty, is Birkenhead; and there we know at least the association that he was educated at the Birkenhead Institute. Perhaps, to us who bless him for his poetry, the epoch\u2014making event of his boyhood was a visit to Broxton by the Hill. \"Wilfred\", his mother informs me, \"must have been about ten years old when I took him for a holiday to Broxton\"; and a passage that he wrote about ten years after that tells us the rest,\n\n_For I fared back into my life's arrears_\n\n_Even the weeks at Broxton, by the Hill_ ,\n\n_Where first I felt my boyhood Jill_\n\n_With uncontainable movements; there was born_\n\n_My poethood._\n\nSome additional words on his childhood from his mother will be welcomed: \"He was always a very thoughtful, imaginative child\u2014not very robust, and never cared for games. As a little child his greatest pleasure was for me to read to him even after he could read himself.\"\n\nWhen he was thirteen or fourteen, he showed clearly the fascination that poetry had for him. He was also a passionate acquirer of learning. His choice of acquaintance through life depended on the soundness and value of what he could learn from those he met; as Bacon puts it, \"a full man\" pleased him. His father twice took him to Brittany between his fourteenth year and his sixteenth; there he seized every chance of conversation with French people, and was discontented only when the time came to retum home. He could not have guessed that he should live to cry out, \"I shall never again beg father to take me to France!\"\n\nIn 1911 he matriculated at the London University (he had been a day-student for a short time at University College, Reading, where he attended Botany lectures). By that time he had become (with great diffidence, in fear and trembling almost) a writer of verses, and was deep in the work of Keats and others, but particularly Keats. His own verses of such an early date supply an engaging record of that dominant devotion. Their intrinsic merits are not my object in quoting them. A sonnet, entitled 'Written in a Wood, September 1910', stands thus:\n\n_Full ninety autumns hath this ancient beech_\n\n_Helped with its myriad leafy tongues to swell_\n\n_The dirges of the deep-toned western gale_ ,\n\n_And ninety times hath all its power of speech_\n\n_Been stricken dumb, at sound of winter's yell._\n\n_Since Adonais, no more strong and hale._\n\n_Might have rejoiced to linger here and teach_\n\n_His thoughts in sonnets to the listening dell;_\n\n_Or glide infancy through those leafy grots_\n\n_And bird-pavilions hung with arras green._\n\n_To hear the sonnets of its minstrel choir._\n\n_Ah, ninety times again, when autumn rots._\n\n_Shall birds and leaves be mute and all unseen_ ,\n\nAnother sonnet, dated April 21, 1911, was \"written at Teignmouth, on a Pilgrimage to Keats's House\"; and in it, with imaginative distinction, the young pilgrim speaks his contentment in a day when the sea seemed to share his proud grief for one \"whose name was writ on water\". In the summer of 1912, Owen followed Keats in a twofold way by writing a poem 'On Seeing a Lock of Keats's Hair', of which this is the final stanza:\n\n_It is a lock of Adonais' hair!_\n\n_I dare not look too long; nor try to tell_\n\n_What glories I see glistening, glistening there._\n\n_The unanointed eye cannot perceive their spell._\n\n_Turn ye to Adonais; his great spirit seek._\n\n_O hear him; he will speak!_\n\nBut this innocent idolatry did not exclude other influences. One warm day in December 1911 he wrote a letter in verse, from somewhere in Oxfordshire.\n\n_Full springs of Thought around me rise_\n\n_Like Rivers Four to water my fair garden._\n\n_Eastwards, where lie wide woodlands, rich as Arden_ ,\n\n_From out the beechen solitudes hath sprung_\n\n_A stream of verse from aerial Shelley's tongue._\n\n_While, as he drifted on between the banks_\n\n_Of happy Thames, the waters 'neath the planks_\n\n_Of his light boat gurgled contentedly_\n\n_And ever with his dreams kept company._\n\n_To-day, the music of the slow, turmoiling river_ ,\n\n_The music of the rapid vision-giver._\n\n_To me are vocal both._\n\n_To eastward, too_ ,\n\n_A churchyard sleeps, and one infirm old yew._\n\n_Where in the shadows of the fading day._\n\n_Musing on faded lives, sate solemn Gray._\n\n_There to majestic utterance his soul was wrought._\n\n_And still his mighty chant is fraught_\n\n_With golden teaching for the world, and speaks_\n\n_Strong things with sweetness unto whoso seeks._\n\n_Yet can I never sit low at his feet_\n\n_And, questioning, a gracious answer meet._\n\n_For he is gone, and his high dignity_\n\n_Lost in the past_ ( _tho' he may haply be_\n\n_Far in Futurity as well)._\n\n_To North_\n\n_Are hills where Arnold wandered forth_\n\n_Which, like his verse, still undulate in calm_\n\n_And tempered beauty._\n\n_And the marriage-psalm_\n\n_Was sung o'er Tennyson, small space away._\n\nThis rhyming letter has something still more intimate, for, towards its close, Owen declares his longing for a new great poet-for all of us, and himself:\n\n_Let me attain_\n\n_To talk with him, and share his confidence._\n\nHis loneliness as a young poet breaks out; he may read even Keats and \"still\", he appeals, \"I am alone among the Unseen Voices\".\n\nA serious illness, in 1913, led to his \"proceeding to France\", as he would have described it a year or two later, with the object of escaping the English winter in its more usual manifestations. He became a tutor at Bordeaux, and remained there long enough to acquire a great deal of the French language-the French way of thinking. At Bordeaux he had the good fortune to become acquainted with that old hero, M. Laurent Tailhade,* the poet, well qualified to spur him on in the delicate yet highly original studies of the poetic art which he was making. Owen was never troubled with doubts whether a poet should be a curious designer of verses or not; he frankly enjoyed the art of verse. He intended, in 1913, to publish 'Minor Poems\u2014in Minor Keys\u2014By a Minor'. Among those, however, I find one of which the power is so full and the tone so deep and final that Mr. Sassoon, happening upon it in a copy without evidence of date, marks it \"Late?\" But the poems of the same period are for the most part tentative and without a complete impulse, notwithstanding that some of them are on an ambitious scale. There is an ode on 'The Swift', another on 'Uriconium', and a lengthy tale of the kind that Keats achieved in 'Isabella'\u2014 but not from Boccaccio. It is 'The Little Mermaid of Hans Christian Andersen, done into English verse', and extends to seventy-eight stanzas. One of the obvious things about these immature poems is the sensuousness which Owen had in scarcely less degree than even Keats, and the following lines will show it, alike in its command of the unpleasing and the agreeable.\n\n_A tinge_\n\n_Curdled the sea, like mingling oil and ink...._\n\n_The witch's den! Around was filthy quag._\n\n_In whose soft mire slow-wallowed water-slugs._\n\n_Large, fat and white. There sat the fishy hag_.\n\n_Beneath her hut of bones...._\n\nOf golden hair.\n\n_This is more like the aureoles of Aurora_ ,\n\n_The leaves offlames, the flame of her corona._\n\n_Not Petrarch ware such coronals, nor Laura_ ,\n\n_Nor yet his orange-trees by old Verona_ ,\n\n_Nor gay gold fruits that yellow Barcelona!_\n\nIn the possibilities of splendid colours, in the glories of gems and in music of all kinds his spirit expanded. But as yet the perception of life's values which was to be his was lacking to his poetical passion.\n\nSpeculating on his future, he expressed his conclusions in May 1914: \"I certainly believe I could make a better musician than many who profess to be, and are accepted as such. Mark, I do not for a moment call myself a musician, nor do I suspect I ever shall be, but there! I love Music, with such _strength_ that I have had to conceal the passion, for fear it be thought weakness.... Failing Music, is it Pictures that I hanker to do.? I am not abashed to admit it, but heigh ho! If there were anything in me I should, following Legend, have covered, with spirited fresco, the shed, or carved the staircase knob into a serene Apollo!... Let me now seriously and shamelessly work out a Poem.\"\n\nIn July 1914 Owen, like most of his contemporaries, was intent upon the brighter side of experience, and that month he wrote the ingenious and fresh verses beginning\n\n_Leaves_\n\n_Murmuring by myriads in the shimmering trees_.\n\n_Lives_\n\n_Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees_.\n\n_Birds_\n\n_Cheerily chirping in the early day_.\n\n_Bards_\n\n_Singing of summer scything thro' the hay_.\n\nThat note was soon to be changed, and the 'Endymion' phase of Owen's poetical life was at a close. Thenceforward he moved into the sphere of the later 'Hyperion', to the lofty sorrow and threnody of which the latest of his writings must be likened; moreover, when he was to be moved by lighter forces of life, they were to be those of a ghost\u2014like secrecy and dimness. In understanding and expressing those mysterious backwaters of a European war's great current, Owen had the advantage of being attuned to the sadness of the French poets; he is, at moments, an English Verlaine. It did not take him long, after the sudden dismissal of peace, to feel and utter the solemn death of a period, and in himself the transition from a youth of maying to an agedness of mood.\n\n_Thou hast led me like a heathen sacrifice_\n\n_With music and with fatal yokes of flowers_\n\nBut he did not display any immediate conception that war was disenchantment, obscenity, and torture. He stood, watching the storm working up, and contemplating the change of empires. He had matured, and was now come to his intellectual stature. He viewed the past, and discerned inevitability.*\n\nIn 1915\u2014the date of his enlistment was controlled by his tutorial engagement\u2014he returned to England. He joined the Artists' Rifles. His view of the soldier as the victim began to appear in his verses; he had already written a paradoxical 'Ballad of Purchase Moneys', opening with the aspect of new crusades and modem knightliness, closing with the burden of war.\n\n_The Sun is sweet on rose and wheat_\n\n_And on the eyes of children;_\n\n_Quiet the street for old men's feet_\n\n_And gardens for the children._\n\n_The soil is safe, for widow and waif._\n\n_And for the soul of England_ ,\n\n_Because their bodies men vouchsafe_\n\n_To save the soul of England._\n\n_Fair days are yet left for the old._\n\n_And children's cheeks are ruddy._\n\n_Because the good lads' limbs lie cold_\n\n_And their brave cheeks are bloody._\n\nThis was the general position; but Owen, like many others in that multitude of unselfish youth, still had moods in which he regarded his individual life as though no devastating force had arrived to baffle its progress. In a long, self-questioning letter of March 5, 1915, he declared his ambitions as those of a poet: \"lesser than Macbeth's and greater, not so happy but much happier\". Perhaps, as we all did, he clung to the notion that the War would soon be over. _\"To be able_ to write as _I know how to_ , study is necessary: a period of study, then of intercourse with kindred spirits, then of isolation. My heart is ready, but my brain unprepared, and my hand untrained. I quite envisage possibility of non-success.\"\n\nGazetted to the Manchester Regiment, Owen joined the 2nd Battalion in January 1917 on the Somme battlefield, where the last sharp fighting was in progress, in that hardest of winters, before the Germans withdrew to their new trench system. Letters home disclose something of his individual experience and of the general life\u2014now so remote in its singularities\u2014of British infantrymen in Flanders. Before leaving the Base Wilfred wrote: \"I have just received Orders to take the train at Etaples, to join the 2nd Manchesters. This is a Regular Regiment, so I have come off mighty well.... It is a huge satisfaction to be going among well-trained troops and genuine 'real-old' officers.... This morning I was hit! We were bombing, and a fragment from somewhere hit my thumb knuckle. I coaxed out one drop of blood. Alas! no more!! There is a fine heroic feeling about being in France, and I am in perfect spirits. A tinge of excitement is about me, but excitement is always necessary to my happiness.\" On January 4, he wrote a fuller review of the process which took place between a training-camp and a company in the Line: \"I have joined the Regiment, who are just at the end of a six weeks' rest. I will not describe the awful vicissitudes of the journey here. I arrived at Folkestone, and put up at the best hotel. It was a place of luxury-inconceivable now\u2014carpets as deep as the mud here\u2014golden flunkeys; pages who must have been melted into their clothes and expanded since; even the porters had clean hands. Even the dogs that licked up the crumbs had clean teeth. Since I set foot on Calais quays I have not had dry feet. No one knew anything about us on this side, and we might have taken weeks to get here, and _must_ have, but for fighting our way here. At the Base, as I said, it was not so bad. We were in the camp of Sir Percy Cunynghame, who had bagged for his Mess the Duke of Connaught's chef. After those two days, we were let down, gently, into the real thing, mud. It has penetrated now into that sanctuary, my sleeping bag, and that holy of holies, my pyjamas. For I sleep on a stone floor, and the servant squashed mud on all my belongings; I suppose by way of baptism. We are 3 officers in this 'Room', the rest of the house is occupied by servants and the band; the roughest set of knaves I have ever been herded with. Even now their language is shaking the flimsy door between the rooms. I chose a servant for myself yesterday, not for his profile, nor yet for clean hands, but for his excellence in bayonet work. For the servant is always at the side of his officer in the charge, and is therefore worth a dozen nurses. Alas, he of the Bayonet is in the Bombing Section, and it is against Regulations to employ such as a servant. I makeshift with another. Everything is makeshift. The English seem to have fallen into the French unhappy-go-lucky non-system. There are scarcely any houses here. The men lie in barns. Our Mess Room is also an Ante and Orderly Room. We eat and drink out of old tins, some of which show traces of ancient enamel. We are never dry, and never 'off duty'. On all the officers' faces there is a harassed look that I have never seen before, and which in England never will be seen\u2014out of jails. The men are just as Baimsfather has them-expressionless lumps. We feel the weight of them hanging on us. I have found not a few of the old Fleetwood Musketry party here. They seemed glad to see me, as far as the set doggedness of their features would admit. I censored hundreds of letters yesterday, and the hope of peace was in every one. The _Daily Mail_ map, which appeared about Jan. 2, will be of extreme interest to you. We were stranded in a certain town one night, and I saved the party of us by collaring an Orderly in the streets and making him take us to a Sergeants' Mess.... I am perfectly well and strong, but unthinkably dirty and squalid. I scarcely dare to wash. Pass on as much of this happy news as may interest people. The favourite song of the men is,\n\n_The Roses round the door_\n\n_Makes me love mother more_.\n\nThey sing this everlastingly. I don't disagree.\"\n\n_Sunday, Jan._ 7, 1917. \"It is afternoon. We had an Inspection to make from 9 to 12 this morning. I have wandered into a village caf\u00e9 where they gave me writing paper. We made a redoubtable march yesterday from the last Camp to this. The awful state of the roads, and the enormous weight carried, was too much for scores of men. Officers also carried full packs, but I had a horse part of the way. It was beginning to freeze through the rain when we arrived at our tents. We were at the mercy of the cold, and, being in health, I never suffered so terribly as yesterday afternoon. I am really quite well, but have sensations kindred to being seriously ill. As I was making my damp bed, I heard the guns for the first time. It was a sound not without a certain sublimity. They woke me again at 4 o'clock. We are two in a tent. I am with the Lewis Gun Officer. We begged stretchers from the doctor to sleep on. Our servant brings our food to us in our tents. This would not be so bad, but for lack of water and the intense damp cold.... This morning I have been reading Trench Standing Orders to my platoon ( _verb. sap.)._ Needless to say I show a cheerier face to them than I wear in writing this letter; but I must not disguise from you the fact that we are at one of the worst parts of the Line.... I can't tell you any more Facts. I have no Fancies and no Feelings. Positively they went numb with my feet. Love is not quenched, except the unenduring flickerings thereof.\" Two days later he reports: \"We moved further up yesterday, most of the way on 'buses. I have just had your long-looked-for letter. It seems wrong that ever your dear handwriting should come into such a Gehenna as this. There is a terrific strafe on. The artillery are doing a 48 hours' bombardment. At night it is like a stupendous thunderstorm, for the flashes are quite as bright as lightning. When we arrived at this deserted village last night, there had been no billets prepared for the battalion \u2014owing to misunderstanding. Imagine the confusion! For my part I discovered, or rather my new-chosen and faithful servant discovered, a fine little hut, with a chair in it. A four-legged chair! The roof is waterproof, and there is a stove. There is only one slight disadvantage; there is a howitzer just 70 or 80 yards away, firing over the top every minute or so. I can't tell you how glad I am you got me the ear-defenders. I have to wear them at night. Every time No. 2 (the nearest gun) fires, all my pharmacopoeia, all my boots, candle, and nerves take a smart jump upwards. This phenomenon is immediately followed by a fine rain of particles from the roof. I keep blowing them off the page. From time to time the village is shelled, but just now nothing is coming over. Anyhow there is a good cellar close to.... I spent an hour to-day behind the guns (to get used to them). The major commanding the battery was very pleasant indeed. He took me to his H.Q., and gave me a book of poems to read as if it were the natural thing to do!! But all night I shall be hearing the fellow's voice:\n\n'Number Two\u2014FIRE!'\"\n\nThat same aftemoon, his next letter mentions, he \"took a tour into the Line which we shall occupy. Our little party was shelled going up across the open country. It was not at all frightful, and only one 4.7 got anywhere near, falling plump in the road, but quite a minute after we had passed the spot. I tell you these things because _afterwards_ they will sound less exciting.... My Company Commander (A Company) has been out here since the beginning: 'tis a gentleman _and an original_ (! ) Next in command is Haydon, whom I greatly like.... Even as they prophesied in the Artists, I have to take a close interest in feet, and this very day I knelt down with a candle and watched each man perform his anointment with whale oil; praising the clean feet, but not reviling the unclean.... I am not allowed to send a sketch, but you must know I am transformed now, wearing a steel helmet, buff-jerkin of leather, rubber-waders up to the hips, and gauntlets. But for the rifle, we are exactly like Cromwellian Troopers. The waders are indispensable. In   miles of trench which I waded yesterday there was not one inch of dry ground. There is a mean depth of 2 feet of water.... These things I need; (1) small pair nail scissors; (2) celluloid hair\u2014pin box from Boots' with _tight-fitting lid_ , and containing boracic powder; (3) Player's 'Navy Cut'; (4) ink pellets; (5) Sweets (!!). We shall not be in touch with supplies by day.\"\n\nThis heralded his first trench tour, on the St. Quentin front. On January 16 he wrote: \"I can see no excuse for deceiving you about these last 4 days. I have suffered seventh hell. I have not been at the front. I have been in front of it. I held an advanced post, that is, a 'dug\u2014out' in the middle of No Man's Land. We had a march of 3 miles over shelled road, then nearly 3 along a flooded trench. After that we came to where the trenches had been blown flat out and had to go over the top. It was of course dark, too dark, and the ground was not mud, not sloppy mud, but an octopus of sucking clay, 3, 4, and 5 feet deep, relieved only by craters full of water. Men have been known to drown in them. Many stuck in the mud and only got on by leaving their waders, equipment, and in some cases their clothes. High explosives were dropping all around, and machine-guns spluttered every few minutes. But it was so dark that even the German flares did not reveal us. Three\u2014quarters dead, I mean each of us | dead, we reached the dug\u2014out and relieved the wretches therein. I then had to go forth and find another dug\u2014out for a still more advanced post where I left 18 bombers. I was responsible for other posts on the left, but there was a junior officer in charge. My dug\u2014out held 25 men tight packed. Water filled it to a depth of 1 or 2 feet, leaving say 4 feet of air. One entrance had been blown in and blocked. So far, the other remained. The Germans knew we were staying there and decided we shouldn't. Those fifty hours were the agony of my happy life. Every ten minutes on Sunday afternoon seemed an hour. I nearly broke down and let myself drown in the water that was now slowly rising over my knees. Towards _6_ o'clock, when, I suppose, you would be going to church, the shelling grew less intense and less accurate; so that I was mercifully helped to do my duty and crawl, wade, climb, and flounder over No Man's Land to visit my other post. It took me half an hour to move about 150 yards. I was chiefly annoyed by our own machine\u2014guns from behind. The seeng-seeng-seeng of the bullets reminded me of Mary's canary. On the whole I can support the canary better. In the platoon on my left the sentries over the dug-out were blown to nothing. One of these poor fellows was my first servant whom I rejected. If I had kept him he would have lived, for servants don't do sentry duty. I kept my own sentries half-way down the stairs during the more terrific bombardment. In spite of this one lad was blown down and, I am afraid, blinded. This was my only casualty. The officer of the left platoon has come out completely prostrated and is in hospital. I am now as well, I suppose, as ever. I allow myself to tell you all these things because _I am never going back to this awful post._ It is the worst the Manchesters have ever held; and we are going back for a rest. I hear that the officer who relieved me left his S Lewis guns behind when he came out. (He had only 24 hours, in). He will be court-martialled.\"\n\nRest, with the infantry on the Western Front, became a term of irony. January 19, 1917: \"We are now a long way back, in a ruined village, all huddled together in a farm. We all sleep in the same room where we eat and try to live. My bed is a hammock of rabbit-wire stuck up beside a great shell-hole in the wall. Snow is deep about, and melts through the gaping roof, on to my blanket. We are wretched beyond my previous imagination\u2014but safe. Last night indeed I had to 'go up' with a party. We got lost in the snow. I went on ahead to scout-foolishly alone-and, when half a mile away from the party, got overtaken by\n\n## GAS.\n\nIt was only tear-gas from a shell, and I got safely back (to the party) in my helmet, with nothing worse than a severe fright! And a few tears, some natural, some unnatural.... Coal, water, candles, accommodation, everything is scarce. We have not always air! When I took my helmet off last night-O Air, it was a heavenly thing!... They want to call No Man's Land 'England' because we keep supremacy there. It is like the eternal place of gnashing of teeth; the Slough of Despond could be contained in one of its crater-holes; the fires of Sodom and Gomorrah could not light a candle to it-to find the way to Babylon the Fallen. It is pock-marked like a body of foulest disease, and its odour is the breath of cancer. I have not seen any dead. I have done worse. In the dank air I have _perceived_ it, and in the darkness, _felt._ Those 'Somme Pictures' are the laughing-stock of the army\u2014like the trenches on exhibition in Kensington. No Man's Land under snow is like the face of the moon, chaotic, crater-ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness. To call it 'England'! I would as soon call my House (!) Krupp Villa, or my child Chlorina\u2014Phosgena.... The people of England needn't hope. They must agitate. But they are not yet agitated even. Let them imagine 50 strong men trembling as with ague for 50 hours!\"\n\nThe winter of 1916\u20141917 will long be remembered for its scarcely tolerable cold. The 2nd Manchesters did not get the rest expected, and Owen was soon in the front line again. \"In this place my platoon had no dug-outs, but had to lie in the snow under the deadly wind. By day it was impossible to stand up, or even crawl about, because we were behind only a little ridge screening us from the Boche's periscope. We had 5 Tommy's Cookers between the platoon, but they did not suffice to melt the ice in the water-cans. So we suffered cruelly from thirst. The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually froze to death before he could be got back, but I am not able to tell how many have ended in hospital. I had no real casualties from shelling, though for 10 minutes every hour whizz\u2014 bangs fell a few yards short of us. Showers of soil rained on us but no fragment of shell could find us.... My feet ached until they could ache no more, and so they temporarily died. I was kept warm by the ardour of Life within me. I forgot hunger in the hunger for Life.... I cannot say I felt any fear. We were all half-crazed by the buffeting of the high explosives. I think the most unpleasant reflection that weighed on me was the impossibility of getting back any wounded, a total impossibility by day, and frightfully difficult by night. We were marooned on a frozen desert. There is not a sign of life on the horizon, and a thousand signs of death. Not a blade of grass, not an insect; once or twice a day the shadow of a big hawk, scenting carrion. By degrees, day by day, we worked back through the reserve and support lines to the crazy village where the Battalion takes breath. While in support we inhabited vast Boche dug\u2014outs (full of all kinds of souvenirs). They are so deep that they seem warm like mines! There we began to thaw.... Then I had the heavenly-dictated order to proceed on a Transport Course. Me in Transports.? Aren't you?\" He was writing from the riding school at Amiens, on February 4, with the prospect of a month's exercise (he was a natural horseman) and lodgings \"in a House\". \"Quite 10 years ago I made a study of this town and cathedral, in the Treasury. It is all familiar now!\" He looked at the \"inoffensive sky\" and his room, and reflected, \"I suppose I can endure cold and fatigue and the face-to-face death as well as another; but extra for me there is the universal pervasion of _Ugliness._ Hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language, and nothing but foul, even from one's own mouth (for all are devil-ridden) \u2014everything unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug-outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious. But to sit with them all day, all night-and a week later to come back and find them still sitting there in motionless groups, That is what saps the 'soldierly spirit'.\"\n\nOn March 1 he rejoined his battalion in the extreme south of the British trench line, recently taken over from the French. It was quiet\u2014\"so quiet that we have our meals in a shallow dug-out, and only go down deep to sleep\". He was soon kept busy in charge of digging parties. On March 14 he reported an accident* of a kind which might easily have been more frequent in the devastated area: \"Last night I was going round through pitch darkness to see a man in a dangerous state of exhaustion. I fell into a kind of well, only about 15 ft., but I caught the back of my head on the way down. The doctors (not in consultation!) say I have a slight concussion. Of course I have a vile headache, but I don't feel at all fuddled.\" Five days later he wrote again of this mishap. \"I am in a hospital bed (for the first time in life). After falling into that hole (which I believe was a shell-hole in a floor, laying open a deep cellar) I felt nothing more than a headache, for 5 days; and went up to the front in the usual way-or nearly the usual way, for I felt too weak to wrestle with the mud, and sneaked along the top, snapping my fingers at a clumsy sniper. When I got back I developed a high fever, vomited strenuously and long, and was seized with muscular pains. The night before last I was sent to a shanty a bit farther back, and yesterday motored on to this Field Hospital, called Casualty Clearing Station IS.\" He added that he felt better, and,\u2014on March 21, that he was getting up and expecting soon \"to overtake my Battalion\" again. However, it was in hospital that he drafted (March 23) the sonnet \"With an Identity Disc\".\n\nThe battalion had been attacking, and he 'caravanned' to them over unfamiliar territory. On the way he had one night's lodging \"with a family of refugees, 3 boys, 2 tiny girls: a good class socially, and of great charm personally. I was treated as a god, and indeed begin to suspect I have a heart as comprehensive as Victor Hugo's, Shakspere's, or your own.\" (He is writing to his mother.) \"In 24 hours I never took so many hugs and kisses in my life, no, not in the first chapter even. They took reliefs at it. It would have astounded the English mind.\" He found his battalion, and was very welcome, for they had not made their successful attack without heavy losses. Then-\"We stuck to our line 4 days (and 4 nights) without relief, in the open, and in the snow. Not an hour passed without a shell amongst us. I never went off to sleep on those days, because the others were far more fagged after several days of fighting than I fresh from bed. We lay in wet snow. I kept alive on brandy, the fear of death, and the glorious prospect of the cathedral town just below us, glittering with the morning. With glasses I could easily make out the general architecture of the cathedral: so I have told you how near we have got. The French are on the skirts of the town, as I could see. It was unknown where exactly the Boche was lying in front of us. The job of finding out fell upon me. I started out at midnight with 2 corporals and _6_ picked men, warning other regiments on our flanks not to make any mistake about us. It was not very long before the Hun sent up his Very lights, but the ground was favourable to us, and I and my corporal prowled on until we clearly heard voices, and the noises of carrying and digging. When I had seen them quite clearly moving about, and marked the line of their entrenchment, it might seem my job was done; but my orders were to discover the force of the enemy. So then I took an inch or two of cover and made a noise like a platoon. Instantly we had at least two machine-guns turned on us, and a few odd rifles. Then we made a scramble for 'home'. Another night I was putting out an advanced post when we were seen or heard and greeted with shrapnel. The man crouching shoulder to shoulder to me gets a beautiful round hole pierced deep in his biceps. I am nothing so fortunate, being only buffeted in the eyes by the shock and whacked on the calf by a spent fragment, which scarcely tore the puttee.\"\n\nAlmost three weeks passed before his next letter (April 25). He had been in attack in the period. \"Never before has the Batta on encountered such intense shelling as rained upon us as we advanced in the open.... The reward we got for all this was to remain in the Line 12 days. For twelve days I did not wash my face, nor take off my boots, nor sleep a deep sleep. For twelve days we lay in holes, where at any moment a shell might put us out. I think the worst incident was one wet night when we lay up against a railway embankment. A big shell lit on the top of the bank, just 2 yards from my head. Before I awoke, I was blown in the air right away from the bank! I passed most of the following days in a railway cutting, in a hole just big enough to lie in, and covered with corrugated iron. My brother officer of B Coy., 2nd Lt. G., lay opposite in a similar hole. But he was covered with earth, and no relief will ever relieve him, nor will his Rest be a 9-days-Rest.\" From this railway cutting it was Owen's duty \"about midnight to flounder across to the French and knock at the door of the Company H.Q. and ask if all was well, to be answered by a grunt\".\n\n\"I think that the terribly long time we stayed unrelieved was unavoidable; yet it makes us feel bitterly towards those in England who might relieve us, and will not. We are now doing what is called a Rest, but we rise at 6.15 and work without break until about 10 P.M., for there is always a Pow-Wow for officers after dinner. And if I have not written yesterday, it is because I must have kept hundreds of letters uncensored, and inquiries about missing men unanswered.\"\n\nPart of this letter is written on a military document. \"I hope\", says Owen, \"this bit of paper is not incriminating to send over.\" The document, which recalls the Western Front in a decidedly unpopular aspect, reads:\n\n## AMENDMENT\n\nS.S. 143-\"INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE TRAINING OF PLATOONS FOR OFFENSIVE ACTION, 1917.\"\n\nAppendix I.\u2014NOTES\u2014LINE _6. After_ \"No. 1\" _add_ \"and No. 2\".\n\nOn May 2 he wrote from the 13th Casualty Clearing Station: \"Here again! The Doctor suddenly was moved to forbid me to go into action next time the Battalion go, which will be in a day or two. I did not go sick or anything, but he is nervous about my nerves, and sent me down yesterday-labelled Neurasthenia. I still of course suffer from the headaches traceable to my concussion.... Do not for a moment suppose I have had a 'breakdown'! I am simply avoiding one.\" Joking over his having escaped actual wounds, he remembers, \"I should certainly have got a bullet wound, if I had not used the utmost caution in wriggling along the ground on one occasion. There was a party of Germans in a wood about 200 yards _behind_ us, and his trench, which we had just taken, was only a foot deep in places, and I was obliged to keep passing up and down it. As a matter of fact I rather enjoyed the evening after the stunt, being only a few hundred yards from the town, as you knew, and having come through the fire so miraculously, and being, moreover, well fed on the Boche's untouched repast!! It was curious and troubling to pick up his letters where he had left off writing in the middle of a word!\"\n\nOwen also sent an account of this attack to a brother who might have illusions of the romance of war (May 14). \"The sensations of going over the top are about as exhilarating as those dreams of falling over a precipice, when you see the rocks at the bottom surging up to you. I woke up without being squashed. Some didn't. There was an extraordinary exultation in the act of slowly walking forward, showing ourselves openly. There was no bugle and no drum, for which I was very sorry. I kept up a kind of chanting sing-song:\n\n_Keep the Line straight!_\n\n_Not so fast on the left!_\n\n_Steady on the left!_\n\n_Not so fast!_\n\nThen we were caught in a tornado of shells. The various 'waves' were all broken up, and we carried on like a crowd moving off a cricket-field. When I looked back and saw the ground all crawling and wormy with wounded bodies, I felt no horror at all, but only an immense exultation at having got through the barrage. We were more than an hour moving over the open, and by the time we came to the German trench every Boche had fled. But a party of them had remained, lying low in a wood close behind us, and they gave us a very bad time for the next four hours. When we were marching along a sunken road, we got the wind up once. We knew we must have passed the German out-posts somewhere on our left rear. All at once the cry rang down, 'Line the bank'. There was a tremendous scurry of fixing bayonets, tugging of breech-covers, and opening pouches, but when we peeped over, behold a solitary German, haring along towards us, with his head down and his arms stretched in front of him, as if he were going to take a high dive through the earth (which I have no doubt he would like to have done). Nobody offered to shoot him, he looked too funny; and that was our only prisoner that day!\"\n\nPassing a sunny idleness in scenery which reminded him of the Faerie Queene and of Arthur in Avalon, he nevertheless found himself with a high temperature, and believed he had trench fever. He remained in the Casualty Clearing Station until June 6, when he wrote: \"I go down to-day. Where to Nobody knows. Maybe in the Hospital Train for days.\"\n\nAbout June 10, after confused arrangements, Owen was at No. 1 General Hospital. \"I think it is very likely that the Americans will send me to England.\" And a week later he was at the Welsh Hospital, Netley, \"in too _receptive_ a mood to speak at all about the other side, the seamy side of the 'Manche'. I just wander about absorbing Hampshire.\"\n\nOne of Owen's letters from the hospital on the Somme may be conveniently quoted at this point. It sums up the creed which had taken bold form in his mind, and awaited poetical completion: \"Already I have comprehended a light which never will filter into the dogma of any national church: namely, that one of Christ's essential commands was: Passivity at any price! Suffer dishonour and disgrace, but never resort to arms. Be bullied, be outraged, be killed; but do not kill. It may be a chimerical and an ignominious principle, but there it is. It can only be ignored; and I think pulpit professionals are ignoring it very skilfully and successfully indeed.... And am I not myself a conscientious ob-jector with a very seared conscience _?..._ Christ is literally in 'no man's land'. There men often hear His voice: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for a friend. Is it spoken in English only and French? I do not believe so. Thus you see how pure Christianity will not fit in with pure patriotism.\"\n\nFrom Netley, he was sent to what he described on June 26 as \"a decayed hydro\"-the Craiglockhart War Hospital, a short way out of Edinburgh. \"At present\", he wrote on August 8, clearly feeling the War's influence even more deeply than before, \"I am a sick man in hospital, by night; a poet for quarter of an hour after breakfast; I am whatever and whoever I see while going down to Edinburgh on the train; greengrocer, policeman, shopping lady, errand-boy, paper-boy, blind man, crippled Tommy, bank-clerk, carter, all of these in half an hour; next a German student in earnest; then I either peer over bookstalls, in back-streets, or do a bit of a dash down Princes Street-according as I have taken weak tea or strong coffee for breakfast.... Yes, you will like to read Mrs. Browning. Having listened so long to her low, sighing voice (which _can_ be _heard_ often through the page ), and having seen her hair, not in a museum case, but palpably in visions, and having received kindness from a boy to whom she was kind (M. L\u00e9ger-he is still a boy); for these reasons, I say, the Flapper flaps in vain. The other day I read a biography of Tennyson, which says he was unhappy, even in the midst of his fame, wealth, and domestic serenity. Divine discontent! I can quite believe he never knew happiness for one moment such as I have-for one or two moments. But as for misery, was he ever frozen alive, with dead men for comforters _?_ Did he hear the moaning at the Bar, not at twilight and the evening bell only, but at dawn, noon, and night, eating and sleeping, walking and working, always the close moaning of the Bar; the thunder, the hissing, and the whining of the Bar?-Tennyson, it seems, was always a great child. So should I have been, but for Beaumont Hamel. (Not before January 1917 did I write the _only_ lines of mine that carry the stamp of maturity-these:\n\n_But the old happiness is unreturning._\n\n_Boys have no grief as grievous as youth's yearning;_\n\n_Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope_.)\n\n... It is worthy of mention that we have been in mist for _3_ days: a gloriously luminous mist at times. I saw Holyrood on Sunday afternoon (being alone on Salisbury Crags), a floating mirage in gold mist; a sight familiar enough in dreams and poems, but which I never thought possible in these islands. It was the picture of a picture....\"\n\nAt Craiglockhart he was enterprising; he performed at concerts, he lectured, and he edited the hospital magazine called _The Hydra._ About the beginning of August, Captain Siegfried Sassoon arrived. Owen had been reading his _Old Huntsman._ \"Nothing like his trench-life sketches has ever been written or ever will be written.\" One day he ventured to call at his hero's room and to show him some poems, which received some praise and some blame. On the evening of September 7, again, \"Sassoon called me in to him; and having condemned some of my poems, amended others, and rejoiced over a few, he read me his very last works, which are superb beyond anything in his book.... I don't tell him so, or that I am not worthy to light his pipe. I simply sit tight and tell him where I think he goes wrong.\" There is a letter of September 22 almost dithyrambic in honour of Mr. Sassoon \"as a man, as a friend, and as a poet\", and in another Owen refers modestly to \"my recent efforts in Sassoon's manner\". _The Hydra_ was a fortunate periodical; it received new poems by the two best English war-poets. The chance that gave Owen the friendship of Mr. Sassoon, then endeavouring in all ways open to him, but above all by poetical challenge, to shed light on the futile ugliness of the War, was a good one. It supplied the answer to the petition for a poet's companionship which, as has been seen, Owen uttered in his verses years before. To ascribe to it altogether the subsequent self-revelation of Owen as a poet would be in-correct, but the impact of Mr. Sassoon's character, thought, and independent poetic method gave the other a new purpose. Owen might have agreed with the author of _Hudibras_ \u2014\n\n_An English poet should be tried by his peers._\n\n_And not by pedants and philosophers_ ,\n\n\u2014on this occasion. The trial brought out his greatness and directed his passion. With a clear and spacious view of the function of poetry, he rapidly produced the poems which have made him famous.\n\nThe problem of dating most of Owen's papers is such that one cannot be sure when he thought out the use of assonances, instead of rhymes, which he perfected. He was, as I have said, an unwearied worker in the laboratory of word, rhythm, and music of language, partly by nature and partly from his close acquaintance with French poetry and its exacting technical subtleties.\n\nHaving discovered and practised pararhyme, Owen became aware that it would serve him infinitely in the voicing of emotion and imagination. What he made of it is felt at its fullest, perhaps, in the solemn music of 'Strange Meeting', but again and again by means of it he creates remoteness, darkness, emptiness, shock, echo, the last word. So complete and characteristic is his deployment of this technical resource that imitators have been few; but, indeed, there is another cause why they have been so. Only an innate, unconventional command over language, and a rich and living vocabulary\u2014in short, only a genius for poetry could for long work in that uncommon medium.\n\nThe doctor who had charge of Owen at Craiglockhart, A. Brock, took more than common interest in him, regarding him as \"a very outstanding figure, both in intellect and in character\". In order to restore his nerves to serenity. Dr. Brock directed his energies to any peaceful pursuit that could be arranged; he proposed to him the writing of a poem on a classical subject, 'Antaeus', put him in touch with the Edinburgh 'submerged tenth', and caused him to give lectures at Tynecastle School. At one time Owen was busy with historical research in the Advocates' Library, at the request of Lord Guthrie, whose great courtesy fascinated him. When, towards the end of October, the question of Owen's transference from Craiglockhart arose imminently, he was un-happy: \"I am seriously beginning to have aching sensations at being rooted up from this pleasant Region\".\n\nI am indebted to Mrs. Mary Gray, who knew Owen well at this period, for an account of his personality. \"The bond which drew us together was an intense pity for suffering humanity-a need to alleviate it, wherever possible, and an inability to shirk the sharing of it, even when this seemed useless. This was the keynote of Wilfred's character; indeed it was, simply, Wilfred. His sensitiveness, his sympathy were so acute, so profound, that direct personal experience and individual development can hardly be said to have existed for him. He could only suffer, or rejoice, vicariously.... The objection that he overlooked individual emotion could only be urged by small natures, selfishly engrossed in their woes. To anyone else, it was immediately evident that their troubles and their happiness were his.... He was naturally silent, but with a silence more expressive than words. He had a wonderful tenderness. Silent and reserved as he was, he was adored by my little girl of eight months old. He was never, at that time, gay or playful, but he had that tenderness and a wonderful smile-a sort of gentle radiance, and the tacit understanding between him and the child was almost uncanny. It was the same with a large family of very poor children, and their parents. I was interested in an Italian one-eyed street singer with a most tragic history and fine personality. His courage, cheerfulness, and philosophy drew Wilfred to him at once. We went often to their very poor, exquisitely kept home in the slums, where again, despite his silence, gentle gravity, and reserve, Wilfred was adored-\u2014 there is no other word for it. He suffered deeply from diffidence, and self-distrust. This was entirely unconnected with any consideration of the impression he made on others. He set himself immensely high standards, and in moments of despondency grieved deeply over what he regarded, quite unjustifiably, as his failure to live up to them. Nevertheless, in his most despondent moods he could never be said to have experienced despair. His courage was too indomitable for that, and he never laid down his arms.... Throughout this trial he kept alight the spark of divine fire-the steadfast belief that through suffering do we attain to the only true spiritual beauty.\"\n\nAfter Craiglockhart, Owen went to Scarborough, and at first, by way of light duty, was appointed major-domo of the hotel where the seventy officers of the 5th (Reserve) Battalion, Manchester Regiment, assembled.\n\nThe following excerpts from a letter written by him in November 1917, while they disclose the honour in which he held the recipient, Mr. Sassoon, also give a better impression of Owen's spirit at the time than would be otherwise recoverable. \"Know that since mid-September, when you still regarded me as a tiresome little knocker on your door, I held you as Keats + Christ + Elijah + my Colonel my father-confessor + Amenophis IV. in profile. What's that mathematically?... If you consider what the above names have severally done for me, you will know what you are doing. And you have _fixed_ my Life-however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun round you a satellite for a month, but I shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze. It is some consolation to know that Jupiter himself sometimes swims out of ken.\n\n\"To come back to our sheep, as the French _never_ say, I have had a perfect little note from Robert Ross, and have arranged a meeting at 12.30 on Nov. 9th. He mentioned staying at Half-Moon St., but the house is full.\n\n\"I have ordered several copies of _Fairies and Fusiliers_ , but shall not buy all, in order to leave the book exposed on the Shrewsbury counters! I'm also getting Colvin's new _Life of Keats_ -no price advertised, but, damn it. I'm to enjoy my leave!...\n\n\"What I most miss in Edinburgh (not Craiglockhart) is the conviviality of the Four Boys (L. _vivere_ -to live). Some day I must tell how we sang, shouted, whistled, and danced through the dark lanes through Colinton; and how we laughed till the meteors showered round us, and we fell calm under the winter stars. And some of us saw the pathway of the spirits for the first time. And seeing it so far above us, and feeling the good road so safe beneath us, we praised God with louder whistling; and knew we loved one another as no men love for long.\n\n\"Which, if the bridge-players, Craig and Lockhart, could have seen, they would have called down the wrath of Jahveh, and buried us under the fires of the City you wot of.\"\n\nFollowing an ancient custom of mankind, he reviewed the past on the last day of 1917, writing thus to his mother: \"And so I have come to the true measure of man. I am not dissatisfied [with] my years. Everything has been done in bouts: Bouts of awful labour at Shrewsbury and Bordeaux; bouts of amazing pleasure in the Pyrenees, and play at Craiglockhart; bouts of religion at Dunsden; bouts of horrible danger on the Somme; bouts of poetry always; of your affection always; of sympathy for the oppressed always. I go out of this year a poet, my dear mother, as which I did not enter it. I am held peer by the Georgians; I am a poet's poet. I am started. The tugs have left me; I feel the great swelling of the open sea taking my galleon. Last year, at this time (it is just midnight, and now is the intolerable instant of the Change), last year I lay awake in a windy tent in the middle of a vast, dreadful encampment. It seemed neither France nor England, but a kind of paddock where the beasts are kept a few days before the shambles. I heard the revelling of the Scotch troops, who are now dead, and who knew they would be dead. I thought of this present night, and whether I should indeed-whether we should indeed-whether you would indeed-but I thought neither long nor deeply, for I am a master of elision. But chiefly I thought of the very strange look on all faces in that camp; an incomprehensible look, which a man will never see in England, though wars should be in England; nor can it be seen in any battle. But only in fitaples. It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit's. It will never be painted, and no actor will ever seize it. And to describe it, I think I must go back and be with them. We are sending seven officers straight out tomorrow. I have not said what I am thinking this night, but next December I will surely do so.\"\n\nThe life that was customarily endured in home camps during 1918 had little (other than mere security) to recommend it, particularly to those who remembered the prevailing good-nature and resourceful activity of the armies in Flanders. Owen wrote to his mother in May 1918, of old associations and of his poetry. \"I've been busy this evening with my terrific poem (at present) called 'The Deranged'. This poem the Editor of the _Burlington Magazine_ -(a 2\/6 Arts Journal which takes no poetry)-old More Adey, I say, solemnly prohibited me from sending to the _English Review_ , on the grounds that 'the _English Review_ should not be encouraged'!!! Five years ago this would, as you suggest, have turned my head-but nowadays my head tums only in shame away from these first flickers of the limelight. For I am old already for a poet, and so little is yet achieved.\n\n\"And I want no limelight, and celebrity is the last infirmity I desire.\n\n_\"Fame is the recognition of one's peers._ I have already more than their recognition.... Behold, are they not already as many Keatses? As I looked out into the untravelled world over the hedges of Dunsden Garden, I saw them in the dawn and made ready to go out and meet them.\n\n\"And they were glad and rejoiced, though I am the gravest and least witty of that grave, witty company.\"\n\nAmong those who had become aware that a new soldier-poet called Owen was arriving, I find the names of Robert Ross, Roderick Meiklejohn, H. W. Massingham, H. G. Wells, Arnold Bennett, and Osbert Sitwell; and Owen was delighted to find himself at last within the circle of men of letters. There was a project of publishing his poems, and William Heinemann, despite \"the state of the paper supply\", expressed a willingness to undertake it, or at least to consider it. Another author whose acquaintance he made was Charles Scott\u2014Moncrieff, who obtained Owen's criticism and advice for his translation of the 'Song of Roland'. That work was originally dedicated 'To Mr. W. O.', with a tribute to his mastery of the art of poetry; when it was published in 1919, it contained instead a group of poems in memory of three friends, one of which is a sonnet to Owen:\n\n_In the centuries of time to come_\n\n_Men shall be happy and rehearse thy fame._\n\nScott\u2014Moncrieff, then at the War Office, endeavoured to find some post for Owen which would mean that he would be kept in England. On May 21, Owen had some prospect \"of becoming Instructing Staff Officer to a Cadet Battalion. I would _rather,\"_ he wrote, \"work in the War Office itself, and that seems not impossible either. Really I would _like most_ to go to Egypt or Italy, but that is not entertained by Scott\u2014 Moncrieff.\" In the end, none of these plans or wishes materialized.\n\nAt the close of July he was preparing to go overseas. \"Now must I throw my little candle on (Sassoon's] torch and go out again. There are rumours of a large draft of officers shortly.\" A few days later he reported that he was to attend for medical inspection, and would proceed to France. \"I am glad. That is I am much gladder to be going out again than afraid. I shall be better able to cry my outcry, playing my part. The secondary annoyances and discomforts of France behind the line can be no worse than this Battalion. On Friday we were called up at 3 A.M. and had the usual day's work. The Adjutant is ill, and Stiebel is ill. I did Stiebel's job on the stunt, and am still doing it. There are only mock alarms of course. But this morning at 8.20 we heard a boat torpedoed in the bay, about a mile out, they say who saw it. I think only 10 lives were saved. I wish the Boche would have the pluck to come right in and make a clean sweep of the pleasure boats, and the promenaders on the Spa, and all the stinking Leeds and Bradford war\u2014profiteers now reading _John Bull_ on Scarborough Sands.\"\n\nOther letters carry Owen's story towards its untimely close. There was a last day with his mother. Looking with her across the Channel, he repeated a favourite passage from Rabindranath Tagore: \"When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable\". On August 31, 1918, he reported his embarkation to Mr. Sassoon: \"I have been incoherent ever since I tried to say good-bye on the steps of Lancaster Gate. But everything is clear now; and I'm in hasty retreat towards the Front. Battle is easier here; and therefore you will stay and endure old men and women to the End, and wage the bitterer war and more hopeless.\" Another message followed quickly; \"The sun is warm, the sky is clear, the waves are dancing fast and bright. But these are not Lines written in Dejection. Serenity Shelley never dreamed of crowns me. Will it last when I shall have gone into Caverns and Abysmals such as he never reserved for his worst daemons?... And now I am among the herds again, a Herdsman; and a Shepherd of sheep that do not know my voice.\" Such was, indeed, the feeling of a young officer with temporary hundreds of men suddenly entrusted to him for marching somewhere or other at the base. But Owen was quickly with his old battalion, and he obtained the command of D Company. His new ex-periences, as he had anticipated, were terrible, but he maintained the serenity of which he spoke, and he continued to write poems on the war. He wrote to Mr. Sassoon on September 22: \"You said it would be a good thing for my poetry if I went back. That is my consolation for feeling a fool. This is what shells scream at me every time; 'Haven't you got the wits to keep out of this?'\" And on October 10: \"Your letter reached me at the exact moment it was most needed\u2014when we had come far enough out of the line to feel the misery of billets; and I had been seized with writer's cramp after making out my casualty reports. (I'm O.C. D Coy.) The Battalion had a sheer time last week. I can find no better epithet; because I cannot say I suffered anything, having let my brain grow dull. That is to say, my nerves are in perfect order.\n\n\"It is a strange truth; that your _Counter-Attack_ frightened me much more than the real one: though the boy by my side, shot through the head, lay on top of me, soaking my shoulder, for half an hour.\n\n\"Catalogue? Photograph.? Can you photograph the crimson-hot iron as it cools from the smelting.? That is what Jones's blood looked like, and felt like. My senses are charred.\n\n\"I shall feel again as soon as I dare, but now I must not. I don't take the cigarette out of my mouth when I write Deceased over their letters.\n\n\"But one day I will write Deceased over many books.\n\n\"I am glad I've been recommended for M.C., and hope I get it, for the confidence it may give me at home. Full of confidence after having taken a few machine-guns* (with the help of one seraphic lance-corporal), I held a most glorious brief peace talk in a pill-box. You would have been _en p\u00eamoisons.\"_ His Military Cross was duly awarded.\n\nI quote further from the letter of October 10, 1918: \"Yes, there is something you can send me: 2 copies of _Counter-Attack_ , one inscribed. One is for the Adjutant-who begged a book of Erskine MacD.'s _Soldier-Poets_ which I had with me-because I met one of these amalgamations at the Base. And liked him for his immediate subjugation to my principles and your mastery.... At the Base I met o'Riordan (of the Irish Theatre, and collaborator with Conrad ). A troll of a man; not unlike Robbie (Ross) for unexpected shocks. It was easy, and, as I reflect, inevitable, to tell him everything about oneself... While you are apparently given over to wrens, I have found brave companionship in a poppy, behind whose stalk I took cover from five machine-guns and several howitzers. I desire no more _exposed flanks_ of any sort for a long time.\n\n\"Of many who promised to send me literary magazines no one has succeeded, except the Editor of _To-day...\"_\u2020\n\nA fellow officer, Lieut. J. Foulkes, M.C., has obligingly written down his reminiscences of the Owen who belonged to the trenches and billets of Flanders. \"We travelled together (in company with Major Murphy, D.S.O., who was to become 2nd in Command, and, in early November, commanded the 2nd Manchesters) from the base, Etaples, to meet the Battalion at Corbie on the R. Ancre.... The first real attack in which we took part was the one which followed the capture of the Hindenburg Line. We had to take what I think was then looked upon as a 2nd Hindenburg Line and which I remember was well wired. The attack was successful but costly-Owen and I were the only officers left in our Company and he became _pro tern._ Company Commander. It was for his work here that he received the M.C. Left with few men and lacking any means of cover save a German pillbox, which was really a death-trap because it was on this that the enemy concentrated his fire, Owen succeeded in holding the line until relieved by the Lancs. Fusiliers some time afterwards. This is where I admired his work-in leading his remnants, in the middle of the night, back to safety. I remember feeling how glad I was that it was not my job to know how to get out. I was content to follow him with the utmost confidence in his leadership.\"\n\nOn October 29 he wrote, during the advance: \"The civilians here are a wretched, dirty, crawling community, afraid of _us_ , some of them, and no wonder, after the shelling we gave them three weeks ago. Did I tell you that five healthy girls died of fright in one night at the last village? The people in England and France who thwarted a peaceable retirement of the enemy _from_ these areas are therefore now sacrificing aged French peasants and charming French children to our guns. Shells made by women in Birmingham are at this moment burying little children alive not very far from here. It is rumoured that Austria has really surrendered. The new soldiers cheer when they hear these rumours, but the old ones bite their pipes, and go on cleaning their rifles, unbelieving.\" On October 31 he described his company headquarters as \"The Smoky Cellar of the Forester's House\", and insisted on the happiness that he felt there, though \"so thick is the smoke that I can hardly see by a candle 12 inches away, and so thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges, and jolts.\"\n\nWriting to his mother, Owen repeated the words, ''My nerves are in perfect order... I came out,\" he added, \"in order to help these boys-directly by leading them as well as an officer can, indirectly by watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can. I have done the first.\" He had, and he was to continue to the end, which came one week before the Armistice fell from heaven on those colourless and water-logged battle-fields. On November 4, 1918, in face of those resolute German machine-gunners who would not have yielded yet if they could have helped it, Wilfred Owen was endeavouring to pass his company over the Sambre Canal. \"Zero,\" writes Mr. Foulkes, \"was, I think, _6_ A.M., and once more our Company was to lead. From the 'kicking-off trench' or road we reached the spot on the Canal which should have been temporarily bridged by the Engineers, but the plan had unfortunately failed owing to the heavy fire concentrated by machine\u2014gunners and artillery at that particular spot. Instead of gaining the other side, we had therefore to take cover behind the Canal bank, which rose to a height of about four feet. Attempts were made to cross on rafts, but these were unsuccessful.\" Owen is remembered patting his men on the back as he moved about, with a \"Well done!\" and \"You are doing very well, my boy\". The Engineers who were trying to bridge the Canal almost all became casualties. Owen took a hand with some duckboards or planks, and was at the water's edge helping his men to fix them when he was hit and killed. \"The battalion eventually crossed lower down by means of a bridge near the village of Ors, a few miles south of Landrecies.\"\n\nThe indirect part of his sacrifice was then, for a brief moment, unnecessary. Peace came, men returned home, it seemed as though all the bugles in the world might blow without ever luring one of them again into the battle. But in a short time it was apparent that the peace was imperfect, and her olive-branch might easily turn into a rifle-grenade. We are not yet sure of ourselves. A threat hangs over us even now. The transmutation even of the European tragedy into a lending-library fashion shows anew how easy it is for humanity to follow a dream, and how hard it is for the romantic _Homo sapiens_ -the _Homo rapiens_ of Mr. H. S. Salt\u2014to be a realist. In the coming race there will be a multitude of mirage-builders, and the business which now engages the heart and brain of so many leaders in every country is how to save them from the normal consequences of their own illusions, or those who, for whatever purpose, encourage and exploit them. Here Owen will be found achieving his object of pleading; being dead he speaks. He speaks as a soldier, with perfect and certain knowledge of war at grips with the soldier; as a mind, surveying the whole process of wasted spirit, art, and blood in all its instant and deeper evils; as a poet, giving his readers picture and tone that whenever they are reconsidered afford a fresh profundity, for they are combinations of profound recognitions.\n\nHe was, apart from Mr. Sassoon, the greatest of the English war poets. But the term 'war poets' is rather convenient than accurate. Wilfred Owen was a poet without classifications of war and peace. Had he lived, his humanity would have continued to encounter great and moving themes, the painful sometimes, sometimes the beautiful, and his art would have matched his vision. He was one of those destined beings who, without pride of self (the words of Shelley will never be excelled), \"see, as from a tower, the end of all\". Outwardly, he was quiet,* unobtrusive, full of good sense; inwardly, he could not help regarding the world with the dignity of a seer.\n\nOwen was preparing himself to the last moment in experience, observation, and composition for a volume of poems, to strike at the conscience of England in regard to the continuance of the war. This volume had begun to take a definite form in his mind, which may be traced in the hastily written and obscurely amended Preface and Contents found among his papers. That they and his later poems exist at all in writing is, to all who knew, or realize, the fierce demands made on company officers in the front line and in its vicinity, a wonderful proof of his intellectual determination.\n\n*M. Tailhade wrote, on April 1, 1915: \"Votre lettre est charmante. Cette impuissance de vous 'exprimer en fran\u00e7ais' qui vous fait h\u00e9siter, n'existe que dans votre imagination. Vous peignez avec un d\u00e9licat pinceau; votre piano a les touches n\u00e9cessaires pour la gr\u00eace et l'\u00e9motion.\"\n\n*See _1914_ , p. 129.\n\n*It happened at Le Quesnoy\u2014en\u2014Santerre.\n\n*\"I only shot one man with my revolver (at about thirty yards!); the others I took with a smile.\"\n\n\u2020 Holbroolt Jackson.\n\n*\"My impression was that nobody knew he was a poet. Save for some snatches of conversation between him and Captain Somerville, M.C., company commander in Corbie in September 1918, in which the names Sassoon, _Nation, Atkenteum_ were mentioned, I personally never dreamt of it.\" (Lieut. Foulkes)\n\n# APPENDIX II\n\n# _Wild with All Regrets_\n\nMy arms have mutinied against me,-brutes!\n\nMy fingers fidget like ten idle brats.\n\nMy back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.\n\nDeath never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.\n\nI can't read. There: it's no use. Take your book.\n\nA short life and a merry one, my buck!\n\nWe said we'd hate to grow dead-old. But now,\n\nNot to live old seems awful: not to renew\n\nMy boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting.\n\nShooting and hunting,-all the arts of hurting!\n\n-Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money.\n\nYour fifty years in store seem none too many.\n\nBut I've five minutes. God! For just two years\n\nTo help myself to this good air of yours!\n\nOne Spring! Is one too hard to spare.? Too long?\n\nSpring air would find its own way to my lung.\n\nAnd grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.\n\nYes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets\n\nWhen I'm lugged out. Oh, couldn't I do that?\n\nHere in this coffin of a bed, I've thought\n\nI'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,-\n\nAnd ask no nights off when the bustle's over,\n\nFor I'd enjoy the dirt. Who's prejudiced\n\nAgainst a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,-\n\nLess live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn?\n\nDear dust-in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan!\n\nI'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town;\n\nYes, or a muck-man. Must I be his load?\n\nA flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody.\n\n_On_ went stone-cold. I'd find another body.\n\nWhich I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours.\n\nI shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.\n\nYou'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest.\n\nAnd climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased\n\nOn sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.\n\nI think on your rich breathing, brother. I'll be weaned\n\nTo do without what blood remained me from my wound.\n\n_December 5_ , 1917.\n\nBM has one draft, with dedication _To S. S._ and a footnote _May I?_ HO has one early draft and two part\u2014drafts.\n\n# APPENDIX III\n\n# INDEX OF FIRST LINES\n\nA dismal fog\u2014hoarse siren howls at dawn\n\nAfter the blast of lightning from the east\n\nAll sounds have been as music to my listening\n\nAs bronze may be much beautified\n\nA vague pearl, a wan pearl\n\nBent double, like old beggars under sacks\n\nBe slowly lifted up, thou long black arm\n\nBetween the brown hands of a server\u2014lad\n\nBudging the sluggard ripples of the Somme\n\nBugles sang, saddening the evening air\n\nCramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn\n\nDown the close, darkening lanes they sang their way\n\nEver again to breathe pure happiness\n\nHalted against the shade of a last hill\n\nHappy are men who yet before they are killed\n\nHas your soul sipped\n\nHaving, with bold Horatius, stamped her feet\n\nHead to limp head, the sunk\u2014eyed wounded scanned\n\nHe dropped,-more sullenly than wearily\n\nHe sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark\n\nHis face was charged with beauty as a cloud\n\nHis fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed\n\nHush, thrush\n\nI am the ghost of Shadwell Stair\n\nI dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big\u2014gun gears\n\nIf ever I had dreamed of my dead name\n\nIf it be very strange and sorrowful\n\nI have been urged by earnest violins\n\nI mind as 'ow the night afore that show\n\nIn that I loved you. Love, I worshipped you\n\nIn twos and threes, they have not far to roam\n\nI saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell\n\nI sometimes think of those pale, perfect faces\n\nI, too, saw God through mud\n\nIt seemed that out of battle I escaped\n\nLeaves\n\nLet the boy try along this bayonet\u2014blade\n\nLong ages past in Egypt thou wert worshipped\n\nMove him into the sun\n\nMy shy hand shades a hermitage apart\n\nMy soul looked down from a vague height, with Death\n\nNot one comer of a foreign field\n\nNot this week nor this month dare I lie down\n\n'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit', he said; and died\n\nOne evening Eros took me by the hand\n\nOne ever hangs where shelled roads part\n\nOur brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us\n\nOut there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death\n\nO World of many Worlds; O life of lives\n\nPatting good\u2014bye, doubtless they told the lad\n\nRed lips are not so red\n\nSeeing we never spied frail Fairyland\n\nShe sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost looms\n\nSing me at mom but only with your laugh\n\nSit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell\n\nSo Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went\n\nSojourning through a southern realm in youth\n\nSo neck to stubborn neck, and obstinate knee to knee\n\nSo the church Christ was hit and buried\n\nSuddenly night crushed out the day and hurled\n\nSweet is your antique body, not yet young\n\nThe beautiful, the fair, the elegant\n\nThe browns, the olives, and the yellows died\n\nThe imbecile with long light hair, so light\n\nThere was a whispering in my hearth\n\nThe roads also have their wistful rest\n\nThey watch me, those informers to the Fates\n\nThis is the track my life is setting on\n\nThough unseen Poets, many and many a time\n\nThree rompers run together, hand in hand\n\nUnder his helmet, up against his pack\n\nVividly gloomy, with bright darkling glows\n\nWar broke: and now the winter of the world\n\nWe'd found an old Boche dug\u2014out, and he knew\n\nWhat passing\u2014bells for those who die as cattle?\n\nWhen I awoke, the glancing day looked gay\n\nWho are these? Why sit they here in twilight?\n\nWith B.E.F. June 10. Dear Wife\n\n\"You! What d'you mean by this?\" I rapped \nLibrary of Congress Catalog Card No. 64\u201310290 Copyright \u00a9 Chatto & Windus Ltd, 1963\n\n_Poems_ by Wilfred Owen, with an Introduction by Siegfried Sassoon, was first published in 1920 and reprinted in 1921. A new edition, with notices of his life and work by Edmund Blunden, was first published in 1931, and reprinted in 1933 (with corrections), 1946, 1949, 1951, 1955, 1960, 1961 and 1963. This amended edition first published in the United States in 1964. First published as New Directions Paperbook 210 in 1965.\n\nAll rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.\n\nISBN: 978-0-811-20132-2 pbk.  \nISBN: 978-0-811-22367-6 (e-book)\n\nNew Directions Books are published for James Laughlin by New Directions Publishing Corporation, 80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n# **_Joe Kane's_**  \n **RUNNING THE AMAZON**\n\n\"For all of the river's 4,200 exotic miles, Running the Amazon is a crisp book, the offering of a narrator who followed his instincts to a fabulously rich strike and then spent the proceeds wisely.\"\n\n\u2014 _Washington Post Book World_\n\n\"A good adventurer is rarer than a good adventure; an easygoing book about fear and bravado is a very rare thing indeed.\"\n\n\u2014 _San Francisco Chronicle_\n\n\"The reader will feel the bruises and the exhilaration as they battle the river, Indians, guerrillas, drug dealers and each other... It's a wonderful adventure story.\"\n\n\u2014 _Dallas Morning News_\n\n\"An extraordinary adventure... Borne along by well-crafted, muscular prose, we survive close calls with rapids and revolutionaries, encounter strange species (human and otherwise), endure the heat and insects and white water\u2014all without leaving the comfort of the den.\"\n\n\u2014 _New York Newsday_\n\n\"Kane's eloquence lends his story a you-are-there quality.\"\n\n\u2014 _Cleveland Plain Dealer_\n\nFIRST VINTAGE DEPARTURES EDITION, MAY 1990\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1989 by Joe Kane\n\nPhotographs Copyright \u00a9 1989 by Zbigniew Bzdak\/Canoandes, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred A. Knopf Inc., in 1989.\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA  \nKane, Joe.  \nRunning the Amazon \/ by Joe Kane.  \np. cm.  \neISBN: 978-0-307-80990-2  \n1. Amazon River\u2014Description and travel. 2. Kane, Joe\u2014Journeys\u2014  \nAmazon River. I. Title.  \n[F2546.K19 1990] 89-40610  \n981.1\u2014dc20\n\nv3.1\n_for Elyse_\n\n# CONTENTS\n\n_Cover_\n\n_Title Page_\n\n_Copyright_\n\n_Dedication_\n\n_Illustrations_\n\n_Acknowledgments_\n\n_Map of the Amazon River_\n\nONE \u2022 HIGH COUNTRY\n\n1. The Pacific\n\n2. The Colca\n\n3. Headwaters\n\n4. The Upper Apurimac\n\n5. The Black Canyon\n\n6. Trail's End\n\nTWO \u2022 WHITE WATER\n\n7. Meeting the Great Speaker\n\n8. The Acobamba Abyss\n\n9. The Middle Apurimac\n\n10. The Lower Apurimac (The Red Zone)\n\n11. The Ene\n\n12. The Tambo\n\nTHREE \u2022 THE RIVER SEA\n\n13. The Upper Ucayali\n\n14. The Lower Ucayali\n\n15. The Mara\u00f1\u00f3n\n\n16. The Solim\u00f5es\n\n17. The Amazon\n\n18. The Par\u00e1\n\n19. The Atlantic\n\n_Afterword to the Vintage Edition_\n\n_About the Author_\n\n# ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n_Followingthis page_:\n\n6.1 \"El Condorito.\"\n\n6.2 At, 15,000 feet on the approach to the source: Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, Tim Biggs, Pastor.\n\n6.3 Base camp at the source of the Amazon (17,000 feet).\n\n6.4 Zbyszek Bzdak at the source of the Amazon.\n\n6.5 Dr. Kate Durrant and the author in San Juan.\n\n6.6 Portaging the upper Apurimac: Piotr Chmielinski, Tim Biggs, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, Jerome Truran.\n\n6.7 The last Inca hanging bridge, woven entirely of hammered grass.\n\n6.8 Kate Durrant consulting patients near the Hanging Bridge, and Jerome Truran on the upper Apurimac.\n\n6.9 Piotr Chmielinski, Jerome Truran, Tim Biggs.\n\n6.10 Tim Biggs on the upper Apurimac.\n\n6.11 Quechua man and son.\n\n6.12 Shakedown run on the Apurimac: Piotr Chmielinski, the author, Sergio Leon, Kate Durrant.\n\n6.13 Jerome Truran in the Acobamba Abyss.\n\n6.14 Lining the raft through the Acobamba Abyss.\n\n6.15 In the Acobamba Abyss (note high-water mark).\n\n6.16 Jerome Truran in the Acobamba Abyss.\n\n6.17 Tim Biggs executing an Eskimo roll.\n\n6.18 Cloud Forest in the Red Zone: Jerome Truran, Tim Biggs, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal.\n\n6.19 Piotr Chmielinski, Jerome Truran, Peruvian marine in the Red Zone.\n\n6.20 In the Red Zone: Jerome Truran, the author, Kate Durrant.\n\n6.21Ash\u00e1ninka man.\n\n6.22 On the lower Tambo: Kate Durrant and Jerome Truran on native raft; Piotr Chmielinski and the author on _gringo_ equivalent.\n\n6.23 Piotr Chmielinski, Kate Durrant, and the author with sea kayaks and the _Jhuliana_ in Pucallpa.\n\n_Followingthis page_:\n\n12.24 Sea kayak with Christmas tree, Iquitos.\n\n12.25 On the River Sea: Piotr Chmielinski and the author near the Brazilian border, two thousand miles from the Atlantic.\n\n12.26 Friends in Tabatinga.\n\n12.27 Piotr Chmielinski and _caboclo_ fisherman with the author's birthday dinner.\n\n12.28 In storm's wake on the Solim\u00f5es.\n\n12.29 Piotr Chmielinski (foreground) and the author. Sea kayak with bushmaster.\n\n12.30 The author and Piotr Chmielinski in sea kayaks; Kate Durrant aboard the _Roberto II_.\n\n12.31 Downtown Gurup\u00e1.\n\n12.32 The author, Piotr Chmielinski, and _caboclo_ fishermen near Maraj\u00f3 Bay.\n\n12.33 Oz: the author and Piotr Chmielinski at the mouth of the Amazon.\n\n12.34 All photographs by Zbigniew Bzdak\/Canoandes, Inc.\n\n# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nThe experiences on which this book is based reflect a shared effort by the members of the Amazon Source to Sea Expedition: Tim Biggs, Zbyszek Bzdak, Piotr Chmielinski, Kate Durrant, Jack Jourgensen, Sergio Leon, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, Jerome Truran, Fanie Van der Merwe, and Pierre Van Heerden. That they would commit themselves not only to running the Amazon but to being observed and written about by me, a stranger to all of them when I arrived in Peru, bespeaks a profound collective courage, one from which I continue to draw inspiration.\n\nWithout the encouragement, guidance, hard work, and friendship of my agent, Joe Spieler, I would have had neither the wherewithal to embark on such a journey nor the confidence to write about it; to him I extend my deepest thanks. My editor, Ashbel Green, patiently guided me out of the disaster area that is a first draft into the Promised Land of a finished book; without him this story would not have been told. Of the many people who also read and commented on the manuscript, I wish especially to thank K. Patrick Conner and Daniel Ben-Horin, who waded through several swampy drafts with keen eyes and unflagging pencils. I am eternally in their debt.\n\nThe expedition itself would not have succeeded without the off-the-water support\u2014financial, logistical, and emotional\u2014of Bryce Anderson, Patricia Moore, Jim Allison, Jacek and Teresa Bogucki, Kaye Reed and the people of Casper, Wyoming, Canoandes, Inc. and Michael and Selma Kon, Jerzy Majcherczyk, and Andrzej Pietowski of Canoandes Expeditions, Jerzy Dylski and Polonia of New York, Boleslaw Wierzbianski of Nowy Dziennik, New York, John Tichenor, Wilbur E. Garrett and National Geographic Magazine, Mark Bryant and Outside Magazine, and the South American Explorers Club. A special thanks also to Marc Reisner, Jim Keller, Randall Hayes and the Rainforest Action Network, and Manuel Lizarralde.\n\nWe were provided with excellent equipment and supplies by Bill Masters of Perception and Aquaterra kayaks, whose vessels we came to know perhaps too intimately; by Sally McCoy and The North Face, whose tents we called home for six months; by Jeanette Smith of Yurika, our main food supplier; and by Jim Stohlquist of Colorado Kayak Supply, who outfitted us with white-water gear.\n\nOf the hundreds of people in South America who helped us along the way, I wish in particular to thank: Luis E. Muga in Lima; Antonio Vellutino and family, the Arana family, Jose Domingo Paz and family, Mauricio de Romana and family, the Hotel Turistas, and the Pizza Nostra restaurant in Arequipa; Edwin Goycochea and Rio Bravo, and Chando Gonzalez and Mayuc Expeditions in Cuzco; Enrique \"Kike\" Toledo in Iquitos; Foptur, the Peruvian department of tourism; and Aero Peru.\n\nIn Brazil, Ivano F. Cardeiro of Emamtur shielded us from the bewilderment of Manaus, and Maria Severa of Paratur and the staff of the Equatorial Palace Hotel buffered our return to the modern world in Bel\u00e9m. As, in Rio de Janeiro, did Mateusz Feldhuzen, of Nowy Dziennik. Thanks also to ABC-TV's \"Good Morning America\" and Pan American Airlines for bringing us home.\n\nDuring my journey I saw much that I did not at first understand and could not explore as fully as I would have preferred. Many written works later helped to clarify my impressions. In particular, regarding the complex and wholly fascinating culture of the Quechua, I owe a debt to Ronald Wright's _Cut Stones and Crossroads_ , Billie Jean Isbell's _To Defend Ourselves_ , and John Hemming's _The Conquest of the Incas_. On the lower Amazon, the classic studies by Alfred Rossel Wallace, Henry Bates, Richard Spruce, and William Lewis Herndon, all recorded in the nineteenth century, remain surprisingly and fully relevant.\n\nFinally, on the long river that is the writing of a first book I have been loved, nurtured, advised, ably critiqued, and rescued from some mighty dark spiritual holes by Elyse Axell, who along the way also consented to become my wife. This book is for her.\n\n#\n\n**ONE \u2022 HIGH COUNTRY**\n\n# 1 \u2022 The Pacific\n\nSouthern Peru, late August 1985. Beneath a rust-colored winter sky an old GMC flatbed bounced slowly through the high Andean badlands known as the _puna_. It is a lunar landscape, flat, treeless, ringed with bald dun hills and sharp gray peaks, bone-dry nine months of the year, beaten by frigid, dust-coated winds. At fifteen thousand feet, where the oxygen content of the air is about half that at sea level, the head throbs, and in those rare moments when the sky brightens, cold sunlight races down uncut and stings the eyeballs. I beheld the _puna_ through an involuntary squint. And I thought, uneasily, that I did not at all understand what I was getting into.\n\nThere were five of us hunkered down on the truck bed. We proposed to make the first source-to-sea navigation of the planet's longest river, the Amazon, to see with our own eyes every foot of the four-thousand-mile chain of water that rises in southern Peru and spills north through the Andes and east to the Atlantic. To do that we had to find the river's source, hidden somewhere in those bleak highlands. But in searching for the birthplace of the Amazon, we had found only dust. Though we hacked and spit and squeezed our eyelids shut, the howling _puna_ wind drove dust into every throat, ear, eye and pore. Dust penetrated food crates, water bottles, the soul itself.\n\nSitting to my right was a thirty-year-old Pole, Zbigniew Bzdak, a squat, bearish man with soft blue eyes, a flowing red beard, and a balding dome fringed with blond hair. Despite the conditions, he could no more go without talking than without air.\n\n\"Six years ago I was living in Krakow,\" he shouted to me. \"I was studying photography and nuclear physics. Not a great life, but not bad. You have coffee in the morning and beer in the afternoon. One day my neighbor, this is Piotr, comes to visit. He tells me that he is going to Latin America to kayak every big river he can find.\" Piotr was Piotr Chmielinski, who had recently earned a master's degree in mechanical engineering. He and his nine-man expedition had finagled a seven-ton truck from the Polish military, stocked it with twenty kayaks and a year's supply of kielbasa, and loaded it on a freighter. \"The boat is ready to leave but the photographer has disappeared,\" Bzdak said. \"Piotr wants to know am I interested.\"\n\nThey left Poland together two weeks later, thinking they would be gone for six months. Neither man had yet returned.\n\n\"First river we run is the Pescados, in Mexico. We put seven kayaks in the river. In fifteen minutes we lose six of them. River just takes them away. Big Polish joke.\"\n\nBut they persisted, ultimately running twenty-three rivers, thirteen of them first descents, in eleven countries. The Mexican government hired them to study six previously uncharted rivers. The National Geographic Society commissioned them to report on the deepest canyon in the world, Peru's Colca. Jacques Cousteau invited them to join the white-water team for his Amazon film project (an invitation they declined in the face of other commitments).\n\n\"Big difference between Cousteau's Amazon expedition and this one,\" Bzdak said.\n\n\"What is that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Four million dollars. Even in the Amazon Cousteau is drinking good wine. We are flat broken.\"\n\nIn 1981 the Poles made the first recorded descent of the Colca canyon. When they returned to the Colca in 1983 for National Geographic, they recruited a South African, Tim Biggs, to be their lead kayaker. Biggs was now sitting across from me with his knees pulled up beneath an Abe Lincoln beard. Thirty-three, short, muscular, dark-eyed, his curly brown hair going gray, Biggs had a reputation as a bold riverman with extraordinary energy (once, solo, he had beaten an eight-man rowing team in a twelve-hour race) and strong, sometimes perplexing convictions. He was, for example, a third-generation vegetarian from a family that raised beef cattle. For the past two hours he'd been blowing a harmonica nonstop into the teeth of the wind, playing the only tune he knew, \"Waltzing Matilda,\" again and again, faster and faster.\n\nBiggs, of British ancestry, had been a world-class distance kayaker for nearly a decade, but eventually, banned from one country after another as a South African athlete, he had retired from competitive racing. He had met the Poles in Peru in 1981, when he captained a South African expedition on the deadly Urubamba River, which flows beneath the walls of Machu Picchu. Afterward, Biggs had joined Chmielinski on a first descent of the most difficult section of the nearby Apurimac River, considered the furthest tributary of the Amazon. Later, in the city of Arequipa, he'd led the Polish team through long evenings of drinking and dancing. Bzdak had nicknamed him \"Zulu.\"\n\nSince then, however, Biggs had married, adopting his wife's evangelical Christianity, and he now spent long evenings reading his Bible. He was ready to settle down, work the family farm, and raise kids. Still, he figured he had time for one more expedition.\n\nNext to Biggs sat Dr. Kate Durrant, her teeth chattering despite the sleeping bag in which she'd wrapped herself. Thirty, sharp-eyed, lean and British, she had a long, aristocratic face and auburn hair cut in a short punk style laced with orange. She stuck her head up and, as best she could, surveyed the barren _puna_. \"At times like this,\" she shouted, \"I wonder why I ever came here.\"\n\n\"You come because it is better than your boring life in London,\" Bzdak shouted back.\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe was the only woman on the expedition, which included five other men in addition to the four of us on the truck bed. Prior to her arrival in Peru she had met only two of her teammates face-to-face. She had been working in London as a general practitioner for the National Health Service when friends in the television industry mentioned a project to film the first descent of the Amazon. Thinking a female doctor would lend romance to their story, the film's producers selected Durrant from some sixty applicants. Ultimately the producers withdrew from the project, but Durrant pushed ahead. She had spent the last year researching high-altitude and tropical medicine and assembling a medical kit designed to prevent, or nurse the team through, malaria, yellow fever, hepatitis, rabies, gangrene, intestinal parasites, toothaches, poisonous snakebites, dysentery, broken bones, and a list of other horrors up to and including the wretched _candiru_ , a tiny, parasitic catfish that pins itself inside the human urethra with nonretractable spines. Once in place it must be cut out.\n\nLeaning against me for warmth, suffering in silence, was Sergio Leon. A devout Christian Scientist (only with reluctance had he agreed to ingest the twice-weekly malaria prophylaxis upon which Durrant insisted), he was short and dark, the strong cheekbones of his Indian ancestry mixing handsomely with a leafy black mustache bequeathed him by Spanish forebears. He had taken leave from his post as director of Costa Rica's Corcovado National Park to participate in the expedition. He was the team's only native Spanish speaker and its expert on tropical biology. Though as cold and uncomfortable as he ever had been, he displayed a bright-eyed tropical sangfroid. He looked twenty-five; he was forty-seven.\n\nI was the expedition's only American, and, as I was to see with the painful clarity of hindsight, by far its most naive member. It was, or should have been, a telling sign that I carried in my duffel bag a copy of _The Portable Conrad_ and wore a new great-white-hunter felt safari hat and a khaki shirt with epaulets\u2014the sort of vogue paramilitary garb that can get one shot on sight in a violent country such as Peru.\n\nI was miserable, freezing, and nauseous from the altitude. I was also bewildered, what self-knowledge I possessed arising from panic rather than insight. When I'd left the United States for Peru I'd seen myself in a romantic light\u2014as a man on the run from something, though from exactly what I hadn't determined. On that bone-jarring truck ride, however, I vaguely, and with some horror, understood that I was also running _toward_ something: the black hole of the Amazon. With nine complete strangers.\n\nFor me it did not start with a wild love of the Amazon, though later I did learn to love it. It began in a more ordinary way, with a telephone call from a stranger.\n\nThe call came on one of those bright June San Francisco days when, as they say, the weather is so perfect there does not seem to be any weather at all. The bay's sweet-salt air drifted in through the open window of my office as I sat at my desk trying to finish a newspaper column, a sort of consumers' service I wrote for the San Francisco _Chronicle_.\n\nThe voice on the line was guttural, Germanic in tone; later I would learn it was Afrikaans. The caller identified himself as Dr. Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal and said he studied butterflies for an American university. But he wanted to discuss an independent project, one that he had been developing for the last six years. He intended to become the first man to navigate the length of \"the greatest of all rivers,\" the Amazon.\n\nI was skeptical. Man had golfed on the moon but had yet to travel his planet's most famous river from source to sea? Still, I listened.\n\nOdendaal's expedition would begin with a climb to the source of the Amazon, a snowfield high in the Andes. There his team would mount white-water kayaks, which they would paddle some four hundred miles down the Apurimac, one of the most dangerous white-water rivers on Earth. Once on the jungle floor, they would switch to sea kayaks for the three-thousand-eight-hundred-mile haul through the Amazon basin to the Atlantic Ocean. Odendaal estimated his journey would take four months.\n\nHe had a problem, however. At the last minute, the British film company that was to have sponsored him had withdrawn its backing. The expedition, scheduled to depart for South America in six weeks, was about to collapse. He said mutual acquaintances had suggested I might write press releases to help him raise money.\n\nI said I didn't do that kind of work; he should try a public relations firm instead. I gave him a name and wished him luck. We hung up.\n\nI finished the newspaper column in mid-afternoon, bought a six-pack of beer, and walked to the beach. I swam in the cold Pacific. Then I lay down in the sand, opened a beer, and settled into that glazed state that precedes an afternoon nap. Tropical images bubbled up from my subconscious: parrots, palm trees, monkeys swinging on vines.\n\nI bolted awake, anxious, and found myself ticking off the reasons a man like me could not go to the Amazon. I had just begun living with a woman who had recently graduated from law school. We might soon marry. Though my job was nothing spectacular, I was competent at it, and it was secure.\n\nThe relationship scared me and I was bored with the job. That was the source of my anxiety. When I got home, I called the night line at Odendaal's university. \"Don't look at the dog!\"\n\nI looked at the dog, looked right into the beast's beady eyes. It sprang at my face but got instead the car window between its fangs and my neck\u2014and a swift fist from Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal.\n\n\"My apologies,\" he said. \"I should have warned you sooner.\" He leaned into the car and cooed to the whimpering animal. \"The dog is a dingo. I found him when I was studying in Australia. He wandered in from the outback, starving and nearly dead, and I saved him. He has been with me ever since. He hates people. He would tear your eyes out.\"\n\nThe small dog frightened me. It was shorthaired, wiry, and ugly, and even after the punch it glowered at me, muttering from low in its throat. When I looked at it again it exploded in wild barking and threw itself at the window a second time. I didn't look at it after that.\n\nI looked at Odendaal. We were about the same age (he had said he was thirty), but he was not what I had expected. He was tall and had thinning red hair and the beginning of a pot belly and a funny kind of bouncing limp when he walked, as if he had sprained an ankle. He did not look like an athlete.\n\nHe said, \"You do not look like the man I expected,\" and I thought: Well.\n\nI stared at his feet, rudely. I couldn't help it. They were oddly small for his height. \"Polio,\" he said, without reproach, as if my reaction were one he often experienced. Offering no further explanation, he asked, \"May I buy you a beer?\"\n\nWe were in a resort town high in the Colorado Rockies, near where Odendaal was spending a part of the summer supervising a butterfly research station. We found a bar and sat down at a table. Odendaal spread out a map rendered in garish colors, as if it had been lifted from the bulletin board of an elementary-school classroom. Here, on what turned out to be a map prepared by the Peruvian military, were the mountains, in lurid orange; the cloud forest, in bubbly pink and screaming gold; the jungle, in\u2014of course\u2014funky, primordial green.\n\nI watched Odendaal trace the blue vein that would define his journey. It was an intoxicating exercise; maps are such seductive fictions. The river names bewitched me. _Apacheta, Lloqueta, Hornillos_ , _Apurimac, Ene, Tambo, Ucayali, Mara\u00f1\u00f3n, Solim\u00f5es, Amazon_. Pronounced, they twisted the tongue in sensual ways. They sang, they enticed.\n\nSo did the campaign Odendaal laid out. He would climb big mountains, kayak wild rivers, at least one of which had never been run, and travel areas that were virtually unmapped. In one of those unmapped places, called the Red Zone, the Peruvian government was engaged in an exceptionally grisly war with the Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. \"These are guerrillas,\" Odendaal said. \"You may have heard of them. Every once in a while they kill people, including journalists.\" He looked at me and laughed. The Red Zone was under martial law and closed to outsiders. Odendaal would have to sneak through it. Later, he would spend weeks in the heart of Peru's cocaine-producing country. He would meet exotic tribes. Britain's prestigious Royal Geographical Society had already invited him to speak upon completion of his journey.\n\nOdendaal lit a cigarette and sat back. \"What do you think?\" he asked.\n\nThe deal was this: If I could raise money from a publisher and contribute it to the expedition, Odendaal would let me write about his adventure. I would shadow the team as best I could. For the first month I would ride in a support truck, but after that, when we ran out of road, it would be raft, banana boat, whatever.\n\nI wasn't particularly qualified for the trip. I spoke Spanish, and I was in decent physical shape\u2014I ran five miles a day and did two hundred push-ups\u2014but I had never been on a white-water raft, and I was not a good swimmer. By no means was I an \"explorer.\" Still, I felt that the life I lived was a step removed: filtered, rehearsed, relayed.\n\nSix weeks after that first phone call, I quit my job and kissed my girlfriend good-bye. Feverish and sweating from a battery of injections received the night before, I met Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal at the San Francisco airport, where we boarded a plane for Lima, Peru.\n\nOver Mexico we spoke about the expedition. Odendaal was worried about the river, about his health, about money. But the thing that worried him most, the thing that had his guts in an uproar, was Piotr Chmielinski.\n\nChmielinski was the expedition's co-organizer. Odendaal had met him only once, but he said that he had found the Pole brilliant, tireless, and ambitious. Chmielinski's first descent of the Colca had made him a celebrity in Peru, and he had an easy way with the Byzantine workings of the Peruvian bureaucracy. He knew how to get equipment into the country without its being confiscated, was adept at wheedling favors from government officials, understood the peasants who lived along the rivers.\n\nBut Odendaal feared that Chmielinski would try to seize control of the expedition at the first opportunity. In fact, he said, Chmielinski had already attempted one such coup. When Odendaal's film backing had collapsed, Chmielinski had found new money, from a Wyoming millionaire who'd cornered the U.S. market for highway-stripe paint. Odendaal said that Chmielinski had then tried to force him to surrender his role as leader, but Odendaal had contacted the sponsor himself and won his support. (\"Do you know how a millionaire's asshole smells? Wonderful, just wonderful.\") Odendaal said he would have thrown the Pole off the expedition had he not sorely needed his expertise. But he was worried. Peru was Chmielinski's turf.\n\nThe plane bounced twice: Lima.\n\n# 2 \u2022 The Colca\n\nLima, Melville wrote in _Moby Dick_ , is \"the strangest saddest city thou canst see... there is a higher horror in the whiteness of her woe.\" There was woe aplenty in the city the night we arrived, but we couldn't see it, for its color was not white but black. Guerrillas had bombed the city's main power plants, plunging her into a darkness punctuated only by an occasional oil-drum fire.\n\nSergio Leon, with whom Odendaal had worked in Costa Rica, arrived on the flight after ours. We spent three days together in Lima, but I never got a good look at the city. My perspective was jaundiced. I fell sick the second day, erupting in a fit of spasms brought on, I suspected, by nerves, travel fatigue, and the medicine I was taking to prevent altitude sickness, one of whose side effects, apparently, was altitude sickness.\n\nThat third morning I awoke drained and beaten, my clothes soaked with sweat, my head hot with fever. Nevertheless, while Odendaal remained in Lima to await other expedition members, Leon and I set off on an eighteen-hour bus ride down Peru's desolate Pacific coast. We were bound for Arequipa, from where we would commence our climb to the source of the Amazon, and where we hoped to meet the notorious Chmielinski and his partner, Zbigniew Bzdak.\n\nAt some time during the night we veered east and began climbing into the Andes. At dawn we pulled into Arequipa, Peru's forgotten metropolis, a high, sunny, desert city set against a spectacular trio of snow-covered volcanoes. Arequipa is home to six hundred thousand short, calm people, no flies, and no joggers. The city takes its name from a Quechua expression that means \"You are welcome to stay.\"\n\nWe went to our lodgings. That night I received a phone call.\n\n_\"Hola,\"_ I said when I picked up the phone.\n\n\"Hello,\" the voice came back in English. \"How going is everything?\"\n\nPiotr Chmielinski proved to be a crisp, auburn-haired man of medium height, lean but muscular, with a dapper mustache and the cool blue eyes of a wolf. Polite but reserved, he did not smile as we ate ice cream in Arequipa's Plaza de Armas and watched a shuffling parade of Quechua Indians play \"Jesus Christ Superstar\" on _quena_ flutes, their round tones soothing after the jarring bus ride.\n\nI was surprised when Chmielinski said he had rented a house to serve as expedition headquarters. It seemed extravagant. Odendaal, I said, had told us he would be in Arequipa in a few days and that we would leave the day after he arrived.\n\n\"Two weeks,\" Chmielinski said. \"At the least.\" His tone implied that the discussion was closed.\n\nWhen Leon and I reported for duty the next morning Chmielinski assigned us to help Bzdak provision the expedition.\n\n\"Call me Zbyszek,\" the photographer said, offering a Polish diminutive that rhymed roughly with _fish shack_. \"It is easier.\" He was wrong about that, but he didn't seem to mind my fumbling his name. He was Chmielinski's opposite, loose and easygoing, and he quickly formulated what would be our only guideline in securing food: \"No mess.\" If it couldn't be boiled, dissolved, or eaten cold, we didn't want it.\n\nWe had a few supplies on hand already. Chmielinski had persuaded a Canadian company, Yurika, to provide us with a stock of their product, which was designed for the survivalist market. It was whole food vacuum-packed into aluminum envelopes. You dropped an envelope in boiling water for five minutes, then dumped the stuff over instant rice or potatoes. Our diet in some of the planet's most desolate locales would include beef burgundy, chicken cacciatore, and, for those nights of complete abandon, sweet-and-sour shrimp.\n\nBut that alone wouldn't be enough. We spent the next week scrambling about Arequipa's labyrinthine marketplace. One old woman sold us cinnamon and oatmeal, another canned sardines, a third tins of black-market chocolate. We found local cheese in waxed two-kilo wheels, which would keep well. We bought all we could afford, as well as bagged tea, instant coffee, powdered milk, sacks of sugar.\n\nOnce, urchins jumped me and tried to steal the bundles of paper money _(soles)_ strapped to my body in bulging lumps. Bzdak slapped them away and, unbowed under twenty kilos of chocolate, continued his charge down Arequipa's narrow cobbled streets, stopping to chat every block or so in Spanish, English, or Polish with some old friend or recent acquaintance. Leon and I staggered along behind, gasping in the thin mountain air and wondering if the expedition would ever begin.\n\nTim Biggs arrived in Arequipa next, accompanied by a tall, blond, twenty-nine-year-old South African named Jerome Truran. Biggs, appointed river captain by Odendaal, would have final say over how each section of the river would be run. Truran would assist him, sharing the lead through the most difficult rapids. The two men had been teammates on the South African kayaking circuit for almost a decade, a relationship that had ended in the face of international sanctions against South African athletes. Biggs had retired, but Truran had emigrated to England, where he eventually gained citizenship (his great-grandfather had been British). Truran had quickly won a berth on the British national team and established himself as one of the world's premier kayakers, winning a gold medal at the 1980 European Wild Water Championship, a silver medal at the 1981 World WWC, and a gold medal at the 1982 National WWC.\n\nBiggs had turned to exploring. During three river trips with Odendaal (to Africa's Limpopo River, Alaska's Colville, and the Urubamba) he had developed a deep affection for the Afrikaner. Biggs had seen the hell of polio firsthand\u2014his older brother had been crippled by it\u2014and he respected the effort Odendaal had made to rise above his handicap. For Biggs, Odendaal had the soul of a poet. He was a visionary, a mystic.\n\nBut Biggs worried about him. Odendaal's handicap stoked a great ambition, but he was not much of a kayaker, and his expeditions were not always smoothly run. And so Biggs had urged Odendaal to invite Chmielinski and Truran. Biggs admired the Pole's organizational skills and his knowledge of Peru, and Truran he trusted with his life. Biggs knew he would spend most of his time on the river protecting Odendaal; he wanted someone looking out for Tim Biggs.\n\nKate Durrant rode the bus into Arequipa alone, a day behind Biggs and Truran, and immediately set to work assembling individual medical kits for each of us to carry, going over our medical records, bringing us up to date on injections, and double-checking the hundreds of items in the big aluminum medical crate that would accompany us down the Amazon.\n\nMeanwhile, Chmielinski managed to borrow a Land Rover\u2014no small feat in Peru\u2014and he, Truran, and Biggs took on the imposing task of retrofitting it. _El Condorito_ (\"The Little Condor\") would be our mother ship for the first four to six weeks of our journey, rendezvousing with the kayakers (Odendaal, Biggs, Truran, and Chmielinski) every week or so and hauling the support-team members, food, the medical crate, spare kayaks and paddles, camping gear, and film.\n\nOr so we had hoped, until we made a test loading. When Chmielinski drove poor Condorito down one of Arequipa's pitted streets the truck rocked violently and listed hard to port. We would have to reduce our load. More important, we saw for a fact what most of us had suspected: Condorito could not possibly carry the entire support crew.\n\nThat night I studied the topographic maps I had bought in Lima. The headwaters and the upper Apurimac flowed through high, desolate plateaus and steep, sparsely inhabited canyons, but there did appear to be trails. I told Chmielinski that if I were able to handle the climb to the source, I would then be willing to try to walk the first leg of the trip.\n\nI couldn't determine exactly how long that walk would be. It would cover about a hundred and fifty river miles, but given all the climbing and descending of canyon walls, it might be three hundred miles by foot. (A British man, John Ridgway, had hiked the lower country in 1970. It would take weeks just to get down to the point at which he had begun his walk.)\n\nDespite the trek's length, my plan was selfish and pragmatic. I was bound to be the first man booted off the overcrowded truck, in which case I would have to fly ahead to the city of Cuzco and hole up there for a month or more while I waited for the rest of the expedition to work its way down out of the high mountains.\n\nI was relieved when Chmielinski endorsed my proposal.\n\nWhen the British filmmakers pulled out of the Amazon project (Odendaal said they had demanded more control of the project than he was willing to relinquish), Odendaal decided to make his own documentary. He recruited a two-man camera crew from South Africa. Two weeks after Leon and I arrived in Arequipa, Odendaal flew in from Lima with Fanie Van der Merwe, who taught at a film school in Pretoria, and Pierre Van Heerden, one of Van der Merwe's former students. Both had experience as cameramen for mountaineering expeditions, and both were tall, dark, hard-drinking, chain-smoking Afrikaners.\n\nA few nights later we gathered by candlelight around the broad wooden table in the kitchen of our Arequipa headquarters. Odendaal sat at one end of the table, Chmielinski at the other, while the rest of us sat between, passing a bottle of the Peruvian grape brandy called _pisco_. Odendaal delivered a long speech, emphasizing that he had included Chmielinski as co-organizer of the expedition out of respect for his skill and his knowledge of Peru, but that he, Odendaal, was the leader, alone and uncontested, and anyone unwilling to accept that was invited to leave.\n\nWhen he had finished, he looked to each of us, and then to the end of the table. He asked Chmielinski for comment.\n\n\"What is the problem?\" the Pole asked in a low voice. \"You are the leader. We all know that.\"\n\nThrough a Peruvian friend, Mauricio De Roma\u00f1a, the resourceful Chmielinski borrowed a second truck, an old but sturdy GMC flatbed. This and Condorito would haul the entire team up to the Colca valley, some fifty miles inland from, and five thousand feet above, Arequipa. From the Colca, Odendaal, Chmielinski, Bzdak, Biggs, Van der Merwe, Van Heerden, and I would attempt to climb by foot to the source of the Amazon, a snowfield atop 18,000-foot Mount Mismi. Durrant, Truran, and Leon would drive Condorito around the mountain and meet us fifteen miles beyond the source, on the Atlantic side of the continental divide. From there, on foot, we would trace the runoff from the divide until it grew deep enough to support the four-man kayak team.\n\nThis, at any rate, was the plan, and the next morning, beneath a blood-colored dawn, we loaded the trucks and set course for the high Andes. We made our jarring ascent via a dirt track that contoured the flank of Mount Chachani, one of the trio of volcanoes hovering over Arequipa like brooding monks. Arequipa was quickly swallowed by the dust-swept _puna_ , and within a matter of hours, as we climbed to fifteen thousand feet (higher than any point in the continental United States), my every effort became concentrated on choking back the nausea of _soroche_ , or altitude sickness.\n\nGiven my pain and the lunar bleakness of the landscape, it was easy to see why the indigenous Andeans, who refer to themselves as Runa, or \"the people,\" but who are more widely known as Quechua (the name describes a linguistic group; Quechua was the language the Incas imposed on their subjects), call the _puna_ \"savage\" and consider it forbidding not only physically but spiritually. It is, for example, where one must go to perform sexual acts, such as incest, that are prohibited within the villages, and it is home to the most powerful deities in the Andes, the _apus_ and _wamanis_ , often described as bearded white men who wear European clothing and live inside mountains and lakes. If not placated through ritual offerings, a _wamani_ may eat a man's heart, cause his wife to miscarry, or kill his infant child.\n\nShrouded in dust, rumbling through the lonely Aguada Blanca Reserve, the truck offered the only wrinkle of motion on the _puna's_ dun canvas until, flushed by our intrusion, five long-necked, goggle-eyed vicu\u00f1a galloped suddenly along a ridgetop. They were a sight at once otherworldly and heartbreaking. They and their fellow ruminants, the guanaco (both, though humpless, are related to the camel), are the largest wild creatures in the _puna_ , but they are not big at all, about the size of small North American deer. By the late 1960s the vicu\u00f1a had been hunted almost to extinction for their fine wool. Though they have come back strong in the reserve, and though they are swift, graceful beasts, moving easily at thirty miles an hour, their speed seemed annulled by the sprawling brown plateau. They ran and they ran, but they appeared not to get anywhere at all.\n\nSuch immensity of scale overwhelms the first-time visitor to the Andes. They are the planet's tallest mountains outside the Himalayas and the Pamirs, running north and south like a spine along the west side of the continent in a series of ridges, or _cordilleras_ , separated by impossibly deep canyons and high, endless _puna_ plateaus. However, although the Andes are never more than a hundred miles from the Pacific coast, their quixotic and frequently violent weather is greatly influenced by the mass of hot, moist air that rises from the Amazon basin and drops its moisture as it moves west. Consequently, the Atlantic slope is lush, the Pacific parched and nearly lifeless. It is said that in the Atacama Desert, southwest of Arequipa, one can travel a hundred and fifty miles at a stretch without finding life large enough to be seen with the naked eye.\n\nI witnessed the _puna_ from the bouncing bed of the GMC. The bodies around me changed constantly, shifting from bed to cab and back, but the ride was miserable, and I quickly abandoned any effort to communicate. Instead, silently and without success, I tried to divine some order, some binding pattern, in the babble of strange tongues that percolated above the wind: Polish, Spanish, Afrikaans, English spoken in dialects I had never heard before coming to Peru. Altogether, nine men and one woman; a born-again Christian, an Old World Catholic, a Christian Scientist, agnostics and pagans of various stripes; two Poles, one Brit, three Afrikaners, two South Africans of British heritage, a Costa Rican, an American; four husbands, two fathers; political convictions from far left to far right.\n\nOnly four would reach the sea.\n\nLate in the day we dropped down below twelve thousand feet into an immense patchwork of delicate agricultural terraces rising sharply from the Colca River, which runs northwest through the Andes, hairpins south, and drains into the Pacific. The hand-worked terraces (tractors would fall off the steep walls) give the lower reaches of the otherwise arid Colca valley the look of a verdant amphitheater.\n\nHigh overhead, two Andean condors, the world's largest birds of prey, floated easily on the valley's strong thermals, their ten-foot wingspans casting shadows hundreds of feet below. Viewed through binoculars, the condors, showing a white neck ring on an otherwise black body, looked like hooded executioners. Behind them, white-tipped volcanoes guarded the valley rim, and a few miles downriver, a black slit identified the point where the Colca River has carved the world's deepest gorge, more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. At one point the canyon rim is two and a half miles above the river.\n\nWhen emissaries of the Inca first penetrated the Colca valley, about 1450, they found the Collaguas, a people who worshiped volcanoes and shaped their heads like cones. (Their bizarre cranial effect was achieved by strapping boards to the soft skulls of their infants.) A century later, when the Spanish arrived, the Colca was the second-most-productive unit in the Inca agricultural system, generally recognized as the most sophisticated in the New World. Assisted by Franciscan missionaries, Gonzalo Pizarro wound up with control of the Colca. Within thirty years half the native population was dead, the rest herded into towns and their farms and irrigation systems all but destroyed.\n\nIt was a tragedy repeated throughout sixteenth-century Peru, where the Quechua death rate was two and a half times that of Europe during the Black Plague. Though there are some ten million Quechua-speaking people in Peru today (there were an estimated six million when the _conquistadores_ arrived), they have never really recovered from the Spanish conquest. They occupy the lowest position in Peru's variegated social stratum. The country is controlled by an oligarchy of _criollos_ , people of predominately Spanish, or white, descent. Between _criollo_ and Indian are several vaguely defined _mestizo_ , or mixed, classes. Through cultural assimilation and the shedding of their traditional ways, some urban Quechua have managed to assume _mestizo_ status. But the rural Quechua most definitely have not, and often the face they choose to display to those who bother to look back down the social ladder at them is hard as stone.\n\nIn the four centuries since Pizarro's butchery the Colca valley has regained a delicate equilibrium, though it is not nearly as productive as it once was. Now there is also a new joker in the deck, the $900 million Majes project, which, if ever completed, will pump Andean water westward over the mountains into Peru's coastal desert.\n\nThe Majes dam on the upper Colca was inaugurated two months before we arrived. What long-term effect it will have on the valley is unclear, but so far, according to Sister Antonia, a Brooklyn-born Maryknoll nun who has lived in the Colca for fourteen years, it has been devastating. The delicate indigenous economy, based on barter, subsistence agriculture, and cooperative labor, was blasted out of balance by the project's sudden infusion of high technology, hard cash, and steely pragmatism. Precious farmland was bought up and destroyed, farm animals were killed on the fast new roads, and the local cosmology, which held the river and many of the surrounding mountains sacred, was callously assaulted. The few people wise enough to save money during this period left the valley quickly. Most of those who remained rejected the old life for sunglasses, Polaroid cameras, cheap cane alcohol, and, when the project closed down, unemployment.\n\nChmielinski had hustled free accommodations for us in Achoma, a chunk of contemporary suburbia plopped down square in the middle of the valley and protected from the rest of Peru by chain-link fence, barbed wire, guards, and an electronic gate. At one time Achoma had housed more than one hundred and forty Majes engineers and their families, from Canada, the United Kingdom, Spain, Sweden, and South Africa. Beyond the fence one smelled dung fires and the musky, freshly turned earth of fields that had been tended by the same families for generations. Inside the fence were rows of identical ranch-style houses, graded streets, yards, electric stoves. I felt I could walk into one of the houses, turn on a television set, and watch baseball.\n\nLeft with the compound, the Peruvian government had been promoting it as a tourist hotel. We had the place completely to ourselves. We spent two days there, sleeping fitfully and nursing headaches and queasy stomachs as we tried to adjust to the eleven-thousand-foot elevation. Then, on an ice-cold clear-blue Andean morning, we reloaded the trucks and followed the dirt track back along the Colca River. An old Quechua man chased us in silence, until he could run no more. We rounded a turn with two crosses erected on the outside curve. The smaller one, made of twigs, marked a road death. The larger one, aluminum, supported the power line that ran to the Achoma compound.\n\nWe crossed the Colca and drove west along the river for six miles, into the village of Lari. From there, Odendaal, Chmielinski, Bzdak, Biggs, Van der Merwe, Van Heerden, and I would begin our climb to the source. The GMC and its Peruvian driver would return to Arequipa. For the moment, Condorito waited with us in Lari. After we climbers hired burros and set off, Leon, Durrant, and Truran would drive the Land Rover back along the Colca and around the mountain to what our map said was a small weather station in the high _puna_ some fifteen miles north of the source. We would try to meet there in three to five days.\n\nThe Lari sun stood alone under a brutal silver-blue sky. Its glare singed the eyes, and the air, dry as cotton balls, seemed to suck the moisture right out of them. Two dozen crumbling earth shacks and one sturdy Catholic church, the largest in the valley, lined an empty, baked-earth plaza. The whole hung on the lip of the sheer canyon like a snail climbing a wall. Quechua\u2014stocky pink-faced women in bowler hats and enormous skirts, pinched leathery men in blue jeans and holey sweaters\u2014slouched in doorways or nodded in the sun. No one moved.\n\nOdendaal and Chmielinski were not having an easy time hiring burros. \"It's like walking into East Selsby, Texas,\" an exasperated Odendaal said, \"and trying to borrow someone's Cadillac.\"\n\nI stood at the edge of the village and peered down. The Colca's deep drop begins just downstream from Lari. Staring into the canyon, I was overcome with a numbing, jelly-kneed vertigo, and I felt as if a little man with a hammer were beating against the backs of my eyeballs. If I had altitude sickness here, at eleven thousand feet, how would I handle the further six-thousand-foot climb to the source?\n\nInside my skull, the man with the hammer shouted: \"MGFLARHA!\"\n\nBut it was Bzdak, standing next to me and shouting above the wind that now swirled up out of the canyon. He opened his mouth to reveal a green quid. He spit it out.\n\n\"Coca leaf,\" he said. \"You want?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You feel like shit?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You want.\"\n\nIn the Andes it is legal both to grow and to chew the leaves, and according to what Durrant had told us, they are an effective antidote to the ravages of high altitude. But that endorsement didn't really matter to me. I hurt. I was willing to try anything.\n\nBzdak extracted half a dozen finger-sized leaves from a clump wrapped in newspaper and folded them in half. I tucked the wad into my right cheek. It tasted like tea leaves. Then he gave me a half-fingernail sliver of charcoal, or _llipta_ , which I worked into the leaves. The ash, from the quinoa bush, is extremely bitter, but it catalyzes the leaves' cocamides. Without it the leaves would have no effect.\n\nNor with it, at first. When my soggy wad started to disintegrate I replaced it with another, and a bigger chunk of _llipta_. My gums burned horribly. Minutes later the right side of my mouth went numb, then the back of my throat. I felt none of the mule-in-a-stall kick of cocaine, but the hammering man put his instrument away, and Lari no longer seemed so grim, or our expedition so improbable.\n\nBzdak and I walked to the plaza and joined the rest of the team around Condorito. Odendaal and Chmielinski were negotiating with two Quechua men, Pastor and Jos\u00e9, who owned four burros between them, but there was some sort of snag.\n\nA crowd had gathered. An old woman drooling coca-green saliva yelled \"Filthy gringos!\" then walked from one to another of us screaming obscenities. She was toothless and barefoot, her rumpled cotton dress torn and covered with mud. She stuck her hand on my chest and pushed me backward over one of the kayaks. Dignity shot, I left the plaza.\n\nI found a cold, dark, windowless shop, and from amid its bags of white rice and cans of fish and evaporated milk dug out a warm bottle of soda. Shivering, I paid a dour Quechua woman and stepped toward the sunlight that filled the shop's door.\n\nSuddenly, through the glare, I saw a dust ball of pounding hooves and Vibram soles and plastic boats stampeding down the dirt street. Urgent cries of \"Chorro! Chorro!\" filled the air. Beneath the dust, sticks in hand, Chmielinski and Biggs were beating four bewildered, nostril-flaring burros.\n\n\"Get one and go!\" Biggs yelled. I did as commanded, falling in behind the last wild-eyed beast and screaming \"Chorro!\" in a manner that convinced neither of us.\n\nVan Heerden and Van der Merwe were trotting alongside Biggs.\n\n\"They tried to burn the truck!\" Van der Merwe shouted. \"Chased it out of town! We hijacked the animals!\"\n\nBack at the roadhead, Odendaal and Bzdak were holding off the Indians. \"We find the end of town,\" Chmielinski yelled, \"then we make a deal.\"\n\nI ran down the street screaming at the clod-flinging hooves before me and thinking: It was not supposed to be like this. Three weeks in South America and already I had degenerated into burro thievery. I pictured myself strung up in sullen Lari like some raunchy outlaw in a spaghetti western.\n\nBut Chmielinski had it figured correctly. We passed the last hut on the trail and stopped. Odendaal and Bzdak caught up with us, and behind them came not an angry mob but only the burros' owners, Pastor and Jos\u00e9.\n\n\"It was the women,\" Pastor said. \"They did not trust you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Jos\u00e9 agreed. \"The women. My wife does not want me to go with you.\"\n\n\"What do women know?\" Pastor said, and gave a dismissive wave.\n\nThe trail turned sharply north, and up. One by one, the two Quechua men in the lead, we began to climb.\n\n# 3 \u2022 Headwaters\n\nMarching at the rear of our ragged parade, free at last of engines and wheels, I soon found myself rejoicing in the solid thump of foot on earth. \"One felt the happy sense of being free,\" Graham Greene wrote in _Journey Without Maps_. \"One had only to follow a path far enough and one could cross a continent.\" _We're off!_ I thought, chasing the tips of my boots with heady anticipation. _Into the wilderness_.\n\nWilderness? A tittupping procession of men, women, children, cattle, sheep, mules, burros, llamas, alpacas, goats, and dogs came slip-sliding toward me down the steep trail, an endless clattering farrago bound for Lari and below. Here a stony Quechua face, here a primordial goat eye cowering behind a quinoa bush, here\u2014 _phoot!_ \u2014a warm wad of llama goober shot squarely at the chest.\n\n\"Don't get close to llama!\" Bzdak yelled from up the trail, too late.\n\nI stopped at a spring to clean myself and met a Quechua man.\n\n\"What is above?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Where are you coming from?\"\n\n\"Nowhere.\"\n\nHe hoisted a load of gnarly wood and set off downhill, the calluses on his bare feet thick and creased like old boots. One cracked heel had been sewn shut with red yarn.\n\nTwo hours later I found Biggs and Chmielinski resting on a broad sandstone outcropping. Chmielinski pointed to a spot five miles southwest, where the Colca plunges most deeply into her canyon. Glinting ochre in the afternoon sun, her sheer ramparts soared out of the earth like giant organ pipes.\n\nChmielinski said that a month earlier he and Bzdak had rafted through the area searching for the body of their close Peruvian friend Alvaro Iba\u00f1ez, whom Biggs had also known\u2014the four men had run the Colca together in 1983, Iba\u00f1ez becoming the first Peruvian to make the descent. The spring before I arrived in Peru, Iba\u00f1ez and four fellow Peruvians had returned to the Colca. The river was at high water when they put their raft in, and it flipped in less than a minute. One of the men disappeared, never to be found. Another crawled out on the far side of the river. A third washed up on a boulder only to see his girlfriend flushed by a foot beyond his reach. Iba\u00f1ez had also made the rock but dove into the Colca to try to save the drowning woman.\n\n\"Last time anyone saw Alvaro,\" Chmielinski said. \"The helicopter found the girl's body a few days later, on big rocks. Somebody tied a yellow life jacket there to mark the spot.\"\n\n\"Alvaro?\" Biggs asked.\n\n\"Must have been.\"\n\n\"And Alvaro's body?\"\n\n\"We found his raft. It was the one we had given him. No body. One life jacket. It was a bad day when we found the raft. We could not talk or eat. We turned over our own raft. Zbyszek took the worst swim of his life. Our trip was very dark after that.\"\n\n\"Alvaro had a wife, didn't he?\" Biggs asked. \"I think I met her once. She was very pretty.\"\n\n\"She was seven months pregnant when Alvaro drowned,\" Chmielinski said. \"Now she has his baby.\"\n\nWe continued up the dry, dusty trail in silence, hiking steadily through the hot afternoon. The altimeter loaned us by the Royal Geographical Society ticked off our altitude in meters, which I converted roughly to feet: twelve thousand five hundred, thirteen thousand, thirteen-five.\n\nThe trail climbed steeply into the young, soft, harshly eroded Andes, and my heavy pack hurt. But there was pride in hauling one's weight, and, in a sense, identity. Bzdak lugged his cameras and film; Biggs, his Bible and sketchbook; Chmielinski, the maps he would pore over each night. Van Heerden and Van der Merwe had cameras and cigarettes. I carried my notebook, photos from home, the thick socks I wore to bed in cold weather.\n\nOnly Odendaal did not bear a pack. Instead, he loaded his gear on a burro, saying that if one of us were to be injured, his back would be available. After the first few hours on the trail, however, he seemed naked without a pack, and strangely alone. He went from man to man offering to carry his load, but no one would give it up.\n\nThe burros plodded along before us. The kayaks that were fastened awkwardly to their backs banged their heads, pinched their ears, and blocked their vision. We would meet Condorito before the kayakers entered the river, but Odendaal wanted to carry two boats to the source as props for his film. Suddenly, as if they understood the impurity of this exercise, the burros knelt down in the middle of the trail, jiggled their ropes loose, and pitched the kayaks.\n\nOdendaal and Chmielinski shouldered one boat, Pastor and Jos\u00e9 the other.\n\nLate in the afternoon thick clouds filed along the canyon rim. A cold wind picked up, and within minutes the temperature dropped below freezing. We made camp on a narrow ledge where the trail widened slightly. To one side rose a sheer mountain wall. On the other, a thirty-foot cliff dropped into a creek.\n\nBy then my euphoria had evaporated. The wind had whipped my face raw, my sweaty socks had chilled, my fingers refused to uncurl. I was cold and tired, and I didn't know anyone else well enough to share my misery without embarrassment. My head was too thick for small talk. It would have looked bad if I had simply gone to sleep (\"The lazy sod!\"), so I helped Biggs cook our communal dinner. We fired up our little gas stoves, and by the light of candles that flickered and died in the wind we boiled a pot of powdered-something soup followed by what its aluminum jacket alleged was Swiss steak. This sounds like a simple task, but at fourteen thousand feet it was an awkward, woozy chore. By the time we finished, the idea of actually eating the slop made me want to vomit.\n\nI stumbled off to my tent, which I had pitched near the cliff, facing into the Colca canyon. Though tempted to dive fully clothed into my sleeping bag, I forced myself to shed my filthy trail gear and stand naked to the night wind for one frigid instant. Then, like a knight donning battle armor, I scrambled into clean long underwear, turtleneck, down booties.\n\nThe moon, waxing and nearly full, loomed over my left shoulder, and fifteen miles in front of me reflected off the iced face of 19,600-foot Mount Hualca Hualca so brightly that the mountain seemed close enough to touch. The Southern Cross hung over the glistening peak, beaming through the thin, dry air as brilliantly as a movie marquee. I had never seen the cross, but instead of awe and exhilaration I felt only an immense loneliness.\n\nBy mid-morning the next day, beneath a high, hot sun, we had gained a ridge at fourteen thousand five hundred feet. The thin air made me so giddy I took delight in the increasingly arduous task of planting one foot in front of the other.\n\n\"What a marvelous world!\" I thought, but that was only the last rattle of a mind about to go jelly soft. My red corpuscles were begging for oxygen. Altitude sickness is, in its own perverse way, wonderfully egalitarian. An old, fat, chain-smoking drunk is no more likely to suffer its headaches, vomiting, confusion, diarrhea, dehydration, nausea, and short-term memory loss than is a champion athlete. It's mostly in the luck of the genetic draw. The best way to prepare for altitude is to drink plenty of water, until, as the maxim goes, one's urine runs \"clear and copious.\" And to climb slowly, giving the body time to adjust. The rule of thumb is one day of ascent for each thousand-foot gain above six thousand feet, and one day for each five-hundred-foot gain above twelve thousand feet. At about fifteen thousand feet, if not properly acclimated, one risks pulmonary and cerebral edema, which can strike quickly, do permanent, painful damage to lungs and brain, and even kill. Above eighteen thousand feet\u2014what mountain climbers often call the \"death zone\"\u2014the body can no longer acclimatize fully.\n\nWe needed two weeks to adjust correctly, but we were so far behind schedule that we had decided to try to reach the top of the continental divide in a matter of days. We weaved and staggered up the mountain in a long, scraggly line. Though walking slowly\u2014planting one foot deliberately, then stopping as if to make sure it was in place before lifting the other\u2014the first man, Van der Merwe, was more than a mile ahead of the last, Odendaal. The rest of us were spread along the narrow trail, mountain wall to the right, cliff to the left.\n\nI was second in line. By fifteen thousand feet my euphoria had crashed. By fifteen-five I felt as if I were carrying a balloon in my bladder, but try as I might I couldn't pass water. Slightly above sixteen thousand feet, I vomited. Pastor, hiking behind me with the burros, offered coca leaves. I accepted them with no small gratitude.\n\nThe sky grew gray, then black, and a hard wind roared up, followed by snow. I pulled my wind suit tight around me, head to toe, tied my ridiculous safari hat to my head with a bandana, and leaned into the wind. One step, two steps. Blinded by the snow, I could no longer see anyone in front of me, and I was too tired to turn around and look back.\n\nI crossed a ridge, dropped down, climbed another, each step lung-draining and leaden. The trail bent into a canyon, then wound out to a glacial moraine. Tiny creeks and spongy _ichu_ grass spilled like a brown skirt beneath Mount Quehuisha, a glistening pinnacle of snow and ice standing bold against the storm clouds clinging to the divide.\n\nVan der Merwe waited at the turn. When our teammates joined us, each greeted the sight of the splendid mountain with a look that was part reverence, part stupor. The usually ebullient Biggs was quiet and withdrawn. Bzdak's face had gone puffy and gray. Van Heerden, the chain-smoker, hacked deeply and continuously. Chmielinski slogged along with the burros; the frustration of paying attention to the headstrong animals, and also to their owners, had rendered him short-tempered and agitated. Odendaal, still taking up the rear, looked weary and confused, his eyes bloodshot and foggy. Searching for the source of the Urubamba in 1981, he had suffered two edemalike attacks at sixteen thousand feet and collapsed in spasms and convulsions that had nearly killed him.\n\nPastor and Jos\u00e9, their big mountain-adapted hearts pumping some 20 percent more blood than ours, cruised right past us. Chmielinski yelled to Pastor, and after a brief consultation told us, \"He says _media hora_. Half hour to source.\"\n\nWe pushed on. The storm intensified, at times cutting visibility to ten feet, and two hours later we seemed to be no closer to the divide. Our pace slowed. It took thirty minutes to walk a quarter of a mile. The trail steepened into switchbacks up a near-vertical slope.\n\nIt was too much, but Pastor and Jos\u00e9 refused to make camp. There was no forage for the burros, and besides, they insisted, the pass was only _media hora_. They kept going. As he had all day, Chmielinski urged the rest of us on, then chased after the burros. No one had the strength to argue with him.\n\nThe wind blew harder still, at what I estimated was thirty knots, and gusted so severely that no matter how far forward I leaned, it stood me straight up. I could no longer feel my face.\n\nI drew my wind suit tighter, popped a golf-ball-sized wad of the local chew into my left cheek, and settled into a high-altitude walking meditation: left foot, right foot, count each step, _one, two, three, four...._\n\nAt seven hundred thirty-one the snow cloud rolled down into the canyon below, the sun burst through, and Quehuisha glistened white and gold. The trail flattened. In front of me Chmielinski drew a line in the snow. I looked back down the trail, but I could not see the others. I staggered up to the Pole.\n\n\"Ten _soles_ , please,\" he wheezed. \"Now crossing continental divide.\"\n\nAs best I could I studied Chmielinski's line. It took a moment to register. On one side he had written \"Pacific,\" on the other, \"Atlantic.\"\n\nI stepped across, dropped my pack, and breathed deeply in the thin air, failing to draw the lungful I so desperately wanted. Behind and below, to the southwest, black clouds hung in the canyon we had climbed, sealing it off as if there were no retreat. Quehuisha's insouciant flanks rose immediately to the right, or east, her coned peak now less than six hundred feet above us. Half a mile beyond her stood Mount Mismi, and between them a ridge flecked with the pale-blue icefall that we would call the source of the Amazon.\n\nA rock cairn about six feet high sat in the middle of the divide, and at its peak two sticks were tied in a cross. Travelers had built this _apachita_ stone by stone as an offering to the _wamani_ who dwelled within the mountain. As custom dictated, I contributed a stone and my coca quid, an offering to the guardian spirit and a recognition of my pain. Then I turned to Chmielinski.\n\n\"All downhill from here.\" I said. Ho- _ho!_\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"for next forty-two hundred miles.\"\n\nOne by one the others struggled up after us, their faces so many flaring turquoise medallions. One by one they dropped their packs in silent exhaustion, and when, one by one, they erupted in hooting celebration, one by one they were punched short by wracking coughs. Cameras came slowly from packs, and slowly we reenacted the crossing of the divide.\n\nThe black clouds swelled and rose out of the valley below, blowing hard across white snow. We had found the top of the Amazon, but there was nothing tropical about it. Minutes later we stumbled quickly down the Atlantic slope, anxious to make camp before the bitter Andean night fell upon us.\n\nBelow the divide meltwater had built a webwork of brooks and tundralike islands, one of which had room for all but two of us. Bzdak and I hopped the rivulets and established our own little kingdom.\n\nNever, not even on my very first attempt, had the simple act of erecting my tent required more than fifteen minutes of my attention, but at seventeen thousand feet it was like trying to tie a shoelace in the middle of a roaring drunk. I couldn't decide which end was top, which bottom. I unfurled the ground cloth and circled it again and gain, trying to gain perspective. Finally, the authoritative _crack_ when I snapped the shock-corded poles into rigid order gave me a fool's courage, and I proceeded to poke, pull, and zip for a good forty-five minutes.\n\nWhen I finished I had a surprise: The tent had grown an extra pole. An extra pole! That was rich. The tent seemed fine without it. Chuckling to myself, I stuffed the pole into my sleeping bag, anticipating another good laugh after dinner.\n\n\"Joe,\" Bzdak said, \"how you feeling?\"\n\n\"Like a million _soles!_ \" I replied. What a knee-slapper!\n\n\"That fifty bucks. Not so good, eh?\"\n\nI followed Bzdak as he meandered herky-jerky to the big island. Biggs shared a big two-man tent with Odendaal, and he had volunteered it as a galley. We wormed in, pitched ourselves onto bags and packs, and removed our shoes.\n\nBiggs, tucked in his sleeping bag, was not feeling well at all. Somewhere in his travels he had contracted chronic brucellosis, an incurable infection whose symptoms include depression, extreme lethargy, and fever. Usually Biggs could control the condition with antibiotics, but a few months before leaving home for the Amazon he'd developed glandular fever (akin to mononucleosis), which in turn had triggered an attack of brucellosis. He'd been bedridden three months, and had yet to fully recover.\n\n\"Evening, mates,\" he said. He smiled, but he was wheezing.\n\n\"How you feeling, Zulu?\" Bzdak asked.\n\n\"Zbyszek,\" he said slowly, \"you're getting so big they'd make you King Zulu.\"\n\n\"What for dinner?\" Bzdak asked.\n\nWithout getting out of his bag Biggs pawed through the supplies. \"Chili. Sweet and sour pork. Beef burgundy. I think... Zbyszek, I think I'm going to puke.\"\n\n\"What make you feel that?\"\n\n\"Your feet stink.\"\n\nThis was no small declaration. At high altitude the sense of smell is greatly diminished. The molecules that build scent are too heavy to travel well in thin air. And so the dominant smell of high mountains, really, is no smell at all. Unless you're trapped in a tent with...\n\n\"Sorry, Zulu. What I can do?\"\n\n\"It's okay, Zbyszek.\"\n\n\"Don't want to make you sick, Zulu Man. I will leave.\"\n\n\"No. No! Just kidding. Nowhere I'd rather be than right here with my buddy Zbyszek. Really.\"\n\n\"How about with wife?\"\n\n\"Let's not talk about it.\"\n\nSoon the tent was a jumble of arms and legs and pots and spoons, one man lifting stoves, another reaching for food bags, a third lining up bowls. Now a hand held the big pot while another pumped the stove. Here were tea bags and coffee cups, and later a steaming pot of soup.\n\nA head in the tent door, vapor billowing from mouth and nostrils.\n\n\"Food ready?\" Odendaal asked.\n\n\"Soon, soon.\"\n\nWe cooked and poured, and Odendaal, recovered from the hike, carried soup through the snow to the men in the tents, returned with reports\u2014\"Pierre's coughing badly, Piotr can't hold food, Pastor and Jos\u00e9 like the tents we gave them\"\u2014and departed with bowls of chili and rice.\n\nBiggs couldn't eat. I managed a bowl of chili. Bzdak gobbled seconds.\n\nWhen my head felt as if it were being punched from inside, Bzdak led me back to our tents. I shook with cold the night through.\n\nWhen I awoke I forced my head out the tent door into a wet gray cloud that seemed to have smothered all sound and shredded the day's light into a shadowless pall. It could have been dawn, or noon. Below the gray spread a white plain of fresh snow, from which I retrieved my frozen boots.\n\n\"Zbyszek.\"\n\nA thick voice gurgled up through the white mound next to my tent. \"What you want?\"\n\n\"Breakfast.\"\n\n\"I take your order. Breakfast to bed for Se\u00f1or Amazon. Then you puke.\"\n\nHe was right. I could no more hold food than stand on my head. Or, for that matter, my feet. I stood, wobbled, sat down, pulled on my heavy clothes. The day's plan was for Pastor, Jos\u00e9, and me to leave camp ahead of the others with the burros, hauling all the expedition kit we could carry to the weather station where we hoped to meet Condorito. Our map said the station was on a plateau some fifteen miles north of the source. The rest of the team would stay behind to film the icefall, then, with lightened packs, hurry down the trail to join us that night.\n\nBefore we set out, however, I wanted to see the source for myself.\n\nCompass in hand, I slogged back up to the divide, gave the _apachita_ a nod for luck, and turned left, east, groping uphill through snow and scree. An hour later, the fog spread below me like a gray sea, I was locked alone on top of Peru with the solemn, treeless peaks that guard the birthplace of the Amazon like court eunuchs: Quehuisha, Chayco, Mismi, Huillcayo.\n\nAnd there, suddenly, not fifty yards away, hung the blue veil of the icefall. I started toward it but stopped. I have never been sure exactly why. I had to get back to camp and on the trail, and I was drained by the effort of climbing, but that was not all. It seemed irreverent to say, this is it, I'm\u2014what? _Touching_ the source of the Amazon?\n\nIt seemed vaguely silly, too. Defining the source of the Amazon is like unwinding a ball of string and trying to decide which of the tiny frayed threads at its core is, in fact, the end. By generally accepted definition, the source of a river is that tributary farthest from the river's mouth (as distinct, say, from the tributary carrying the greatest volume of water). For years\u2014centuries\u2014the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n was considered the Amazon's source, but aerial photos taken of the Andes in 1955, and later translated into excellent topographic maps for Peru's Instituto Geographico Militar, revealed that the Apurimac, one of the Ucayali River's feeder streams, made the Ucayali system some sixty to a hundred miles longer.\n\nWhich left only thread measuring: Which of the brooks and creeks feeding the Apurimac is the longest?\n\nIn 1971, after studying the Peruvian maps, an American, Loren McIntyre, traced three Apurimac tributaries (the Hornillos, the Challamayo, and the Lloqueta) to a spongy cirque, and from there to the continental divide. He reported on his exploration in _National Geographic_ magazine:\n\nOn October 15, 1971, we reached an ice-edged ridge above Carhuasanta, longest of the five headwater brooks. The Indians call that 18,200-foot summit Choquecorao....\n\nA thousand feet below the ridge we sighted a lake, its crust of ice thawed by the midday sun. We clambered down to quench our thirst with its transparent meltwaters. Here at 17,220 feet was the farthest source of the Amazon\u2014more a pond than a lake, just a hundred feet across.\n\n[My partners] named the lake after me, more or less in fun, knowing it may not always be the most distant water of the River Sea. It could disappear in a single season. The Andes are new mountains; they still buckle and break....\n\nMcIntyre was right about the shifting terrain, but I think he was wrong about Carhuasanta being the longest of the feeder brooks. Our maps clearly showed that the Apacheta, two streams west, is longer, that a third stream, Ccaccansa, is longer still, and that another system altogether, draining nearby Mount Minaspata, is at least as long if it runs year-round. Nicholas Asheshov, an expatriate British journalist living in Peru, climbed Minaspata in 1970 and claimed it as the source; to the writer Alex Shoumatoff (in his book _The Rivers Amazon_ ), Asheshov dismissed McIntyre's pond as \"a marshy lake one kilometer above the mine where everybody goes and has a pee.\"\n\nDo these differences matter?\n\nNo. What we are talking about, after all, is a distance of perhaps a mile, which in the context of a 4,200-mile river hardly merits debate. Man must name, even if his definitions drain the natural poetry of a thing, but the source of the Amazon is not one particular pond or a single nugget of ice. It is the whole place, all of that cold gray web. The icefall, yes, and Lake McIntyre, but also the fog, the wind, the peaks, the fragile lace of mud and grass that spills below the mountain wall.\n\nSnow fell. Weren't these flakes the first drops of the Amazon? Can you separate snow from creek, ice from air, wind from sun?\n\nThe wind howled, the snow fell faster, the fog obliterated the icefall. Wheezing and confused in the thin air, I stumbled back down the mountain.\n\nOur camp was nearly whited out by the storm. After loading the burros and conferring quickly with the others, Pastor, Jos\u00e9, and I set out, slipping north through the tundralike sponge along a defile some three hundred yards wide. The storm descended, lifted, descended. In the spaces between the enveloping whiteness the dark peaks loomed menacingly, softened only slightly by their mantles of fresh snow.\n\nNo sign of people, no trees, no boulders, nothing but the odd patch of golden _ichu_ jutting up through the white blanket. A splendid isolation. Creeks burbled down out of the mountains every hundred yards or so and buried themselves in the valley floor. Then, half a mile below our camp, they formed the Apacheta, the first coherent body of flowing water on the eastern side of the divide. A mile later we passed a _quebrada_ , a deep, narrow slice in the valley's west wall. _Quebrada_ is Spanish for \"broken,\" and no one word better describes what is the most common geological feature in the high Andes, cracks deep and eroded out of all proportion to the often minuscule flows that carve them. The _quebradas_ look as if they have been struck by some _wamani's_ giant axe.\n\nThat was Quebrada Calomoroco, and there\u2014the true source?\u2014the Ccaccansa, flanked by two steep, bouldery walls that looked exceedingly difficult to climb or descend. I was glad that we had chosen to follow the easier Apacheta.\n\nBehind me, a Quechua family had worked its way into our line, but I could not spot any place from which they might have come. Their dark, hunched figures kept quiet pace with us. Half an hour later, when I looked back again, they were gone.\n\nSuddenly the sun came on so strong that within minutes my eyes stung and I was stripped to my undershirt. Pastor and Jos\u00e9 overtook me as I removed my clothing. For the next hour we hiked together.\n\n\"Where are you from?\" Pastor asked in Spanish.\n\n\"The United States.\"\n\n\"Miami?\"\n\n\"California. San Francisco.\"\n\n\"That is near Chicago.\"\n\n\"No.\" I was surprised. The Peruvian peasants I'd met knew Miami, New York, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas; that was the United States. But Chicago? \"Not exactly,\" I said. \"I suppose it is if you are from Peru.\"\n\n\"That is where I am from,\" Pastor said. Jos\u00e9 nodded his head in vigorous agreement. \"But Alkapohnay is from Chicago.\"\n\n\"Alkapohnay?\"\n\n\"With the pistol.\" He made a shooting motion.\n\nI said, \"He has been dead a long time.\"\n\n\"He was a great man.\"\n\nOur conversation lagged until we stumbled across what appeared to be a llama shank, picked clean to the bone, the hoof intact. During our hike we had spooked one herd of the domestic beasts, which are related to the vicu\u00f1a. That and the mysterious Quechua family (it dimly occurred to me that they and the llamas were connected) were the only living creatures we had seen. Pastor suggested that a fox had eaten the llama, but I could not fathom any wild animal surviving in a land so barren.\n\nPastor said we should cross the little valley. Leading the burros, he and Jos\u00e9 waded into what the map said was now the Lloqueta River. It came to mid-calf. I threw my pack across and leapt to the far bank, a feat that winded me but drew applause from my fellow travelers. For a moment I reveled in the ridiculous notion that I had leapt the breadth of \"the greatest of all rivers.\"\n\nPastor said, _\"Media hora.\"_\n\n\"Fine,\" I said, and figured on at least four.\n\nBoth men stuck close with me through the afternoon, chattering away in Quechua and switching to Spanish whenever I indicated a desire to converse. Unfortunately, that wasn't often. We were still above fifteen thousand feet, and the hiking exhausted me. Black clouds built up behind and above us, overwhelming the hoodlum peaks. If the men back at the source weren't moving quickly, they were in trouble. The sun broke through briefly, the temperature jumped twenty degrees, the sun departed. I erupted in fits of hacking that split my head.\n\n\"Look!\" Pastor hissed.\n\nHe pointed to our left, to a slate-gray lake about half a mile long. On its far shore stood a low wall of blazing pink. Pastor shouted, and the wall flapped up from the earth: Andean flamingos, their unanticipated beauty hypnotic against the stark gray landscape.\n\nBlue-white lightning flashed behind the birds, followed by a peal of thunder and a sudden dizzy squealing. An army of frantic rodents scurried in and out of the rock pile along the right side of the trail. They looked like a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel, with long fluffy tails. Pastor identified them as _vizcacha_ (a relative of the chinchilla), and added, rubbing his stomach, that they were good eating.\n\nBeyond the lake the valley opened to waves of rolling, snow-dusted hills. I asked Pastor how much farther we had to go. He hesitated, and we spoke at the same time:\n\n_\"Media hora.\"_\n\nHe was lost. _We_ were lost.\n\nThe day still held about an hour of light. We huffed up and down hill after hill. At the top of one I stopped to catch my breath. The effort was, as always, useless, but a mile distant I saw a tree, leafless and completely out of place. I hadn't seen a tree in two days.\n\nIt was a weather vane, and beneath it the station, a dreary two-room affair manned by a single soldier, Roberto. His fortress held a small wooden table and a stone bench. Landscapes from a three-year-old calendar decorated one wall, along with a photo of Peru's national soccer team. Hanging like a shrine on the biggest wall was a poster of Miss Inca Cola. Her blond hair and thin bikini made the hut seem even colder.\n\nRoberto said no truck had arrived. I hustled outside to reconnoiter in the dying light. The hut stood on a hill directly above the point where the Challamayo River becomes the Hornillos. Below, a dirt track ran along the river, and a mile downstream I saw a dusky beige bulb that stood out only because it had launched itself into the one ribbon of contrasting color\u2014the green Hornillos\u2014that ran through the endlessly gray landscape, now fading to white with snow.\n\nCondorito.\n\nI waved and shouted, but the wind threw my pleas back in my face. Condorito turned downstream and drove away. My heart sank\u2014though I had known Leon, Durrant, and Truran less than three weeks, I missed them.\n\nI sat with Pastor and Jos\u00e9 and even the obliging Roberto, who brewed me a cup of tea and said I was welcome to stay for as long as I needed to. My loneliness paled by comparison to Roberto's\u2014he had been on duty at the shack for almost three months. His village was a six-day walk.\n\nAn hour later, like cavalry to the rescue, Condorito burst over the top of the hill, a wild-eyed Durrant at the wheel, Leon and Truran beside her. \"Bloody useless maps!\" she yelled out the window. We piled into the hut, lit our stoves, boiled water.\n\nMinutes later a white mass blasted through the door: Chmielinski and Odendaal, covered with snow.\n\n\"Bottom of the hill,\" Chmielinski sputtered. \"The others.\"\n\nDurrant grabbed her medical kit and flashlight and followed him back out. Odendaal stayed in the hut.\n\n\"Got lost,\" he said, warming his hands over a stove. His teeth chattered and his face was blue. \"Zbyszek and Pierre split off from the rest of us. Defied my orders. We were to stick together at all costs.\" Beneath his fatigue burned an intense anger. As night had fallen Bzdak and Van Heerden had spotted the fires of a small settlement off the trail. Realizing the team was lost, they had left the other hikers and gone to the lights, where they had found a man willing to guide the team to the weather station.\n\nFreezing, hungry, and dehydrated, the rest of the crew now stumbled into the hut. We melted snow and boiled soup and searched in vain for camaraderie, each of us too tired to think beyond himself.\n\nWe pitched camp outside, in the snow. That night I couldn't sleep. My breath came in gasps, and my tent and bag seemed to surround and squeeze me. I tore free of them and launched myself into the gelid night.\n\nThe moon, mother to the Inca nation, sister-wife to the sun-god Inti, had come full and scaled the blue-black sky. To the Quechua, in the months of late winter and early spring it is the moon, not the sun, that dominates life. I didn't find it hard to understand why. The snow that lay on the rolling _puna_ like a glossy skin reflected the moonlight so brightly that I felt I could see farther there, in the dead of night, than I had during the day.\n\n_Apu_ , in Quechua, means \"lord\"; the Apu Rimac was the Lord Oracle, or the Great Speaker. Considered the most powerful of the Inca oracles, he spoke through the river's tremendous rapids. It is said that approaching the Apurimac on foot during the rainy season, one can hear the rapids from miles away.\n\nIt was the Apu Rimac who foretold the coming of the bearded white gods, the _viracochas_ , who would take command of the Inca nation. So it seemed faintly ironic that on the day we were to set off in search of the oracle's river, Tim Biggs gathered us\u2014nine bearded men and one woman\u2014and asked our permission to say a group prayer, that day and each Sunday thereafter. The Afrikaners and Leon agreed, and though the rest of us were noncommittal, Biggs bowed his head and, speaking loudly and with a slightly nervous stutter, delivered an invocation on all our behalfs.\n\nThen, in the clear, cold morning, we said thanks and good-bye to Pastor and Jos\u00e9, who would return home with their burros. They seemed happy to have traveled with us, and displayed no residue of the venom that had accompanied our departure from Lari. I regretted not having gotten to know them better. Bzdak and the cameramen left, too. They would drive Condorito around the mountains and meet us downriver.\n\nWe waded the Hornillos, which was little more than a canal, and climbed to a ridge above it. A mild argument erupted. Odendaal and Biggs maintained that to claim to have \"run\" the entire river, they must follow its every inch, never losing sight of it. They wanted to walk low, right next to the water. Their argument contained an admirable purity, but also a disheartening literalness: It defined a river as separate from its watershed, from the land it drained, from its people and wildlife.\n\nWe split up. Odendaal, Biggs, and Truran hiked low, Chmielinski, Durrant, Leon, and I high. The absurdity of our disagreement struck home within an hour, when the trails converged. But we were ahead of the others by then. We would not meet again until late that night.\n\nIn fact, we saw almost no one. Once, we heard shrieks from behind a boulder, and rushed over to find two Quechua matrons sitting as serene and implacable as the rock itself. Only much later would we learn that their unsettling ululations had been Quechua song.\n\nAs we worked our way down the Hornillos, caught one moment in a blast of snow and the next in a burst of sun, the _puna's_ washed-out dun tones took on a green patina. Tiny cactus flowers dotted the minimalist landscape, their reds and yellows screaming against the treeless brown hills. Verdant Spanish moss vibrated along the banks. A squadron of Andean geese glided upriver, low to the water. We saw a trio of cormorants, a klatch of squeaking terns, some coots, and two tall, stalking waterfowl, black and white... \"Brings babies,\" Chmielinski said.\n\nA horse and rider charged across the _puna_ and reared up before us, blocking our path. The horse was huge\u2014my head barely reached the bottom of its shoulder\u2014and its bridle, inlaid with gold and silver, stood out regally against the scoured landscape. The rider wore a florid llama-wool poncho, a wide-brimmed sombrero, and a wool skull cap pulled down low over a Quechua face red as the volcanic soil. His cheeks bulged, and the wind had blown a green line of saliva and coca juice across his face.\n\nBut it was the man's eyes that startled: Spanish eyes, as pale and distant a blue as the icefall at the source.\n\nThe ghost rider stared at us but said nothing. Finally he let fly with a shrill, manic laugh, as if we were the most absurd thing he had ever seen. Then he wheeled his heaving beast and barreled across the blank _puna_ as urgently as the wind.\n\nTwo days below the weather station we met Condorito at La Angostura (\"The Narrow Place\"), where the Hornillos joins the Apurimac, and where the river first becomes deep enough to support kayaks. The last five miles of our trek traversed a broad alluvial plain flanked, like almost every part of the high plateaus, by menacing volcanic peaks. In my notes I had come to refer to these peaks as \"The Enforcers.\"\n\nAt the slim confluence Bzdak and I climbed a lava spire and saw, on the rock wall opposite us, chalk markings and hardware for a dam and reservoir that will be part of the far-flung Majes project. If the dam is built as scheduled, much of the country we had hiked over the preceding two days will be flooded behind the first, and only, dam on the entire 4,200 miles of river we hoped to follow to the sea.\n\n\"How long have you been coughing up blood?\" Kate Durrant asked Pierre Van Heerden that night at La Angostura. We were in my tent.\n\n\"Two days,\" he said. He took a long drag off his cigarette. \"It's spasms. Once I start I can't stop.\"\n\n_Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap_. Probing knuckles led a stethoscope across his back.\n\n\"It's the altitude,\" she said. \"And the dry air. Smoking doesn't help.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Inhale, exhale, smoke ring, _hack_. Van Heelden tilted his head back on my lap while Durrant worked the scope along his chest.\n\n\"Crackling on one side. We'll try antibiotics.\"\n\nVan Heerden exploded in a fit of deep coughing that quickly built to spasmodic retching. Though he seemed to be suffering the most, we all had similar problems. A deep draft of the thin, cold, dry air, a puff of dust, and an invisible hand doubled one over, lungs burning, throat trying to rip itself out. Each night ferocious hacking erupted from the camp like death cries.\n\nLoud voices and laughter drifted to us from the big South African tent nearby, into which the rest of the team had crowded to share the _pisco_ the cameramen had found in the tiny mining town of Cailloma, a few miles up the Apurimac from the Hornillos confluence. Durrant packed up her gear and she and Van Heerden left to join the party. I stayed behind to work on my notes.\n\nOr so I tried to tell myself. In truth, after nearly a month with this crew I still felt like an outsider. In a way, it was my role. They were the expedition, I the observer. But that role had been designed in a different world, a world from which I now felt completely removed, and in the lonely _puna_ those lines seemed cruelly artificial.\n\nWind blasted the tent. My thermometer read five degrees Fahrenheit. I blew on my fingers and scratched a few more lines.\n\nI heard scraping at my tent door, then, \"We come to visit Ch\u00e2teau Joe,\" and Bzdak and Durrant tumbled in. I lit a second candle and fluffed up the foot of my sleeping bag to make a seat. Bzdak offered a bottle of anisette.\n\nThe tent flap opened again, and Chmielinski ushered himself in. Bodies mushed together. Amid them flew stories of Poland and the Andes and London. The flap opened yet again (\"Hey, mates!\") and Tim Biggs crawled in over the bodies. Then, _\"Hay fiesta?\"_ \u2014Leon shoved in from behind, and the stories took on a tropical hue.\n\nWe talked and drank and talked. Hours later, when the party finally broke up, my thermometer read a comfortable forty-five degrees. And I did not feel bad at all.\n\n# 4 \u2022 The Upper Apurimac\n\nRunning roughly northwest through the heart of the Andes, the Apurimac is a river left to herself, the wild young issue of a wild young mountain range. She is not a civilized river. There are few villages on her banks, fewer bridges. Roads cross her four-hundred-mile course only eight times, and they are terrible crossings. At the top, during her first fifty miles, she wriggles gently through the high _puna_ in a shallow red volcanic trench fringed with golden _ichu_. Over her next three hundred miles, however, she drops almost thirteen thousand vertical feet, a gradient five times that of the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Before the Apurimac collapses, spent, into the Amazon basin, she carves a gorge that for miles at a time is more than ten thousand feet deep. It is one of the deepest river gorges on the planet; many believe that it is second only to her neighbor, the Colca. Down on her boulder-strewn floor, the Apurimac's whole untethered act of simply running, of sheer velocity, overwhelms all other life. Since the 1950s a half dozen attempts have been made to kayak her. At least two people drowned, and no one succeeded in navigating her length.\n\nIt is understandable, then, that the Apurimac canyon has always been shrouded in mystery (parts of it remain among the least-known areas on the South American continent), and yet it holds profound historical and religious significance for the Quechua. According to a widely accepted version of the Inca creation myth, it was near the village of Paccaritambo, high on the canyon wall, that four brothers and their sister-wives crawled out of their caves and at the bidding of their father, the sun-god Inti, founded an empire in the neighboring valley of Cuzco.\n\nThe deep Apurimac protected this fledgling Inca state from the mighty Chanca nation to the west until the mid-fifteenth century, when the two nations clashed at Cuzco, and the Incas emerged victorious. The spanning of the Apurimac with four bridges woven entirely of hammered grass played a critical role in their subsequent, frenetic westward expansion. (When the Spanish _conquistadores_ arrived a century later, they regarded these bridges\u2014their cables, two hundred feet long and as thick as a man's body, were capable of supporting entire armies of animals and men\u2014as among the New World's most awe-inspiring sights.)\n\nIn 1533 the Inca ordered the grass bridges burned to block the _viracocha_ invasion from Lima, but the river was uncharacteristically low that year, and the white gods managed to ford it. They sacked Cuzco but failed to settle the inaccessible Apurimac, and in 1536 the canyon became a strategic flank for what would be the last Inca state, Vilcabamba.\n\nTwo centuries after the fall of Vilcabamba, the Apurimac village of Surimana spawned Jos\u00e9 Gabriel Tupac Amaru II, who in 1780 led the second rising of the Incas. Though his revolt failed, in terms of territory, participants, and bloodshed it dwarfed one taking place at roughly the same time in a tiny, recently declared nation far to the north.\n\nAnd it was the Apurimac canyon that gave birth, exactly two hundred years later, to the Shining Path movement\u2014the Sendero Luminoso\u2014which would grow into one of the most ruthless and clandestine guerrilla organizations in modern South America.\n\nI awoke to the river's easy rush. Outside my tent the frozen droppings of burro and llama glistened in the dawn's half-light. The night before, having found no other level ground, Bzdak, Leon, and I had pitched camp right on the trail, on a thin rock ledge etched into the gorge wall a few yards above the river. The three of us had become a team. The previous day, at La Angostura, Chmielinski, Truran, Biggs, and Odendaal had put their kayaks in the Apurimac, and the cameramen, Van der Merwe and Van Heerden, had conscripted Durrant as driver for Condorito and left the river. Bzdak and Leon had volunteered to walk with me, and in that desolate country we had trekked under the giddy intoxication of being alone, unobserved, in a place no one cared about.\n\nBut of course we were not really alone. That we saw no one that first day out of La Angostura was probably a consequence of our garish appearance\u2014bulging aluminum-and-nylon packs, Goretex jackets, sunglasses, big leather boots. I imagined Quechua hiding in the mountains, giggling as we passed.\n\nOr perhaps we had simply been too fatigued to notice anyone. At dinner, after struggling through fifteen miles of steep switchbacks and descents, Bzdak had wobbled away down the trail. Leon and I heard vomiting and found him crumpled in a clump of _ichu_. We helped him to his tent, and Leon brewed him a stomach-soothing tea from foraged mint.\n\nIn the morning, however, Bzdak was in good cheer (\"I get sick from no beer\"), and the trail ran smooth and level, a foot wide and centuries old. It cleaved to the ledge, then retreated behind soft, loamy slopes. Ducks and geese cruised by, fish surfaced in the river, the weather turned temperate and welcoming. We passed the charred remains of a llama-herder's fire, a stone hut, and small fields plowed right down to the trail but never violating it. I began to think of us as honorary members of the Quechua Department of Highways. With each step we did our part to preserve the trail, to maintain order. Here an encroaching clump of _ichu_ stomped down, there a revolt of loose dirt tamped into place.\n\nA red-faced Quechua woman studied us from her mud-brick hut, perched like a storybook home on a boulder wedged between trail and river.\n\n\"I like your house!\" Bzdak yelled in Spanish. The woman blushed redder and ran inside.\n\nIn late afternoon we reached the ruins of an Inca fortress. Tucked into craggy folds of rock at the point where the Totorani River joins the Apurimac, it reflected the Incas' ability to blend into that cleavaged landscape, to hide. The buildings, unlike the famous jigsaw puzzles of the Inca religious and cultural centers, were simple, utilitarian, and long since looted, but their stone lintels continued to define doors and entranceways, and young corn sprouted between the walls. Corn and stone, agriculture and architecture\u2014the material achievements of the Inca state. Their presence in such austere highlands hinted at the dogged endurance of the mountain culture.\n\nWe met the kayakers and the camera crew that night, four miles down the trail, at another set of ruins, Mauccallacta. There is an old and complex tradition of reciprocity in the highlands, one form of which, _mita_ , the Incas elevated to a kind of social-security system. In compensation for rotating terms of state labor, the Incas built large public projects for the workers' communities\u2014roads and irrigation systems\u2014and guaranteed those communities against harvest shortages and famine. Mauccallacta's round, crumbling stone towers, looming like frozen druids beneath the half-moon, might well have been storehouses for various commodities provided under the _mita_.\n\nThat night I worked in my tent with Durrant, helping her to prepare the packets of antimalarials that we would begin taking six weeks before we reached the jungle.\n\n\"Come here, Doctor!\" Fanie Van der Merwe shouted through the cold night air. \"I have something that needs a little attention.\" Cackles rose from the Afrikaner camp.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" Durrant said under her breath. She had not enjoyed driving the truck for the two \"cowboys,\" as she called the Afrikaner cameramen. They had spent one night with a South African engineer connected to the Majes project. While Durrant had cooked and washed dishes, the men had pored over the engineer's collection of Peruvian erotic art.\n\n\"That was all right,\" she said. \"It diverted their attention. But in the truck, my Christ. They kept winding me up.\"\n\n\"Come quick, Doctor!\" Van der Merwe yelled. \"Now it needs a _lot_ of attention.\" Howls erupted from the camp, followed by the sound of Van Heerden hacking deeply.\n\n\"They're trying to get me to lose my temper,\" she said. \"My only defense is to bloody well ignore them.\"\n\nI asked if she would prefer to walk with Leon, Bzdak, and me.\n\n\"How far?\" she asked.\n\n\"Ten to twenty miles a day,\" I said, and added that it would be harder work than our two-day trek on the Hornillos. As we moved farther down the canyon the country would become much steeper, and we would probably meet Condorito only once a week for resupply. We would have to carry full packs.\n\n\"I'm keen to try,\" she said. \"But do me a favor. Talk to Fran\u00e7ois. Our relationship seems a bit strained. I don't know what the problem is, but I'm not up to finding out just now.\"\n\nI went to the Afrikaner camp, where a pot of coffee bubbled on the fire. Odendaal poured two cups. Then we walked into the dark and the wind, and took shelter in one of the ruined towers.\n\nOdendaal said he welcomed the idea of Durrant joining us on the trail, and agreed that if she handled the walk to Yauri, she could continue to hike with us. We didn't go into her reasons for wanting out of Condorito. Odendaal had other things on his mind. He was worried about his film, worried mainly that his cameraman, Van der Merwe, would try to usurp his role as director, if not now then when Odendaal went to South Africa to edit the film. This was an understandable concern. Van der Merwe, several years Odendaal's senior and a professional filmmaker, had clearly established himself as the de facto leader of the Afrikaner triumvirate.\n\nI asked Odendaal about the river itself. He said the first two days of kayaking, the first thirty miles, had been easy, mostly flat, soft runs. Overall, he was disappointed. The expedition was lacking in adventure.\n\n\"I would think there was adventure in the whole effort,\" I said. \"In the perseverance.\"\n\n\"We're too organized,\" he said. \"Watch Piotr. He keeps notes on everything. _Everything_. He knows precisely how much coffee we drink. He wants to bring tourists in here.\"\n\n\"Doesn't his organizing make it easier for you?\"\n\n\"Maybe. I don't know. We have too damn many people. If it was just me and two others I'd be halfway down the river by now.\" He said the Apurimac would rise quickly once the rainy season began, which could be as soon as a month. We had to get moving.\n\nOn that note we said good night. I went back to my tent, and Odendaal returned to the fire, where, judging by the intensity of the whoops and hollers, the ribaldry seemed to have increased.\n\nParched, dust-ridden Yauri is the capital and only substantial town in the mining province of Espinar. It hovers over the brown _puna_ like a withered mirage, its two hundred or so sun-baked mud-and-tin buildings perched on a low rise that amid the numbing flatness of the surrounding plain is as imposing as a mountain peak. Long before we arrived we could see the imperious spire of the church. As in most poor Latin American villages, it was ostentatious well beyond the meager resources of its flock. Brittle shacks huddled around it like orphans clutching at the skirts of a wealthy matron. In front of the church a man labored shoulder deep in a sandy trench, digging up old graves. Stacked behind him, in a neat row, were a dozen human skulls.\n\nThe Spanish conquered Peru primarily for the mineral wealth buried in the Andes, and to extract that wealth, they corrupted the _mita_ into a brutal system of forced labor. There is no accurate count of how many Quechua died as a consequence of the Spanish _mita_ , which lasted more than two hundred years, but the most conservative estimates run to about a million. (It is also estimated that during the first fifty years of the Spanish conquest the native population declined from about six million to less than two million.) Many more fled their homes, and to this day some of the highland valleys remain depopulated.\n\nThat bitter legacy continues to haunt mining towns like Yauri. We made camp near the center of town, at a fortresslike weaving cooperative that had been organized by an order of Canadian nuns, with assistance from an Irish priest. That the Irishman had also begun to organize the local Quechua politically and to teach them to read and write had not sat well with the town's ruling powers, and he had been replaced by a _criollo_ priest from Lima. The Roman Catholic Church in Peru is notoriously conservative (it is the only Peruvian institution that continues to employ the _mita)_ , and as a Quechua man working in the cooperative storefront said of Yauri's new priest, \"The poor are not his business.\" The nuns had carried on, however, and in the cooperative's cavernous weaving room we rolled out our sleeping bags beneath hand-painted posters urging support for the Sandinistas, voting rights for the poor, and breastfeeding.\n\nBzdak and Durrant went in search of food and returned with news of beer and _pollo dorado_ (\"golden chicken\"). After eight days on the trail I could hear nothing sweeter. They disappeared immediately. Truran and I charged out right behind them, only to emerge into darkened streets lit solely by the refracted light of dung cook-fires spilling through open doorways. As we walked in the dark we talked to keep from spooking ourselves.\n\nAlthough the expedition had been in Peru almost a month, that was the first time I had found myself alone with Truran. This was a function of the expedition's crowded nature, not any reserve on Truran's part. Indeed, among the ten of us he seemed the most carefree, the most contented with his life. He was six feet tall, blond, with classic, square-jawed good looks and the natural physical grace of a champion athlete. In Arequipa, girls and women had pointed to him as he passed on the street, giggled shyly behind their hands, and called him \"Geronimo,\" after a Peruvian soccer star. Thus far, his chief concern on the expedition, other than rigging his kayak with a device that would enable him to breathe underwater in an emergency, had been to keep his waterproof Walkman alive to play the black African pop music he relished.\n\nOnce the kayakers left Yauri, Truran said, the Apurimac would drop steeply, and his real work would begin. In 1983 Biggs and Chmielinski had made the only known descent of a twenty-mile stretch of the river, a week below Yauri, that Biggs had named the \"Black Canyon.\" It had taken the men ten days to kayak those twenty miles. They had run out of food, become quite sick, and endured several serious accidents. Truran described the canyon as the upper river's \"crux move,\" its hardest section, but one that had to be run if the team was to claim a complete kayak descent of the river.\n\nTruran was concerned about the team's ability to execute that crux move. He said that Chmielinski was physically strong and mentally disciplined (\"He will do the right thing under pressure\") but weaker technically than Truran had expected. Something was bothering Biggs\u2014he seemed timid on the water\u2014and Odendaal was not prepared at all. \"He hasn't done his homework,\" Truran said. \"He should have spent every weekend of the past year working on his paddling, but he hasn't. It shows. I think Tim will end up carrying him down the river.\"\n\n\"Are you worried about that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not really. That's Tim's problem, isn't it?\"\n\nHis cold tone caught me short, but before I could ask him anything more we heard Bzdak's high laughter cutting through the night. We tracked the sound to a dirt-floored cantina lit by one bare bulb. The rest of our team arrived right behind us, in Condorito, and parked in front of the cantina. The vehicle quickly attracted a crowd of sullen young men.\n\nMeanwhile, when our _pollo dorado_ was served a beggar boy and a phlegmy drunk took up posts inside the cantina door. We heaped food on a plate and passed it along to the boy. He sat in the dirt and bent himself to the task of eating, the unshaded light throwing into relief the scabs on his shaved head. The drunk cajoled a cigarette from Van der Merwe. One of the young toughs entered the cantina, reached behind me, and tried to slip my plate off the table.\n\n\"Fuck off!\" Van Heerden yelled, and swung at the thief, who retreated beyond striking distance without saying a word.\n\n\"Many beggars here,\" Chmielinski said. \"If you are not watching, they will take your head. Better they should go find work.\"\n\n\"A man can make of himself what he wants to, can't he?\" Van Heerden said. \"If he'll work at it.\"\n\n\"Do I hear the voice of the Nationalist Party?\" Odendaal said.\n\n\"You hear the voice of a white male,\" Durrant said.\n\nThere was a commotion outside, and, being nearest the door, I bolted for the truck. The strong young faces retreated into the shadows, but no farther.\n\nTwo women approached me. They wore tight denim jeans, silky blouses despite the cold night air, high heels, thick makeup, and cascades of cheap jewelry. One introduced herself as \"Nancy,\" the other as \"Mary.\"\n\n\"Would you like to go to the disco?\" Mary asked in Spanish.\n\nI tried to imagine what would constitute a disco in the dark folds of that poor town, and declined their invitation. Van der Merwe and Van Heerden appeared in the doorway.\n\n\"Who are these lovelies?\" Van der Merwe asked.\n\n\"Mary and Nancy. They want to go to a disco.\"\n\n\"I think we could manage that,\" Van der Merwe said. Neither of the Afrikaners spoke Spanish, but that didn't seem to matter. Grinning, they strolled off arm in arm into the shadows.\n\nBiggs felt weak, and soon the four kayakers left, too, together with Leon, driving Condorito back to the cooperative.\n\nTwo men and a boy entered the cantina carrying a guitar and flutes. Bzdak, Durrant, and I ordered three more bottles of Cuzque\u00f1a. The beer was warm, flies buzzed our table, the drunk leered at Durrant. Bzdak told us about the time in Lima that he had almost died from malaria. He had slept in a bathtub filled with ice.\n\n\"Why do you stay over here?\" Durrant asked. \"Why don't you go home?\"\n\n\"Cannot. Same with Piotr.\" He said they had come to Peru in 1979 with permission from the Polish government to stay six months. Half the team returned on time, but two years later five still remained in the West. They scheduled a flight to Krakow for December 23, 1981. On December 13 the Polish government outlawed the Solidarity movement. When the news reached Lima, the Poles organized a five-thousand-person march led by the novelist Mario Vargas Llosa. They went first to the Polish embassy, where Llosa delivered a letter of protest to \"the only person with enough nerve to stick his damn head out the gate,\" and then moved on to a nearby park, where they were met with water cannon.\n\nPeru maintains strong ties with the Eastern bloc, and for the next six weeks the Poles were kept under surveillance by the secret police. Harassed, and with Chmielinski suffering a severe case of hepatitis, they fled to Casper, Wyoming, which they had visited briefly in 1979. They settled in Casper, gained U.S. residency, and eventually returned to Peru, where, after running the Colca, they were embraced as heroes by then-President Fernando Bela\u00fande Terry.\n\n\"Does it bother you, Zbyszek?\" Durrant asked. She had the pronunciation of his name down cold. \"You know, that you can't go back to Poland?\"\n\n\"If I go to Poland I have an interview, they take my passport away, and I go to prison. For sure I am never let out of Poland again. So it is not so bad. No home, but no prison.\"\n\n\"What about your family?\"\n\n\"No trouble for my parents, I think, or my little sister. It is five years now. They write me a few letters. They were... interviewed a few times, but there was no trouble.\" He hesitated, then finished his beer. \"At least no one ever tells me there is trouble.\"\n\nThe man with the guitar began to play a soft, soulful _huayno_ , a kind of Andean folk song. The boy accompanied him on flute, its tone at once melancholy and comforting.\n\n\"I don't see how you do it,\" Durrant said. \"I've only been in Peru a month and I'm wondering why I came at all.\" Her feet were swollen and blistered from the hike, but she did not want to return to driving Condorito. \"And I have this feeling I'll forget everything I see here as soon as I go home. I feel like, I don't know, like this won't _affect_ me.\"\n\n\"You will learn more on this expedition than in five years at home,\" Bzdak said. \"It will always affect you.\"\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nFour beers to the good, Durrant disappeared behind a greasy curtain in one corner of the cantina. Lurching, the drunk was about to follow her in when Bzdak shouted a Spanish oath across the room. The man met Bzdak's glare with a dull look and slumped against the wall. When Durrant returned, she and Bzdak danced to the guitar and flute, her feet miraculously, if temporarily, cured.\n\nI returned to the cooperative. Van der Merwe and Van Heerden tumbled in behind me, sweating despite the cold and breathing heavily. Their dates, they explained, had walked them past an alley. They had heard low whistles, upon which the girls had apparently experienced a change of heart. _Run_ , they had gestured frantically, _or your throats will be cut_.\n\nThe next morning the expedition once again divided into three teams. The kayakers manned their boats and we hikers set off on a trail along the river's left wall. Condorito would drive east out of Yauri, pick up a road that ran northwest through a valley that paralleled the Apurimac, then cut back into the Apurimac some thirty miles later, at the site of the only grass hanging bridge left in Peru. We agreed to meet there in four days.\n\nAs Truran had anticipated, below Yauri the river began to demand from the kayakers increased technical expertise and physical stamina. As the Apurimac cut deeper into the earth, huge rocks formed sieves that could suck a body underwater in seconds and keep it there forever. For hundreds of yards at a stretch two-story boulders buried the river completely. The kayakers hauled their heavily laden boats over the boulders and committed several flying \"seal-launch\" reentries, but weary of portaging, they took greater risks, at times running open pools without first scouting below them.\n\nAll four kayakers suffered, but Odendaal suffered most. Though with his weak feet and legs he was the man least capable of portaging his boat, he did so twice as often as the other men, slowing the team severely. Frequently, Chmielinski, the strongest portager, would race ahead with his own boat, then return to carry Odendaal's. Despite this help, Odendaal grew increasingly shaken and temperamental, and sometimes seemed overwhelmed even by the simple demands of making camp. Biggs worried about his friend. The river would only get tougher.\n\nThe second night below Yauri, Biggs sat quietly before the campfire, playing his harmonica, wishing the orange flames could burn away the conflicts he felt brewing within and without. Beyond the fire's warmth the canyon air was frigid and foreboding. Above him, in the narrow slit between the high black canyon walls, he could barely make out a thin ribbon of gleaming pinpricks. He thought about his new wife, Margie. They had been married only a few months, and he felt uneasy about being away from her for such a long expedition. The least he could do was come home alive.\n\nHe promised himself that he would not paddle the way he always had before, back when he had shot any rapid he thought he could run and many he didn't. It was time to change his attitude. He would run only those rapids about which he felt absolutely sure, and portage the rest. It was the first time in his kayaking life that he had conceded there were limits to his ability.\n\nBiggs pocketed his harmonica and left the fire. As the cold air stung his face he recognized faint symptoms of his illness, especially the drained lethargy, and hurried to his tent. He lit a candle, crawled into his bag, and finished reading the Book of John. Then he blew out the candle and settled in for a long sleep. He knew the river would demand all his physical and emotional strength. He had to get himself down it safely. And somehow he had to get his good friend Fran\u00e7ois down it as well.\n\nWhen I woke up that third morning out of Yauri, fog hung in the canyon, and in the chilly predawn air my body felt stiff and sore. And it stank. I found a quiet sandstone pool amid the bucking rapids, took two steps into it, and sank unsuspecting up to my neck in the freezing water. I emerged shivering, betrayed, and coughing from deep in my lungs.\n\n\"Please turn off cough alarm.\" That was Leon, curled up tightly in his snug bag. Farther down the tiny beach Durrant and Bzdak had zipped their bags together.\n\nAs penance for my rudeness I made coffee and oatmeal and served it in bed, or bag. Then we packed and were off, climbing, as the game but exasperated Durrant described it, \"fucking up and fucking down,\" a thousand feet up the canyon wall and down and up again, seeing nothing but rock and grass and the deep gray pit of the Apurimac. I fantasized about mules. Mules and bicycles. Mules and bicycles and cars, big cars, mountain-flattening monsters with horrible power plants and stereo tape decks and coolers of cold beer.\n\nFrom the ridgetop, at about thirteen thousand feet, sharp _quebradas_ fell away to either side like the widespread fingers of a bony hand. The scale of the terrain was immense. We hiked for hours between each small sign of man, the few we did see popping up like unrelated snapshots: a stray llama, strings of bright yarn hanging from its ears; a plume of smoke curling from behind a ridge; a shocked, bowler-hatted Quechua woman standing in the trail, her woven blouse dyed with a blue so vibrant it seemed to dance against the dun landscape.\n\nWe tramped along in a pattern that would last the duration of our three-week trek. Leon and I walked in front, Leon first, moving with the steady rolling gait he'd developed in Costa Rica's volcanic mountains. He called out the names of plants and flowers, sang songs, and coached my Spanish\u2014this last routine instituted after I'd asked a man we met on the trail to sell us not the eggs he was carrying but his testicles.\n\nDurrant and Bzdak tripped along at the rear, slowly. Bzdak felt it his duty to explain each nuance of the countryside, its history and culture and geology. He was an enthusiastic man, and once he got going on a subject he was hard to stop. Unfortunately, as his lips picked up speed his feet slowed down. Several times each day Leon or I backtracked to prod the chirping lovebirds into forward motion.\n\nAs we climbed that morning I considered the budding romance between doctor and photographer, which I knew was exactly the sort of thing Durrant had vowed to avoid. They seemed an unlikely match, Bzdak the anarchic artist, Durrant the urbane professional, even here in the wild. In part, perhaps, a matter of balance. And for Durrant, after the hard time in Condorito, of refuge.\n\nLate in the afternoon we reached our first settlement since Yauri. Hueco (colloquial Spanish for \"hole\") consisted of a dozen mud huts squatting amid a ring of the humpy bald peaks called _cerros_ , which aside from the canyon's walls and _quebradas_ are the dominant feature in the Apurimac moonscape. Each _cerro_ is believed to harbor a benevolent spirit, a spirit that may be made godfather to a newborn child. I liked that idea\u2014how spiritually fulfilling to tramp about one's personal godfather hill, talking things over with the dirt.\n\nNext to the first hut a young man pressed mud into forms and laid the bricks in the sun to dry. He was soon to be married. The home he was building, beside his parents', would be the size of a small shed, with barely enough room for two people to sleep. However, like so much else in that lean country (where a third of the crops fail, and the economy is for the most part a cashless one), marriage is a cooperative venture designed to further the community as a whole. The newlyweds would enter a trial period of perhaps a year to see how well they meshed with their new relatives. If things did not work out, the union would be honorably dissolved. Neither church nor state would be party to it.\n\nFangs bared, a barking little shepherd dog harangued us through Hueco, until a squat beardless man ran down from one of the _cerros_ and gave the cur a solid boot.\n\n\"I am the mayor of Hueco,\" the man said. Despite the run, he was not breathing hard at all. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"To Cuzco.\"\n\n\"By foot?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe hefted Bzdak's pack. \"You are crazy,\" he said, then ran back up the hill.\n\nWe pushed on, and late that evening made our rendezvous at the Hanging Bridge.\n\nAs the Incas had directed, the one hanging bridge that still spans the Apurimac is rebuilt every year in a spirit of cooperation between the citizens of Chumbivilcas province, on the west side of the canyon, and Canas province on the east. It is woven entirely of grass, and though its purpose is ceremonial\u2014a modern wooden bridge stands two hundred yards upriver\u2014it is an impressive structure. Once, according to the villagers of nearby Huinchiri, it attracted a film crew from _Disneylandia_. (Perhaps a convenient identification. After the Pope and Fidel Castro, no icon is more ubiquitous in Peru than _El Rat\u00f3n Mickey.)_ The villagers demanded payment before they would allow the crew to film. Refused, they burned the bridge.\n\nYears later, when Condorito chugged into view laden with the arcane mat\u00e9riel of the cinematographer, Huinchirins attacked it. The kayakers arrived at the bridge shortly thereafter, and the entire crew quickly found itself on trial, sat down, like prisoners of war, on a stone bench in the middle of the village and surrounded by a hundred or so angry locals. For nearly an hour Chmielinski argued with the mayor, argued, as Biggs later described it, like a Prussian statesman. Finally, desperate, he offered the villagers a group medical plan\u2014free examination by the expedition doctor. With that, the men were released.\n\nWe hikers limped into camp that night to find the expedition's mood raw and shaken, and when Odendaal announced that we would carry film equipment upriver the next day so that his crew could stage a shot of the kayakers running a rapid, I made the mistake of protesting. (Odendaal had appointed me \"Leader of the Hiking Team.\") I said that we had been hiking twelve hours a day with full packs for the last four days. Bzdak's heart was bothering him, Durrant's feet were painfully swollen, Leon was exhausted, my knees were shot. We needed a rest.\n\n\"I am responsible for every person on this expedition!\" Odendaal yelled at me. \"I know exactly how they feel!\"\n\nHis vehemence caught me off guard; our relationship had been cordial until then. I believed he hadn't spoken to the other hikers\u2014Bzdak, in fact, was asleep, and Odendaal hadn't said a word to me before announcing his plan\u2014and when I pressed him for some proof that he had, he would not answer me. Stalemated, we walked away from the campfire to hash things out.\n\nOdendaal leapt to the offensive. He threatened to throw me off the expedition. \"And Piotr wants you off, too,\" he said.\n\n\"Look,\" I said, \"I'm sorry\u2014\"\n\n\"He wants Kate out as well. What good is a doctor who can't kayak? And he says Sergio is a needless luxury.\"\n\nNumbed by this drastic escalation in what I had thought a contretemps, I said nothing, though I wondered idly how far I would have to walk to find a ride to Lima.\n\n\"I don't understand it,\" Odendaal said after a while, when we had both calmed down. \"You and I got along very well in the United States.\"\n\n\"We're all pretty tired right now.\"\n\n\"I have been on many, many expeditions. This is nothing. Nothing at all. You will see.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Yes. Well, I hope it will work out.\"\n\nPerhaps, I suggested, traveling alone in a group of strangers had affected my judgment.\n\n\"Alone?\" he said. \"You?\"\n\n\"Yes, I\u2014\"\n\n\"What about _me?_ \"\n\nThat was a surprise. I said that it had been my impression that most of the men he had brought with him were his friends.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he said. He shook his head sadly. \"Oh, no. You don't see it, do you? You don't see it at all.\"\n\nI admitted that I didn't.\n\n\"I'm the one who is most alone here,\" he said. \"I have Fanie pushing me from one side, Tim from another. I have to figure out how Pierre will support his family while he's gone, because we certainly won't finish on time. Piotr is just waiting for me to make a mistake. And the river...\" He shook his head again. \"No, you don't see it at all. _I_ am the one who stands alone here. _So_ alone.\"\n\nWe shook hands, and he left me sitting there by the river, chewing on what he had said. I believed that it was my duty to speak up on behalf of my fellow hikers. Nevertheless, I regretted having further burdened a man so troubled already. And I began to suspect that I had no real understanding of how terrifying a river could be.\n\nThe next morning, while the rest of the expedition marched upstream (Leon pressed into service as a film-crew mule, Bzdak carrying only his own cameras), I, the squeaky wheel, was assigned to be interpreter and factotum for the offices of Dr. Durrant. Patients began to assemble at dawn, and by the time she had her clinic erected in the big tent, two dozen Quechua were huddled silently near Condorito, with more arriving hourly.\n\nMost were women who appeared to be suffering from rather vague ailments. None spoke Spanish, nor I Quechua, either of which might have rendered their pains more specific. Though several had brought husbands or sons to translate for them, I found myself fumbling for unfamiliar Spanish words. I had no idea how to say, for example, \"Is she still menstruating?\" and so bumbled forth with \"Does she continue to have a river of blood falling from time to time from between her legs?\" Hesitant consultation between man and woman, then, \"No. No river.\"\n\nOne young woman had back and stomach trouble. In the preceding seven years she had borne four children and suffered three miscarriages. Another had given birth to ten children, five of them still alive. Another had eight, three alive. And so on. Few of these women were over thirty.\n\nWe saw about three dozen patients. Several had walked as far as five miles. None had ever visited a doctor. A few had the deteriorating gums and missing teeth that are the marks of coca-chewing and dietary deficiency, but other than that, Durrant said, most seemed healthy. All had remarkably low blood pressure: \"No fat in the land, no fat in the people.\"\n\nWhat these peasants seemed to want most was an ear, and sorcery. To the more insistent Durrant dispensed aspirin, which cannot be found short of the daylong trip to Cuzco and is quite expensive by local standards. But she did this reluctantly. \"It's too much like a laying on of hands,\" she said. \"The magic white doctor dispensing magic white pills.\"\n\nOur final patient, the fish-eyed young wife of a very old man, had been hit in the head with a rock three years before. Her head still hurt, and her eyes focused on two entirely different places, like the headlights of a funky car. After a quick examination Durrant determined that she probably needed glasses, considerably more difficult to obtain than aspirin, and not at all what the old man wanted to hear. At first they refused to leave. After a few tense minutes, however, they hit the trail.\n\n\"There didn't seem to be many serious problems,\" I said.\n\n\"These people are like anyone else,\" she told me. \"Medical problems are not always the point of a visit to the doctor. When they're sitting around with the neighbors they want to be able to say, 'I went to the best specialist in town.' \"\n\nTwo hours later the old man shuffled back into camp, alone, carrying a pot filled with small, sweet potatoes and pieces of marinated lamb. He watched silently as we ate. The food was delicious. We cleaned the pot. When he left he said only, \"Thank you.\"\n\nAt the Hanging Bridge we once again split up into three teams. We agreed to rendezvous in five days, at the village of Surimana, in the notorious Black Canyon.\n\nTwo days after the kayakers departed the Hanging Bridge camp Biggs made a decision he found distasteful: Odendaal would have to leave the Apurimac and portage around the entire Black Canyon. Biggs believed\u2014wanted to believe\u2014that his friend had the physical ability to run the river. Emotionally, however, Odendaal was faltering. He took forever to decide whether to portage or paddle a rapid. Mostly he elected to portage, which meant he spent twice as long at each rapid as the rest of the team. Too often on those occasions when he chose to run a rapid, he froze up and endangered himself on the water. Meanwhile, the other kayakers carried most of his gear in their boats, which made their own portages that much harder.\n\nBiggs tried to persuade Odendaal to shoot more of the smaller rapids, so as to build up his confidence, but Odendaal refused. Biggs thought about forcing him to run them, but he was afraid this might backfire, that Odendaal might break completely. Yet something had to be done. Odendaal's fear was rubbing off on the rest of them, especially Biggs, who was second-guessing himself, running the river through Odendaal's terrified eyes.\n\nAt lunch that day, Biggs told Odendaal of his decision. At first Odendaal was shattered. Though he would be allowed to rejoin the team later, his journey would be broken. He would not be able to say, in the strictest terms, that he had kayaked the entire Amazon. However, he agreed that the plan was for the best. The team would push on that day and make camp near the Chaca bridge, where they would hire porters to carry Odendaal's gear into Surimana, six miles downstream.\n\nThen a difficult thing happened.\n\nThe canyon broadened and the river flattened out. The rapids became easy, open, gentle. In the unconstricted river, Odendaal began to paddle well, and over the next couple of hours his confidence soared. Then, above an unexpectedly tight turn, he froze up once again. Chmielinski was bearing down behind him. Trying to avoid Odendaal, the Pole flipped his boat. Biggs and Truran, scouting along the bank ahead, scrambled for their rescue lines. As they did, Biggs looked up, and saw that Odendaal had successfully negotiated the rapid and was whooping with joy in the calm water below. Biggs knew what Odendaal was thinking: If Chmielinski could not handle this stretch of water, he too should be made to leave the river.\n\nTruran and Biggs rescued the battered Chmielinski, but Biggs stuck to his decision. That night they made camp at the Chaca bridge, and the next morning Odendaal was sent off, his kayak borne on the shoulders of two Quechua men.\n\n# 5 \u2022 The Black Canyon\n\nBelow the Chaca bridge the Apurimac began to show her darkest side. Now she began her great plunge, boring through a turquoise-and-steel-blue canyon clotted with mile after mile of bouldery blockages and frothing water.\n\n\"We came to a place where enormous rocks covered the valley floor. The water charged in frenzy at these giants, boiling between and beneath them in search of a distant sea.\" That is how a University of Utah chemistry professor, J. Calvin Giddings, described the entrance to the Black Canyon of the Apurimac. In 1974, he and a partner made the first recorded attempt to kayak the canyon, but abandoned the effort almost immediately. \"Navigation,\" Giddings concluded, \"would be suicide.\"\n\nWhen Biggs, Chmielinski, and Truran entered the Black Canyon, they were already feeling lonely, isolated, and run-down from the hard work and insufficient rations of the preceding leg. Almost at once Biggs met the hole that in 1983 had given him one of the worst scares of his life.\n\nIt was a siphon, really, a powerful sucking maw that lurked behind an overhanging boulder. Truran and Chmielinski scouted it and waved Biggs through. It did not look like a difficult run. Biggs had only to skirt the boulder. But when he hit the first drop above the boulder a little too slowly, the river snagged the tail of his boat and threw its nose high in the air. By the time Biggs corrected, he found himself heading for the heart of the siphon.\n\nFor one horrifying moment he realized that he was in exactly the same predicament as two years before. Here it was again, like a recurring nightmare, this agent of the _apu_ Rimac tugging him slowly to his death. How could this be? Paralyzed for a moment, shocked, he could only stare at the rock he would be sucked under. It was a \"tea strainer.\" The river went under the rock in one big flood, but it went out the other side through holes too small to pass a body.\n\nHe snapped out of his trance and tried to pull away from the siphon, bracing his paddle against the overhanging rock. No luck. His boat flipped. He stole his last breath. The river tore the paddle from his hands. When he bailed out of his boat he felt himself going down, felt the siphon sucking him under, deep under, to a place without light or sound.\n\nHis lungs ready to burst, he fought in vain against the unseen power pulling his feet and torso farther under the rock.\n\nThis was it. The end.\n\n_Dear God_ , Biggs prayed, _don't let me go like this_.\n\nHe thrust his hands up into the swirling green above him. His last hope was his boat, rocking overhead. He slapped one hand on the kayak and one on the granite roof and pulled.\n\nAir!\n\nThe siphon sucked him back down. It slammed him along the rock, into a different boulder. Here was hope: tiny fingerholds in the moss-covered granite. Then from behind, a shove\u2014his boat again!\u2014and he was pinned to the boulder.\n\nThe river poured over him, tore at him, but his right foot found purchase on a rocky nub. His head struggled out of the siphon, his shoulders, his back.\n\nBiggs heard shouts: Truran and Chmielinski. A yellow rescue bag bobbed in the water scant feet away, its white line\u2014life!\u2014leading to Truran.\n\nBut the bag bobbed just behind his head.\n\nGive up his hold to lunge for the line? He couldn't do it, couldn't abandon the rock.\n\nWater, tons of it, crashed over and around him. The river raged and ripped at him, tried to pull him back from the light. She yanked his feet from the rock. He was going down again.\n\nHe prayed strength into his fingertips. They found tiny cracks and nubs, arrested his slide, pulled him back, inch by inch, from eternity. Now he was out to his waist. Now he hauled himself free of the siphon. Now he gained the top of the boulder.\n\nThen he lay facedown in the sun for a long time.\n\nSo much river left to run.\n\nWe hikers left the Hanging Bridge camp relieved to be on our own again. After two weeks on the trail, our ragged quartet had developed a mobile domesticity, an idiosyncratic routine, that didn't mesh with the rest of the expedition. It was hardest, perhaps, on Kate Durrant. For one thing, she and Bzdak were not ready to reveal their relationship to the rest of the expedition, and did not sleep together when we were with the film crew and kayakers.\n\nFurther, as she noted in her diary, with nine men in camp, much more attention was paid to \"what I look like than most of the men. Most of them are not exactly Paul Newmans, to put it mildly... [but I sense] a certain disappointment that I don't live up to the [image of] glamorous expeditioneer\u2014perhaps the price one has to pay for being taken on because of being female.\"\n\nOn the trail, dusk was the best time of day. No one would have spoken in the last two hours, except to consult and denigrate our torn, tyrannical map. (\"It says we have to do _what?_ It's _got_ to be kidding!\") Beaten silly, we would trudge through our last jarring descent and collapse on a sandy beach. Slowly at first, then quickly as the temperature plummeted below freezing, we would open packs, discard sweaty clothes to dry, build a fire, boil water, erect tents.\n\nI was on kitchen detail that first night, and I discharged my duties in sullen silence. After my tiff with Odendaal at the Hanging Bridge, I had decided unilaterally that if we were to be removed from the expedition, it would not be because we were too slow. That day I had set a hard pace on the trail, pushing the others to keep up, and they had glared at me with angry eyes.\n\nBut something melted over the campfire, its dancing flames a warm center in the cold mountain night. Bzdak initiated a preprandial ritual that we would repeat whenever possible\u2014\"Quechua Moonshots\" (cane alcohol, or _ca\u00f1azo_ , he had carried from Huinchiri, mixed with a powdered fruit drink favored, the package alleged, by _los astronautas)_. Leon helped me fix chili, spicing it with wild garlic and onions he had foraged along the trail. Durrant teased me gently into dropping my arrogance, and with it my pants.\n\nI was due for a shot, a rabies prophylaxis against the jungle bats we would encounter if we ever reached the jungle.\n\n\"Off with the trousers, Kane. Doctor's orders.\"\n\n\"It's cold.\"\n\n\"Off.\"\n\n\"I will make a big fire,\" Bzdak said.\n\nHe heaped driftwood on the blaze, and I capitulated, whatever dignity I still retained evaporating with an involuntary yowl when the doctor found her mark. There was a round of applause. After dinner, as the three who could still do so sat and watched the river by starlight, I rummaged in my pack and fished out three chocolate bars. I offered them, wishing I could offer more.\n\nWe awoke at dawn and climbed hard all the next morning, to thirteen thousand five hundred feet, gaining the canyon rim at about noon. It was like climbing out of a cave. Ten yards away, a solitary gray eagle held at eye level in the thermals swirling up out of the canyon. Forty miles to the northeast, 21,000-foot Auzangate floated like an iceberg above the lesser brown peaks of the Cordillera Vilcanota. In fact, turning in a full circle, all one saw was peaks. Wind tore across the exposed ridge and lightning flashed in the gray-black sky above.\n\nTwo thousand feet below us, we could see the point where the Apurimac's black-and-red walls shifted abruptly from their forty-five-degree slope to nearly vertical. Even from that height the Black Canyon revealed itself as a boulder-strewn mess, its feathered rapids whipping the once-green river into a boiling white.\n\nWe were looking for the village of Chocayhua. From there the trail would drop back down to the river and eventually cross the bridge, near Surimana, where we hoped to meet the kayakers.\n\nOur trail forked. Here was a Quechua man. Could he direct us to Chocayhua? \"That place does not exist,\" he said, and took the left fork. We went right. Fifteen minutes later we were in Chocayhua, watching a Quechua crew hew eucalyptus trunks into logs for a schoolhouse. Under yet another form of reciprocal labor, _faena_ , community members would build the school. The government would provide the workers with coca, _ca\u00f1azo_ , and cigarettes. And, perhaps, when the project was completed, a teacher.\n\nWe pushed on down the trail. As we reached the end of the tiny village a voice shouted to us from behind a courtyard wall:\n\n_\"Chicha!\"_\n\nBeer or the dusty trail? Not a difficult choice.\n\nWe entered the courtyard. Six barefoot Quechua men in clean white alpaca suits sat before three ancient manual Singer sewing machines, drinking freely from bottles of _ca\u00f1azo_ and sewing banners for a fiesta scheduled to begin the next day. There would be a bullfight, and this being planting season, any human bloodshed would be considered a fertility offering to the earth.\n\nTwo stout gap-toothed women moved among the men, refilling their bottles and the ornate ceremonial coca pouches that hung from each man's neck. They poured us cups of home-brewed _chicha_ , a thick, slightly sweet corn beer. We sat in the sun and drank and watched the men sew. Every few minutes they asked how we were doing, which seemed, increasingly, to be just fine.\n\nAn old, drunken man with a big belly entered the courtyard. This was \"Papa,\" who said he was the father of several of the men, although he could not remember who their mothers were. One of the women began to wail in a high, eerie voice. The men ignored her. Papa attempted a shot of _ca\u00f1azo_ but missed, a rich stream pouring down his lower face and across his chest. The young men stood and anointed their banners with _ca\u00f1azo_ and toasted themselves. After a while one fell down and did not get up.\n\nWhen we inched toward the courtyard gate hands clamped my arms in a way that was not entirely friendly. I tried to pry the leathery fingers loose, but they were firm and unyielding. Two men grabbed Bzdak. They hauled us to another home, another courtyard. The two families sponsoring the fiesta that year were honor-bound to outdo each other. If the moonmen had fun at one home, they had better have fun at the second.\n\nThey said Bzdak must take photos, which he did energetically, though without film in his camera. They said we must drink _chicha_. This I did as fast as I could, until my stomach started to cramp and felt as if it would burst. Leon and Durrant did likewise.\n\nWhen a commotion at the courtyard gate distracted our hosts' attention, we ran for it. We were cut off at the gate. A horse reared up on the trail, its rider swinging a kind of lariat looped around a golfball-sized stone. A skilled man can fling the stone some fifty yards with considerable accuracy. But not this _mal hombre:_ After demanding in a gurgling voice to be photographed, he slumped forward in a stupor and fell to the ground like a sack of rice, headfirst, his skull landing with the squashed sound of a dropped melon.\n\nSomeone else jumped on the horse, and the mob\u2014the whole of Chocayhua seemed to have spilled onto the trail\u2014trampled poor melon-head. A fight erupted. In the confusion and encroaching darkness we made our escape down the trail and back to the safety of the deep, dark canyon.\n\nTwo nights later we found the kayakers camped at the Surimana bridge. Odendaal had gone ahead to Surimana. From there, a road led out of the canyon and into the city of Cuzco. He was to meet Condorito in the village, then drive into Cuzco with the cameramen. Fanie Van der Merwe had decided to fly out of Cuzco and return to South Africa to teach. Pierre Van Heerden, who would stay with the expedition to continue filming, and Odendaal would drive back to Surimana, where Odendaal would again hire burros and try to meet the other kayakers below the Black Canyon.\n\nTruran appeared tired but, as always, cheerful. He was dressed only in long gray polypropylene underwear with horizontal black stripes, and looked something like an escaped convict. \"Do you have any bread?\" he asked. \"We're out of food. Would you like tea?\"\n\nChmielinski wore a bold red gash across his nose, and his knee was swollen big as a grapefruit. \"Everybody had a tough time,\" he said. \"One time I was in a hole and it was kind of nice, I was feeling weightless. Then I was dying.\" He had bailed out of his boat and been washed a hundred crunching yards through three bad rapids.\n\n\"Pinball,\" Truran said.\n\n\"Tim had the worst,\" Chmielinski said. \"He was half a meter from no way.\"\n\nBad as the water was, however, they were equally worried about news gleaned from a gold panner. Two European kayakers had also set out from La Angostura. They were two weeks farther down the river, and bound for the Atlantic. It was a race.\n\nTruran brewed tea and we pitched camp in a downpour. Thirty feet up the bank, in a small cave lit by two candles, Tim Biggs drew river scenes in his sketchbook, as if with black ink and white paper he could conjure order from the chaos of the Great Speaker.\n\nIt rained the night through. In the morning, shivering in the damp air, we climbed the two miles into Surimana.\n\nAn army of morose children followed us through the village. Their leader, a tall, skinny girl, hissed at us in Andean Spanish, but the idiomatic expressions for _shit, whore_ , and _fucker_ tumbled from her lips uneasily, without much venom, as if she were experimenting with them.\n\nA bust of Jos\u00e9 Gabriel Tupac Amaru II stood in the plaza, near the locked doors of a church that is opened but once a year. The neglected memorial, its base cracked and in need of paint, marks the end of the dirt road chiseled into Surimana from Cuzco in the 1970s by the government, which had hoped the birthplace of one of the Western Hemisphere's great revolutionaries would attract tourists. But the tourists did not come. There is nothing to eat in Surimana and nowhere to sleep.\n\nThe road, the only one into the Black Canyon, does not seem to have helped the village much\u2014the local store offered only a basket of white flour, three candles, and a tin of _ca\u00f1azo_. The only vehicle we saw was a jeep bearing the acronym of a government relief agency. Judging by the appearance of the townspeople, the road was used mainly when in need of Cuzco's polyester shirts and aviator sunglasses.\n\nIn a way it is the road, not the neglected bust, that embodies the spirit of Tupac Amaru II, whose story seems to capture all the desperation and wild hope the Apurimac canyon provokes. He was born Jos\u00e9 Gabriel Condorcanqui, a great-great-great-grandson of Felipe Tupac Amaru Inca, whose sadistic beheading in 1572 signaled the end of the Inca dynasty and the final subjugation of indigenous Peru by Spain. The Spanish forced Felipe's two daughters to watch the beheading. Magdalena died within a year, but the penniless Juana married Felipe Condorcanqui of Surimana and settled in this forgotten canyon.\n\nUnder an Inca system bent by the Spanish to their own ends, the Condorcanquis, like other Quechua of Inca caste, were _curacas_. They governed the Apurimac canyon and the surrounding highlands for their absentee Spanish overlords, overseeing conscription for the terrible _mita_ and enforcing the feudal _encomienda_ , by which the Quechua were forced to pay the Spanish vast tributes of produce and precious metals. By the time Jos\u00e9 Gabriel Condorcanqui was born, about 1743, the family had become one of the most prosperous in Peru. Raised as a nobleman, he was well educated and wealthy, with a serene disposition and the elegant manners of a European aristocrat.\n\nWhen Jos\u00e9 Gabriel became _curaca_ of the Surimana area, Spain was in decline and its exploitation of the Quechua had increased. Millions died in the mines during the first half century alone. Unable to ignore the suffering of his people, Jos\u00e9 Gabriel adopted his ancestral title, then journeyed to the Lima courts. He believed that the laws of Spain were just, but that greedy tax collectors, a corrupt clergy, and a sadistic military had grossly perverted them. His entreaties were ignored. In 1780, declaring himself a loyal servant of the King of Spain, Tupac Amaru II revolted against the colonial administration.\n\nHis revolution was short-lived\u2014it ended in 1783\u2014but at its height, reaching from Colombia in the north through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and northwestern Argentina, it was grander in scope than the American Civil War and almost every European war preceding World War I. Tupac Amaru, however, was captured in 1781 and marched to Cuzco. The Spanish handcuffed him, his wife, his son, his uncle, and five compatriots, stuffed them in sacks, and dragged them through the streets with horses. They forced the Inca and his wife to watch while his eighty-year-old uncle and twenty-year-old son had their tongues cut out and were garroted, then made the Inca witness his wife's garroting. When the iron collar failed to crush her tiny neck, the hangman wrapped a lasso around her throat and yanked on it until she died, beating her all the while. Then he cut out the Inca's tongue, tied his limbs one each to four horses, and drove the beasts in the four directions. When they failed to tear him apart, the exasperated hangman first disemboweled the Inca, then hacked off his head.\n\nNews of the barbarous execution reached Spain, drawing attention to the other atrocities in Peru, and a new administration was installed. A half century later, however, Quechua and _criollo_ joined forces to drive Spain out of Peru. Whether this freed the Quechua from the barbarities visited on them by men of lighter skin is, of course, another matter altogether, one that is at least partially addressed by the fact that, two centuries later, much of the Apurimac canyon was under martial law, Peru's _criollo_ leaders locked in a brutal war with an army of guerrillas whose veins ran thick with Quechua blood.\n\nEverything about the Andes is abrupt: the geology, the flora, the weather, the people. You walk but a few miles and feel as if you have traveled into an entirely new region, or an entirely different season. Two days below Surimana our dusty trail suddenly became a mossy carpet. The omnipresent _ichu_ drowned in a flood of white daisies, pink-flowered bromeliads, cactus blooming in purple and white, wild roses as big as fists, blood-red geraniums, yellow broom, bright tiny flowers that ran among the rest like golden ants. The air smelled of mint, peppermint, chamomile, and, as we drew near the village of San Juan, eucalyptus, freshly turned earth, and the first buds of pear, apple, and _maracuya_. Small birds strafed the fruit trees and the honeyed tones of Andean panpipes drifted down the hillside.\n\nA hedge ran along the uphill side of the path. A battered straw hat rose above it, followed by a well-used earth-brown face, a gnarly hand, a plastic jug...\n\n_\"Chicha?\"_\n\nOur narrow escape from Chocayhua notwithstanding, could we refuse? We had marched out of winter into spring: Here were Quechua families preparing their fields, the men working the ancient foot plows, the women laying out bowls of boiled corn and pitchers of _chicha_. It is custom in that roadless, wheel-less country to treat the traveler as kin. We sprawled in the dirt and sampled the local brew.\n\nThe fields in San Juan, like the families who work them, have a lineage at least a dozen generations old. (Parts of the Peruvian highlands have a native agriculture that can be traced back four millennia.) That those fields continue to produce, and produce well, is, as the American writer and farmer Wendell Berry put it, evidence of \"an agriculture of extraordinary craftsmanship and ecological intelligence.\"\n\nConsider the potato. Nobody knows how many varieties of potato grow in the Andes, though estimates run from four hundred to two thousand. In addition to wild potatoes, an extraordinary array of native varieties is grown for table\u2014as many as forty-six have been found in a single half-acre field. (My conceptual favorite is an exceptionally tough table potato called _lumchipamundana_ , \"potato that makes the young bride cry.\") There are also potatoes called _chu\u00f1o_ , which are freeze-dried. Each day for about a month the Quechua hand-squeeze the water out of them and let them freeze by night. The end product has a shelf life of years and tastes about like any other freeze-dried product, which is to say, awful.\n\nA seven-year fallow cycle controls a predator nematode with a six-year life. Rows carefully contoured to the land minimize the overwhelming threat of erosion. If these peasants must sing to their fields to get them to produce; if they offer _chicha_ to spirits they believe live in the rocks and trees and caves; if they choose to measure their plots of land not in square meters but according to their fertility; if they name each plot after the plants that grow best in it\u2014well, it works. Here, where the land is so steep it seems to spill right off the sides of the mountain (stand up and your head is closer to corn sprouts than it is to your feet), the Quechua have evolved a system of sustainable agriculture in sharp contrast to our topsoil-devouring corporate farming. Farmers in tabletop-flat Iowa lose a foot and a half of topsoil every year. A Quechua farmer can't afford to lose an inch.\n\nA crowd of barefoot schoolchildren, wearing white shirts and black pants, led us to the sea-of-mud plaza. Behind us, between teetering mud houses, mud streets twisted up the canyonside. Before us they accelerated toward the canyon, ending there abruptly, as if one could walk to the edge of town and step directly into the abyss of the Apurimac. Staring down into that chasm, one respected the Quechua's decision not to invent the wheel\u2014what chaos it would cause in such precipitous country.\n\nFifty dark, Asiatic faces stared at us. The smallest boy singled me out. His hair was close-cropped and, like so many children we had seen, his scalp was covered with scabs.\n\n\"What is your name?\" I asked. No answer, then a mumbled response, _\"Solitario,\"_ in a voice too deep for that diminutive frame. Solitary. Lonely.\n\nSuddenly, from among the sea of children there appeared at our feet a bottle of beer, a bottle of rum, an onion, a head of cabbage, three eggs, a sheaf of chamomile, and one of mint. Then a man pushed through the crowd, a giant compared with everyone else we had seen, six feet tall, his white hair and blue eyes loud as neon in that world of brown-eyed, black-haired elves. He breached the wall and stopped, as shy and dumbstruck as the children. His name was Ad\u00e1n. \"For your health,\" he said, and quietly poured yet another round of _chicha_.\n\nHe took us to his house, a simple two-room affair with a garden and a big earthen oven in which he baked loaves of whole-grain bread. (\"For the children,\" he said. \"When their nutrition is poor they cannot pay attention.\") He gave us five fresh loaves. His own children had gone to Lima, where two attended a university. \"I hope they come home soon,\" he said. \"That city is a terrible place.\"\n\nThe urchin army escorted us out of town, along a trail that followed the canyon wall, wound into a _quebrada_ and back out to a breathtaking view of the Black Canyon. Now bathed in the golden-red light of dusk, it looked something like the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, but steeper, narrower, deeper, lonelier.\n\nA last glance at isolated San Juan, clinging to the side of the canyon without roads, phones, or power lines to cinch it into place. _Solitario_.\n\nDown below us the kayakers plowed slowly through the boulder-strewn Apurimac. Relieved of the burden of Odendaal's gear, they traveled for the first time with full rations. Freed of Odendaal himself, they now moved twice as fast as they would have if Odendaal had been with them. But at times they found no more than fifty runnable yards between each portage, and even then the river, with its sieves and undercuts and siphons, was tougher than ever. Some days they were lucky to advance a mile.\n\nDespite the river's demands, Biggs felt his confidence returning. Jerome Truran had a lot to do with that. His kayaking style was smooth and unflinching. He scouted each rapid carefully, but when he had decided how to run it, he did so directly, without hesitation. He alone among the kayakers had yet to be torn out of his boat.\n\nOff the water Truran was funny, charming, not easily perturbed. Like Biggs, he loved the river life. Competing in the United States in 1978, Truran had discovered the big white water of the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada. South Africa and Europe had nothing quite like it. Now, after making camp in the fading light of day, Truran and Biggs would often don their paddling gear and play in the Apurimac's murderous rapids, exulting in the river's sheer power.\n\nBiggs was happy, indeed proud, to see the younger Truran developing an appreciation for the rhythms of expedition kayaking, perhaps the one thing Biggs could teach his world-champion friend. No car waited downstream to haul you away if you were injured. You didn't have a week to rest up after a weekend of hard paddling. You carried as much food as you could in your boat, and when you ran out you went hungry. You settled in for the long haul, adapted to the river's pace, moved as the river allowed you to move. It wasn't all exhilarating runs and beach parties. Truran, Biggs thought, was learning a river.\n\nThe days grew warmer, and cactus and small fir trees splashed the canyon walls with a refreshing green. But the river became no easier. Day after day the three kayakers fought to gain a hundred yards here, a quarter mile there. To lighten their boats they ate big meals, gambling that they would gain speed on the river. Frustrated by the long hours spent scouting the river, climbing boulder after boulder, they ran some rapids blind, and paid for it. Biggs suffered another bad swim, Chmielinski broke his nose.\n\nSix days after entering the Black Canyon the kayakers reached its terminus, the Apurimac's confluence with the Livitaca River. As they approached it they heard shouts coming from the right. They looked up to see porters lowering a scratched, muddy, but quite happy Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal and his equipment down the canyon wall at the end of a rope. When the rope came up short, the kayakers beached their boats and eased Odendaal down to the river. Then he packed his boat and they set off, a quartet once again.\n\nBelow the Livitaca confluence the Apurimac changed. Its high, pinching walls receded slightly, their sculpted granite broken by long formations of soft rock that the river had ground down to create stretches of wide, flat water. Where the granite reappeared, however, the river narrowed into funnels, creating spectacular, cascading rapids. One of these shook Odendaal out of his boat and nearly pinned him to the face of a boulder.\n\nThat night around the campfire Odendaal mounted an anguished monologue, arguing that the ethics of portaging was a gray area, that his trip with burro and porters did not differ fundamentally from the portages the other kayakers had made, and that, therefore, his claim to having run the entire river remained intact. The other men listened quietly. Clearly, Odendaal was obsessed. Biggs alone tried to assuage his friend's anxiety. Odendaal, he said, had run the river to the best of his ability. That was all any man could hope to do.\n\nThe next day was hard. All four kayakers had close calls, Odendaal took another mean swim, and in one spot the river was completely blocked, requiring a long, slow, bone-jarring portage. The following morning Piotr Chmielinski called a summit meeting.\n\nIt was time, he said, to address the subject of the competition, and to adjust plans accordingly. They had to move faster. He had not come to South America to be the second crew down the Amazon. If they did not intend to be first, he would go home.\n\nThis was the moment Biggs had been dreading. He did not want a race to the sea. This was a river trip, a journey of exploration, an adventure to be shared with friends. He had had his fill of racing.\n\nOn the other hand, if the expedition's goal was to be the first to travel the Amazon from source to sea, then so be it. As river captain, it was his duty to realize that goal.\n\nThen things really went crazy.\n\nJerome Truran had an idea or two about this whole so-called race. If Odendaal regarded his long portage around not only the Black Canyon but much of the water above it as tantamount to paddling it, if he believed it was legitimate to complete the river's crux move by burro, then why were the other kayakers risking their lives on the water? Why paddle at all? Why not hire burros and porters and catch the competition by land? Hell, why _not fly_ to the sea?\n\nNo, Truran said, if it really was going to be a race, then Odendaal was out. He simply did not have the ability to kayak the river. He was like a beginning client on one of the commercial trips Truran led in South Africa. Truran, Biggs, and Chmielinski were \"buttering\" the river for him, carrying his gear and coaching him through the few rapids he actually ran. That the three of them would battle the Apurimac while Odendaal took credit for the descent was an outrage.\n\nIn fact, the way Truran saw it, Odendaal didn't belong on the river at all. He hated kayaking. On the water his face was tortured with worry and fear.\n\nTruran said he hoped, for all their sakes, that there was another Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal beneath the one he knew. But he hadn't seen such a man, not yet. If Odendaal wanted Truran to help baby-sit him down the river, fine. Truran could never afford such a trip on his own. But Odendaal's money bought only Truran's skill, not his complicity in a lie.\n\nShattered, Odendaal turned to Biggs, but Biggs, though upset with Truran for lashing out, was also upset with Odendaal. For six years he'd been after Odendaal to master at least the basic skills of kayaking. Odendaal had known how dangerous the Apurimac would be, but had not adequately prepared himself. Now his lack imperiled them all.\n\nBiggs let Odendaal stew for the rest of the day, but that night the two of them had a heart-to-heart talk to straighten out their differences. Meanwhile, Odendaal spoke to Chmielinski about removing Truran from the expedition.\n\nIn other circumstances Chmielinski might have agreed with Odendaal's suggestion. On an expedition of which he was the sole leader Chmielinski would not have tolerated Truran's insubordination. But now he was not sure what to do.\n\nFor one thing, Chmielinski had never seen a kayaker with Truran's skills, or his courage. As the river grew, it produced the most thrilling runs the team had yet encountered. This was Truran's country now. A white-water river was so _alive_. If one were good enough\u2014confident and skilled and strong\u2014one became part of its spirit, absorbed its rhythms. Truran was that good, and more. It was not simply luck that only he among the four of them had yet to come out of his boat and swim at the mercy of the Great Speaker.\n\nChmielinski's technical skills had improved rapidly under Truran's influence. He knew that with Truran leading the descents, the team would continue to move quickly. Speed was now foremost in the Pole's mind. To him, the news of the second kayaking team made this situation similar to Amundsen's and Scott's race to the South Pole.\n\nBut speed concerned Chmielinski for another reason as well. A year before, in Wyoming, he had received a telephone call he had been expecting for months. When he had left Poland in 1979, he was in love with a woman named Joanna. They had spoken of marriage but had agreed to postpone their wedding until Chmielinski's return. A year later they managed to meet briefly in New York, but shortly thereafter martial law was declared in Poland and Joanna could no longer leave the country. In 1984 Joanna learned about the possibility of going abroad with a tourist group. She wrote Chmielinski, who contacted an old friend from Krakow, a monsignor who had become right-hand man to the Pope. The friend began the arrangements for a Vatican marriage.\n\nTwo months later Joanna called Wyoming: She was in Italy. Chmielinski landed in Rome twenty-four hours later, and within days they were wed. (The Pope himself gave the couple his blessing.) Then they began the sticky process of getting Joanna out of Poland legally and into the United States. They filed papers with the Vatican, with the U.S. Embassy, with the Polish Embassy. Joanna returned to Poland, Chmielinski to Wyoming.\n\nThere were delays, and more delays. He had not seen her since, and it had been months since he had been able to speak with her by phone.\n\nShe was due to arrive in the United States, alone, shortly after Chmielinski finished running the Amazon. He had to be there to receive her, but now that schedule was in jeopardy. Odendaal's slowing the team on the river was concern enough, but if he became separated from the other kayakers and had a bad accident, the expedition would grind to a halt.\n\nThe best thing for all of them, Chmielinski thought, would be for Odendaal to leave the river for good. On the other hand, he needed Odendaal. If Chmielinski could learn something about filmmaking on this trip, he might someday be able to translate his own adventures into profit.\n\nChmielinski had a business agreement with Odendaal. He would stick to it. But he decided that removing the skilled and courageous Truran would seriously jeopardize the expedition.\n\nIntact, the team pushed on. That afternoon they reached Pillpinto, and their rendezvous with the hiking team.\n\n# 6 \u2022 Trail's End\n\nAccording to our map, we faced a long, steep hike out of the Black Canyon. From San Juan we would climb the canyon wall, gaining two thousand feet of altitude, then cross a pass at fourteen thousand feet that would probably be covered in snow. Coca-leaf time. We were getting used to the altitude, but such severe climbs still left us gasping and achey headed, and as the Quechua discovered centuries ago, the leaf is an excellent tonic. I had read many accounts condemning the locals for their coca use, but I now suspected most had been written by people who owned cars.\n\nA woman on the trail offered a fistful of leaves and a chunk of _llipta_. When Leon asked directions to Toccorani, she pointed straight up in the air and laughed in the shrieking way the Quechua sometimes did, a laugh all the more unsettling for the rarity of its appearance.\n\nThe Andes display staggering contrasts\u2014weather that changes forty degrees in minutes, monolithic geological formations that erupt from flat, eroded tracts, waterways that burst and explode rather than flow\u2014but the most surprising are found in those few places in which man has wedged his tinkering fingers: his villages. Each village in the Black Canyon had an air, a tone, that was distinct and identifiable. Hueco had been primeval and isolated; Surimana sullen and unsure of itself, corrupted by the road; San Juan fertile and welcoming.\n\nAs we circled Toccorani, on the trail to the pass, we saw a manicured soccer field and near almost every hut a horse of impressive size and coat\u2014something like finding a Mercedes-Benz in every driveway in an American suburb. The field suggested a surfeit of what in the States we call leisure time, but leisure time in the Andes also means time to quiz the gringo. We avoided Toccorani, hiked through the pass, spit our wads on the _apachita_ , slouched through the snow and down into deserted, forlorn Santa Lucia, fifty huts clustered wall to wall and perched like a muddy pulpit two thousand sheer feet above the Apurimac. Where was everybody? (In the fields, planting.)\n\nAcross the canyon Omacha's tin roofs glinted in the sun. Omacha was a couple of miles away as the condor flies, but the immensity of that country was deceptive. It didn't encourage things to expand and connect; it compressed them into tiny, isolated universes. To visit Omacha we would have had to climb back to Surimana, cross the bridge, and walk down the far side of the canyon. The trip would take a week.\n\nBlack clouds coagulated along the canyon rim, amplifying Santa Lucia's barren, marooned feeling. We hustled up the trail. Rain fell and stopped. Below us a sea of cotton-topped clouds obliterated the river. A black wall rose from that white sea, rose and whitened, and snow fell on the mountain peaks across the canyon. Beyond the peaks the sky swirled with a thousand shades of purple. The colors mixed with such slow subtlety that, unable to bring the sky into focus, I felt as if I were about to lose my balance and fall down.\n\nThe sun slid out of that purple pocket and lodged between two of the peaks. We sat on a rock and ate chocolate. The storm ascended the canyon once again, rained on us, and receded. The sun, which appeared to have set, burned through the clouds. Chimneys of cold fog levitated up from the canyon floor.\n\nThis meteorological wizardry, dizzying and eerie, lent the mountains an air of mystery. Like most travelers stumbling into a mysterious place, we felt as if we were discovering it. But there, clinging to the mountain ledge three-quarters of a mile below us, was a tiny hut. On our map was a corresponding dot. The hut had been there at least thirty years, perhaps hundreds.\n\nWe wouldn't reach Huayque that afternoon. Instead, we pitched camp on the only flat place we could find, the trail itself. As a friend once wrote, traveling narrows one's horizons. Moving from place to place, securing food and shelter, become full-time work. In the three weeks since I had stepped out of the truck at Lari and first set foot on the trail, the Andes had stripped me of excess. I slept on the trail, scrounged food, and traveled by the oldest and simplest means known to man.\n\nTo reduce our weight, we now carried a two-man rain fly instead of tents. This we hurried to erect before the storm hit, and squeezed into it hoping that four bodies would generate heat sufficient to keep us from freezing. We needn't have worried. Though it snowed all night our body heat stoked the humidity beneath the plastic to unbearable levels. In the dead of night Leon bolted headlong into the storm, dragging his sleeping bag with him. He returned five minutes later, stark naked, soaked, shivering, and asleep on his feet. Bzdak dried him off and dressed him in long underwear. Then Durrant and I laid him down between us and wrapped our arms around him until, half an hour later, he stopped shaking, and we heard the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing. In the morning he said he had dreamed he was Superman.\n\nIt was late September, but in the Andes the seasons have as much to do with altitude as with time. The next day we once again hiked down out of winter into spring, walking through a chorus of yellow daisies, hot-pink bromeliads, the blue medallions of flowering wild potato, and aromatic eucalyptus groves, which are planted near settled areas for reforestation.\n\nHuayque, too, was a surprise. Cobbled streets and a stone canal ran through the village carrying water and, from the looks of it, anything else that would float. But the biggest revelation was the houses. They had two stories, a design we had not seen before, but were built on Quechua scale. It was like walking through a children's amusement park, or a Hollywood set, where everything is slightly smaller than real life. I stopped in front of one mud-and-thatch home, reached up, and touched the top of the second-story shutters.\n\nA woman more ancient than old waddled up to us. She was hunched over and dressed in filthy rags and her gray hair hung to below her waist in a sloppy braid. She had one tooth, in the center of her upper gum. She yelled and shoved a pitcher of brown _chicha_ in our faces. It looked as vile as the effluent running through the clay canal.\n\nBzdak, Durrant, and I refused it, but Leon, ever polite, drained the horn.\n\n\"You must stay here tonight,\" the woman said.\n\nLeon pointed to me. \"He will stay if he can sleep with any woman he wants.\"\n\nBzdak said, \"Are there any girls in the village who would like gringo babies?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, nodding seriously. \"Some young ones.\"\n\nThis frightened me. The young Quechua women had a tranquil beauty that broke one's heart with a glance. But the idea of a sexual liaison on the dirt floor of a flea-ridden hut, while Mom boiled corn over the open fire and Dad sharpened his machete\u2014that was not my idea of romance, especially given the mercurial and at times violent moods we had seen among the locals.\n\nI left quickly, and let the others catch up.\n\nOn the trail out of town we met men and women returning from their fields, carrying wooden foot plows and drinking from bottles of _aguardiente_ and _ca\u00f1azo_. Two hours from town they were still coming, spilling down out of the mountainside like rainwater. For a mile above and below us sweeping rows of terraced fields cut the mountains like lines on a topographic map. I could not see a single patch of uncultivated land.\n\nThe men grunted, a few said hello. The women hurried silently behind them. They had a long hike home, and they would be back on the trail before dawn.\n\nWe camped in a cow pasture next to a stream. I heard a loud report and looked up the slope to see a man holding a rifle, which when he again slapped it against a tree I saw was actually a foot plow. I turned back to the camp. Six Quechua men stood in a row a few feet in front of me, passing a bottle of _ca\u00f1azo_. More than one found the ground beneath his feet a little shifty.\n\nA man stepped forward and pointed to another, who appeared to be the oldest of them, though with the Quechua it was hard for me to judge age.\n\n\"This is the lieutenant of Huayque,\" the younger man said. \"It would please him to see your license.\"\n\n\"License?\"\n\n\"Your permission.\"\n\n\"Permission?\"\n\nFortunately, Bzdak knew this ritual, its steps as prescribed as those of a formal dance. He explained that we were visiting Huayque as representatives of the Peruvian government, that we were exploring sites for a great film project, that we hoped to tell the world of the glory of Peru. And so on. Meanwhile I rummaged through my pack and found a photocopy of a letter from the Peruvian tourist board. The _teniente_ studied it carefully, impeded not at all, apparently, by the fact that he was reading it upside down.\n\n\"We will be here only one night,\" Bzdak said.\n\nThe man grunted and returned the paper.\n\n\"Please be our guests,\" he said. \"We did not mean to offend you. We were afraid that you would steal our cattle.\"\n\nHe wished us well, bowed deeply, and led the men back to the trail in single file. A few stumbled slightly as they went, but overall, I thought, they carried themselves with an earthy dignity.\n\nFrom Huayque we dropped down, way down, breaking toenails against the insides of our boots. Late the next afternoon we arrived on the canyon floor at the point where the mud-red Chacco River empties into the turquoise-green Apurimac. At the town of Acos, a mile from the confluence, we picked up a dirt road used for bus traffic to Cuzco. But we followed it the other way, into Pillpinto, where we were to meet the kayakers.\n\nWhere it flowed through Pillpinto the Apurimac was wide and shallow, lacking the power and urgency it had displayed farther up the canyon, and the town itself had a surliness similar to that of Yauri, the Hanging Bridge, and Surimana. The staring crowd that wouldn't leave us in peace went with the territory, but these people had none of the brightness we had seen in, say, San Juan, or even Huayque. It was impossible to carry on a conversation. We sat in the dirt, surrounded, until long after dark, went to sleep with the townsfolk staring into our tents, and in the morning pulled back tent flaps to find them still there.\n\nIn the end, lacking a better explanation, I decided that it was the road that triggered this impotent hostility. It promised so much\u2014trade, culture, escape\u2014but judging by the beaten-down look of the town and its people, it delivered very little.\n\nThe kayakers had arrived in Pillpinto the same afternoon. All looked battered except Truran. Odendaal's face was bloody and swollen, Chmielinski's nose reinjured. Biggs's appearance was drawn, his ebullience forced. There was evident tension between Chmielinski and Odendaal (at one point I heard the Pole mutter, \"On the river he is a _baby_ \"), and Chmielinski, if not directing the expedition, certainly was not following Odendaal's lead. Given my fragile perch on the journey, this did not augur well for me. I was sure that Chmielinski saw me as Odendaal's soldier, and I suspected the only reason I (or, for that matter, Durrant or Leon) remained on the expedition was that Bzdak had put in a good word.\n\n\"El Condorito.\" (illustration Credit 6.1)\n\nAt 15,000 feet on the approach to the source. From left, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, Tim Biggs, Pastor. (illustration Credit 6.2)\n\nBase camp at the source of the Amazon (17,000 feet). (illustration Credit 6.3)\n\nZbyszek Bzdak at the source of the Amazon. (illustration Credit 6.4)\n\nDr. Kate Durrant and the author in San Juan. (illustration Credit 6.5)\n\nPortaging the upper Apurimac. From bottom to top: Piotr Chmielinski, Tim Biggs, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, Jerome Truran. (illustration Credit 6.6)\n\nThe last Inca hanging bridge, woven entirely of hammered grass. (illustration Credit 6.7)\n\nKate Durrant consulting patients near the Hanging Bridge, and Jerome Truran on the upper Apurimac. (illustration Credit 6.8)\n\nPiotr Chmielinski, Jerome Truran, Tim Biggs. (illustration Credit 6.9)\n\nTim Biggs on the upper Apurimac. (illustration Credit 6.10)\n\nQuechua man and son. (illustration Credit 6.11)\n\nShakedown run on the Apurimac: Piotr Chmielinski, the author, Sergio Leon, Kate Durrant. (illustration Credit 6.12)\n\nJerome Truran in the Acobamba Abyss. (illustration Credit 6.13)\n\nLining the raft through the Acobamba Abyss. (illustration Credit 6.14)\n\nIn the Acobamba Abyss (note high-water mark). (illustration Credit 6.15)\n\nJerome Truran in the Acobamba Abyss. (illustration Credit 6.16)\n\nTim Biggs executing an Eskimo roll. (illustration Credit 6.17)\n\nCloud Forest in the Red Zone. From foreground: Jerome Truran, Tim Biggs, Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal. (illustration Credit 6.18)\n\nPiotr Chmielinski (left), Jerome Truran, Peruvian marine in the Red Zone. (illustration Credit 6.19)\n\nIn the Red Zone. Left to right, on raft: Jerome Truran, the author, Kate Durrant. (illustration Credit 6.20)\n\nAsh\u00e1ninka man. (illustration Credit 6.21)\n\nOn the lower Tambo. From left: Kate Durrant and Jerome Truran on native raft; Piotr Chmielinski and the author on _gringo_ equivalent. (illustration Credit 6.22)\n\nPiotr Chmielinski (left), Kate Durrant, and the author with sea kayaks and the _Jhuliana_ in Pucallpa. (illustration Credit 6.23)\n\nI decided I had better establish some kind of communication with Chmielinski. Try as I might, however, I could not find a way to do this. In conversation he was polite but formal. He was also one of the most intense men I had ever met. On the nights we had camped with the kayakers, I had watched him labor by candlelight until long after dark, his ledgers and maps and notebooks (which he carried in a waterproof plastic box tucked deep in the nose of his kayak) spread out on some cleverly built driftwood desk or on the floor of his tent.\n\nFrom what Truran said, this intensity carried over to the river. It was Chmielinski who harangued the South Africans to wake before dawn, Chmielinski who pushed them onto the river and kept them on it until late in the day. Truran said that Chmielinski attacked the river like a military man. He was brave, and though his kayaking skills were self-taught, he had a superb feel for white water\u2014he refused to let the river's power intimidate him. He felt the river in his bones and respected it the way a general does a worthy enemy: It was something to conquer.\n\nEach day Chmielinski prepared himself as if for combat. He was the first man awake, the first man packed, the first man with his boat in the water. His daily uniform\u2014long polypropylene underwear and crisp paddling shorts\u2014was so unvarying, and so fresh compared with the rags the others were now wearing, that Truran half suspected the Pole kept spares hidden in his boat.\n\nThe final steps in Chmielinski's matutinal ritual were the most telling: Using a pocket mirror, he carefully combed his hair and applied a combination of lotions and sunscreens that looked, to Truran, exactly like war paint. Then Chmielinski hauled his boat down to the Apurimac and paddled off to do battle.\n\nThe morning after we arrived at Pillpinto Chmielinski and Odendaal outlined what would be the next, and thus far the longest, leg of the campaign. Once again we would divide into groups, and reunite ten days later, at the military bridge near the town of Chinchaypujio. The expedition would meet Van Heerden and Condorito in Cuzco, which was connected to Chinchaypujio by a dirt road, take a short break, then return to the Apurimac and continue the journey by kayak and white-water raft only. From there down, the canyon would be too steep to hike. Bzdak and I would remain in Cuzco, buy supplies for the next two months of the trip, and drive Condorito back to the Apurimac to rejoin the expedition at a second bridge, Cunyac, some twenty-five miles below the military bridge. Condorito's owner would meet us in Cuzco, ride with us to Cunyac, then take the vehicle home to Arequipa. The road to Cunyac would be the last to reach the river until we were well into the jungle.\n\nThe plan disappointed me for reasons that were completely selfish. Although our long trek had been unanticipated, I had become attached to the idea of traveling along the entire river. In the jungle, that might mean banana boats. But the white-water raft would be the only way to see the lower Apurimac canyon. It was therefore conceivable that of the Amazon's four thousand two hundred miles, I would miss only those twenty-five between the military bridge and the resupply point at Cunyac. I found the distance both insignificant and monumental.\n\nThe plan was fair, however. No one had promised I would be on the entire river in the first place. At least I would remain a member of the expedition. Nor was it hard to reconcile myself to a week of fresh food, cold beer, and hot showers in Cuzco.\n\nBut first our ragged \"B\" team had to reach Chinchaypujio.\n\nWe marched out of Pillpinto with packs stocked for seven days, but we did not expect a difficult hike. According to our map, the trail ran right next to the river, and would be fast and level. Domestic tobacco growing just outside Pillpinto signaled fertile country. We would be able to flesh out our rations, stretch them to a ten-day kit, as we went.\n\nWe hadn't counted on the new road from Pillpinto to the provincial capital of Paruro. It went through the next valley beyond the southwest wall of the Apurimac canyon, and the Apurimac trail had been abandoned in favor of the road. A few miles below Pillpinto the trail vanished.\n\nWe laughed that first day when the lone Quechua man we met in the canyon insisted we hire him as a guide. By the end of the second day, after climbing twenty-five hundred vertical feet up the canyon wall, some of it hand-over-hand technical climbing, we weren't laughing. Each of us but Durrant had taken nasty falls (after her two weeks on the trail, the doctor had blossomed into a strong, nimble hiker), and we stumbled into the village of Colcha sporting open wounds. But Colcha proved friendly in the Quechua way\u2014implacable, calm, unimpressed\u2014and a helpful family herded us into their courtyard and assisted as Durrant cleaned us up. They plied us with _chicha_ , boiled corn, eggs, and cabbage, and said we were idiots for following the river. If we thought that last stretch was bad, wait until we saw the next.\n\nWith that warning we chose to cleave to the canyon's upper rim. The canyon floor, meanwhile, plunged deeper and deeper in the earth. A few days later, we hiked along the rim a half mile from the river horizontally but some six thousand two hundred feet above it. (By comparison, the Grand Canyon of the Colorado reaches a maximum depth of five thousand three hundred feet, but at its narrowest point is four miles wide.)\n\nWe found this new country both wilder and tamer than any we had already seen. The towns reached by road\u2014Paruro, Paccaritambo, Huanoquite\u2014seemed, after the time we had spent in the primitive upper canyon, almost modern. Paruro had a streetlight, and Bzdak bought a banana, our first fresh fruit in a month. In Paccaritambo no one knew the location of the sacred caves from which had sprung the mythical founders of the Inca empire. In Aravito we met a colony of Quechua Jews. It was Saturday morning and we heard wailing more than a mile away. Se\u00f1or Apasas, a gentle, prosperous-looking Quechua man (full set of teeth, leather shoes), explained that a rabbi had lived there for eight years, and that many of the village's people had adopted Judaism. Bzdak said he found such a wholesale conversion mind-boggling. Se\u00f1or Apasas replied, without a hint of cynicism, \"We will do anything for entertainment.\"\n\nIn the gaping spaces between these villages, however, the country was as wild as anything in the Peruvian Andes. Hawks and eagles calmly stood their ground as we hiked by them in the high passes. Often the trails marked on our map no longer existed. The few people who lived there, according to the village dwellers, were _bravos_ , which literally means \"bold ones\" but in idiomatic use connotes something more. The _bravos_ , we were to believe, were bogeymen. They were crazy, they had guns, they would eat us.\n\nQuite the opposite was true, of course. The outlanders were for the most part humble, quiet Quechua folk who apparently wanted nothing more than simply to be left alone. Few spoke Spanish, but because we were so often lost (there were no roads or signposts, and the trails were obscure), they felt bound to guide us. Unable to communicate, they would increase the velocity of their replies, hoping to overcome mutual incomprehension with sheer exuberance. More than once we left an exasperated Quechua standing alone on a mountainside, pointing in all directions and chattering away in frustration.\n\nBut it is this scene that sticks: Two squat Quechua women watch us descend a barren hillside. For at least an hour they stare without moving as we approach the tiny, dry basin that holds their two mud huts. Trembling, they study us until they can see our eyes, then turn their backs and stand stiff and silent as stone. We pass within a few yards and begin to climb the opposite hillside. Only then does one of them yell, _\"Hola, viracochas\"_ \u2014\"Viracocha\" being an Inca creator god associated with the sea and with white, and emissaries of whom the brutal _conquistadores_ were at first thought to be.\n\nThough the word is now used commonly, the equivalent of \"gentleman,\" I shuddered involuntarily.\n\nThe river swelled and picked up speed. The three lead kayakers handled it well, but Odendaal all but stopped running it. Even above small rapids he hesitated and, often as not, elected to portage. At times he was able to hire local people and pack animals to help him carry his gear, which enabled him to move quickly, but the day before the team reached the military bridge, Biggs decided the situation had to change. Below the bridge the canyon would grow much steeper and narrower, and the river would increase greatly in volume and force. Portaging would be much more difficult, if not impossible.\n\nWhile Chmielinski and Truran pushed ahead, Biggs hung back with Odendaal and coached him in the Eskimo roll, a technique for righting an upturned kayak while still in it, and as critical to navigating high-grade white water as catching a fly ball is to a professional baseball player. Biggs made Odendaal roll and roll and roll. He also worked on Odendaal's ferry glide and reverse ferry glide, techniques essential for traversing rapids safely.\n\nBiggs had faith in his friend, and if nothing else, the attention he paid boosted Odendaal's confidence. On the morning of the day they were to reach the military bridge, Odendaal looked sharper and stronger than he had at any other time during the trip. Biggs's work appeared to have paid off.\n\nA few miles above the bridge they stopped to practice ferry gliding one more time. Odendaal missed his eddy, flipped his boat, failed to execute a roll, and was sucked into the heart of a rapid. When he came up, his face was covered with blood.\n\n\"Help me!\" he yelled. \"I'm bad!\"\n\nHe managed to crawl up on the bank. When Biggs reached him he was holding his head in his hands and had a vicious bloody gash across his chin. Biggs shaved Odendaal's stubbly blond beard away from the wound, then cleaned and bandaged the wound for the truck ride to Cuzco.\n\nBiggs felt bad about his friend's pain, and worried that the accident would wipe out Odendaal's confidence. After resting in Cuzco they would enter the least-known, most inaccessible part of the river. What would happen to Odendaal down there?\n\nCuzco is said to be the oldest inhabited city in the Western Hemisphere. Set in a fertile green valley, it is interesting in a dollhouse kind of way, with its cobbled streets, jigsaw-puzzle stone walls, and the splendid mountains rising around it. Its history is palpable: You can shudder in the plaza where the Spanish butchered the Tupac Amarus, you can attend Mass in the same churches in which the Spanish communed with their god. But Cuzco is still a city, and more like any other city in the world than it is the countryside beyond its borders. You can easily find cold beer, American bourbon, hotels with hot showers and sheeted beds, photocopiers, telephones, Michael Jackson records, _Time, Newsweek_ , the _International Herald Tribune_. At the end of an October day you will know more about the World Series than you will about the Andean potato crop.\n\nFor us, I am afraid, Cuzco was simply a place to eat and sleep and worry about the lower Apurimac. Chmielinski consulted Edwin Goycochea, a river-running friend whose rafting company, Rio Bravo, was based in Cuzco. Goycochea had rafted the twenty-five-mile stretch below the military bridge three times, but had quit running the river after a confrontation with Sendero Luminoso guerrillas. He had not been on the Apurimac in two years. Since then, the guerrilla conflict had intensified and most of the lower river had been put under martial law and closed to outsiders. No one in Cuzco knew what to expect between the second bridge, Cunyac, and a settlement called Luisiana, two hundred miles below it. Apparently a neighboring settlement, Villa Virgen, had been bombed off the map, first by guerrillas, then by the military.\n\nThere were also the sketchy records of several previous explorations. In 1953 a Frenchman, Michel Perrin, and his Lime\u00f1a girlfriend, Teresa Gutierrez, put two folding kayaks on the river at the Cunyac bridge. They had hoped to open a new route into the jungle and thereby promote colonization of the lower Apurimac, but terrible rapids forced them to quit the river two days later. They left the canyon, traveled overland, and reentered the river eighty miles downstream. They capsized in minutes. Gutierrez drowned. Perrin, heartbroken, left the Apurimac and never returned.\n\nSome twenty years later J. Calvin Giddings made his abortive attempt on the Black Canyon. Though defeated there, he returned to the Apurimac the following year. His five-man team put in at Pillpinto and emerged intact at Luisiana with stories of an awesome gorge that he called the Chasm of Acobamba. At night they had slept in their helmets, to protect themselves from falling rock. They saw no one. They portaged tremendous distances, at one point carrying their boats for five days without finding a place where they could paddle them.\n\nIn the late 1970s an American rafting guide, John Tichenor, led three expeditions over short sections of the canyon. Like Giddings, he reported a murderous gorge from which there appeared, after a certain point, to be no exit but the river. The only other recorded attempt on the Apurimac was made by a well-financed German team in 1976. The leader drowned three minutes after putting his boat in the water.\n\n(It is worth noting that Giddings's goal in running the Apurimac was the antithesis of Perrin's: \"Soon a dam in the highlands will divert the Apurimac water across the continental divide to the dry Pacific plains. Most of the Apurimac, however, is still untainted by civilization, and its canyon remains one of the wildest in the world. One object of my venture was to demonstrate, while it was still possible, that this river does have lasting values beyond those of hydropower and agriculture.\")\n\nAs for maps, the excellent 1:100,000 Peruvian topographic series we had used from the source to Cuzco ended at about Cunyac bridge. Below that the river team would have only the unreliable, cartoonish map Odendaal had shown me in the United States. Chmielinski estimated the team would reach Luisiana in three to four weeks, but this was a guess at best. He had to assume that once in the gorge they would be on their own. Goycochea, however, thought it might be possible to bring supplies in from Cachora, a village high on the canyon rim, and he offered the services of his company for this effort.\n\nThe map showed one other settlement, Triunfo, near the heart of the gorge, but no one in Cuzco knew anything about it.\n\nIn Cuzco the river team gained a new face: Jack Jourgensen, the fifty-one-year-old self-made millionaire from Wyoming who was the expedition's chief sponsor. Jourgensen had met Chmielinski and Bzdak in Casper, and had once rafted the Colca canyon with them. Knowing that Jourgensen aspired to documentary filmmaking, Chmielinski had contacted him when Odendaal's British television deal collapsed. Jourgensen and his business partner, Bryce Anderson, had agreed to back Odendaal's Amazon film and, to a degree, the expedition itself. Odendaal, in turn, would include Jourgensen as a member of his film crew for a short stretch of the river. As a final gesture he named the expedition after Jourgensen, Anderson, and himself.\n\nGiven the state of the exchequer after two months in Peru, Chmielinski and Odendaal were delighted by the arrival of Jourgensen and his healthy wallet. The expedition was nearly broke. The money I had raised was long gone, as were the funds Jourgensen had given Odendaal back in the States. In fact, the day before we had departed Arequipa, Odendaal had gathered us together and told us that to keep the expedition alive we would have to give him our \"personal money.\" For most of us, including me, that had meant handing over funds earmarked for incidental expenses and emergencies.\n\nMoney had become a sore point between Odendaal and Chmielinski. Odendaal was not much for bookkeeping, and shortly after we left Arequipa had assigned that chore to the meticulous Chmielinski. However, as Chmielinski attempted to put the books in order, he lost patience with what he considered Odendaal's cavalier attitude toward finances and accounting. Equipment purchased in the expedition's name had never made it to Peru. Money designated for the expedition itself had been spent on the film. That Odendaal did not contribute \"personal funds\" to the expedition further alienated Chmielinski, and by Cuzco they would not stay in the same hotel. Chmielinski roomed with Biggs and Truran, Odendaal by himself.\n\nMeanwhile, after consulting with Edwin Goycochea, Chmielinski proposed a new plan: Put two white-water rafts on the river. He had one stored in Cuzco, and Goycochea would lend him a second and a guide to go with it for those first twenty-five miles. Two rafts could carry all the expedition's food, equipment, and personnel except Biggs and Truran, who would kayak. Bzdak and I would escape our sentence in Condorito.\n\nGoycochea also offered a truck and driver to haul us back to the Apurimac. Once we disembarked, we would not use motorized land transport again. And so, after five weeks of faithful duty, Condorito was fitted with a set of spanking new tires and returned with heartfelt thanks to Chmielinski's Peruvian friend, Antonio Vellutino, who had met us in Cuzco. Then we pared our equipment to the minimum (each member was permitted one small bag of personal gear), loaded Goycochea's truck at dawn, and waited for our river guide.\n\nMorning became afternoon, the shops closed, the city rested, at dusk the shops reopened. We received news both heartening and disquieting\u2014the Swiss team had quit the river. One of the men was badly injured, his leg, according to rumor, crushed by a falling boulder. We did not discuss this. Shadows grew into night. Our guide did not show. A second message arrived: The guide had fled Cuzco. He did not want to run the Apurimac, not any part of it.\n\nIt was too late to change our plans. In the morning we proceeded without him.\n\n#\n\n**TWO \u2022 WHITE WATER**\n\n# 7 \u2022 Meeting the Great Speaker\n\nAt dawn we drove west, climbed slowly up and out of Cuzco's fertile green valley, crossed a pass at about thirteen thousand five hundred feet, and descended just as slowly into the brown chaparral of the Apurimac canyon. In Chinchaypujio, the last town before dropping down to the canyon floor, we stocked up on chocolate bars, hand mirrors, bandanas, toilet paper, soap, insect repellent, and _pisco_ \u2014the comforts we would regret having forgotten once on the river. Then we pushed on for the Apurimac. Though we arrived in mid-afternoon, the sun had already set.\n\nHad we paused to think about it\u2014and several of us did\u2014we might have appreciated the splendid idiocy of what we were about to do. We proposed to challenge the most treacherous stretch of one of the most treacherous white-water rivers on the planet with what were, when you got right down to it, novice crews. Chmielinski and Bzdak were experienced raftsmen, Truran and Biggs skilled kayakers. But Odendaal and Jourgensen had only beginning white-water experience, and the rest of us\u2014Leon, Durrant, Van Heerden, and I\u2014had none at all.\n\nThat we chose not to stare those rude facts in the face for very long may have had something to do with the bottles of _pisco_ Bzdak produced after we carved out a chilly camp amid nettles and cactus. We toasted the river. We toasted the stars. We toasted the frigid Andean night. And then we toasted our impending departure, knowing that if all went according to plan, we would not leave the river again until the river left the continent.\n\nThere is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called \"adrenaline\" sports\u2014skiing, surfing, and rock climbing come to mind\u2014one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills.\n\nRunning white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap.\n\nIt's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: _Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river!_\n\nAnd then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river\u2014say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening.\n\nIt doesn't matter. The results are the same.\n\nThe world goes dark. The river\u2014the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you\u2014the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you.\n\nMaybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet\u2014just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you\u2014before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear.\n\nThat is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.\n\nAs white-water rivers go, the Apurimac's dangers lie not in her volume, which is middling until she reaches sea level, but in her extreme rockiness and steep descent. She is inclined less to pound you unconscious with big waves than to trap you beneath an undercut rock or suck you into a \"strainer\"\u2014a submerged, sievelike boulder pile from which there is no exit. She rewards technique over power. That is, she is better run on a small, maneuverable, four-man paddle raft capable of executing a series of tight turns, rather than the kind of boat often used on high-volume rivers like the Colorado\u2014long, wide rafts that can plow roughshod through big water and are usually controlled by a single man working two large oars.\n\nThough both our boats were paddle rafts, we had problems immediately. The raft Goycochea had loaned us, a lumbering, sixteen-foot-long Avon, was stable\u2014it barreled right through waves that tossed Chmielinski's fourteen-foot Riken willy-nilly\u2014but not easily controlled. And as manned by Bzdak, Odendaal, Van Heerden, and Jourgensen, an exercise in floating anarchy. As the Avon plunged into a hard rapid, each man flailed away with his paddle as he chose, watching out mainly for himself.\n\nLife was somewhat more orderly on the narrower, shorter Riken, if only because Durrant, Leon, and I were so completely hopeless that we reacted to Chmielinski's every command as if our lives depended on it. For Chmielinski, the military man, failure was not an option. By the end of our second day on the river he had intimidated us into a passably competent crew which, if not strong, at least managed to pull together as a team, stroking frantically at his urgent direction.\n\nAnd we had another advantage. In its own way, the state-of-the-art Riken raft was as profound a breakthrough in river technology as the canoe or the outboard motor. The beast's intelligent beauty lay in its self-bailing design. (Chmielinski called it \"safe-bailing.\") Its foundation was an independent, inflatable floor affixed to inflatable side tubes by a webwork of rope lashings. When water filled the raft, its weight forced the floor down, stretching the lashings and opening a gap between floor and side tubes. The force of the pneumatic floor trying to rise back up from the river drove the water out through the gap. The manufacturer's claim was that when filled, the raft would drain completely in five seconds.\n\nThe primary task for Durrant, who paddled at the raft's left front corner, and Leon, who paddled at the right front, was to propel the raft forward. Manning the back corners, Chmielinski and I supplied both power and direction.\n\nAs a \"driver\" I was also charged with scouting the rapids on foot before we ran them in the raft. Chmielinski scouted, I should say. I scrambled along the bank behind him, slipping so often on the slick boulders and sharp rocks that after two days my shins were plum-colored and mushy and my face and hands were covered with scabs.\n\nNevertheless, Chmielinski committed himself to the unenviable task of teaching me how to pick a safe line of travel through the Apurimac pinball machine. He believed that he could teach us the requisite paddling skills if we had confidence in ourselves\u2014he would provide the head if we hung in there with a little heart. But as a driver I had to understand the consequence of each flick of my paddle, an understanding that involved the ability to decipher the river's complex hydraulic patterns. However, when asked from the safety of dry land to choose a possible route, I invariably described one that would have condemned us to a watery death\u2014for instance, twisted and pinned under a strainer, dying slowly of asphyxiation and head wounds.\n\nChmielinski would look at me with quiet exasperation, then patiently explain a more prudent route. As we memorized the turns, stops, and starts we would try to execute when we actually ran the rapid, our conversations proceeded something like:\n\n\"Okay, Joe. Pointy rock.\"\n\n\"Pointy rock.\"\n\n\"It is a killer for sure, that one. I am _in_ with my paddle, you are _out_ , we are turning left, then we are _go_ , straight, we are _running_ , we are pulling for our lives. A killer. But not a problem.\"\n\n\"Pointy rock. Killer. No problem.\"\n\nSuch conferences were always\u2014 _always_ \u2014followed, on my part, by a vigorous expelling of urine. I learned to judge the true danger of a rapid, a danger that only my subconscious could objectively perceive, by the volume issuing from my bladder.\n\nAlmost without exception our painstaking choreography evaporated the moment we entered a rapid. Then it was up to Chmielinski to bring us under control with his precise set of commands, delivered at a pitch never less than savage.\n\nGod help the crewman who got out of position on the raft, which, unfortunately, was all too easy to do. The position one must master to paddle a raft correctly runs counter to all survival instincts. For example, as a driver, I was supposed to sit squarely on the left side tube at its junction with the back tube, tuck my left toes under the cross tube in front of me, and, spreading my legs as if sprinting, push the bottom of my right foot hard against the back tube. Then, anchored to the bucking raft only by the tension on my left toes, right heel, and buttocks, I was to hang my body out to the left, over the water, so that I could dig my paddle straight down into the river.\n\nAt first this struck me as mortally ludicrous\u2014Chmielinski wanted me to expose half my damn body to that terrible river, daring it to snatch me. Over time, however, and after the Apurimac had once too often treated me as a blender does a banana, I learned that being extended over the water, my paddle dug into it, was safer than bouncing about the raft's interior. Our supplies were stored dead in the center of the raft, under a net. Carrying this weight, the raft floor\u2014one was desperately tempted to dive onto it, hug it shamelessly, and weep\u2014delayed slightly before responding to the river's turbulence, in fact moved in counterpoint to it, while the lighter, independent side walls moved in synch. Riding the floor was like sitting on a trampoline while someone else jumped. One quickly vaulted up and out, into the smothering arms of the Great Speaker.\n\nAnd so one fought one's instincts, a battle in which Commander Chmielinski was ever willing to assist.\n\nThe Apurimac tested his talents as captain and teacher most severely on the fourth and last day of our shakedown run from the military bridge to Cunyac bridge, when we confronted our worst rapid. It was a series of rapids, in fact, all of them Class Five, which means something like \"high degree of technical difficulty, and if a mistake is made, possible mortal consequences.\" Your basic \"killer, no problem\" sort of thing. (Class Five rapids are considered the upper limit of runnable water.)\n\nWe scouted that particular chain of rapids, about a half mile long, for two hours. Finally, Chmielinski picked a line of descent. Two boulders formed a narrow chute at the top of the rapid. As the river forced its way through the chute, it compressed from some fifty feet wide to fifteen. Then it exploded through the chute like gas exiting a carburetor, spilled over a short waterfall, and at the bottom built a \"keeper,\" a wave that flows back on itself. Someone caught in a keeper makes several mind-altering spins before escaping. People who have experienced them also call such waves \"Maytags.\"\n\nBelow all of this lay the kind of roiling mess that you knew, just by looking at it, could send you home in a wheelchair.\n\n\"It is a killer,\" Chmielinski said when we had finished scouting the run.\n\nI knew the correct rejoinder: \"No problem.\"\n\nThen I let fly with an act of urination so wildly out of proportion to my liquid intake for the day that I felt my face begin to pucker.\n\nBack at the raft, Durrant asked about the rapid.\n\n\"It is a part of a cake,\" Chmielinski said.\n\nWe backstroked out of the eddy and turned upstream. (By paddling against the current we maintained control of the raft, sort of.) We swung our nose slowly into the current, like a hand on a clock: upstream, cross-stream, downstream. Then we inched into the quickening water.\n\nI remember, as we hit the chute, the roller-coaster-stomach, sick-sweet sensation of falling through air. I remember white walls of water rising around us, that we blasted into several boulders, and that the explosions we made when we hit them were louder even than the river itself. Once, my head snapped so violently I worried I had broken my neck. I remember the raft pinned to a boulder, up on its side about to flip, and us climbing to the high side while the rapid roared at our feet. I remember staring straight down at a knife-edged rock and watching it somehow shoot past my head. I remember the urgency of Chmielinski's screams, louder and more desperate by far than any I had heard from him before.\n\nAnd then I remember calm sweet waters of peace and joy, drifting quietly in the raft in the wide easy river below the rapid. I remember that we were breathing hard but otherwise silent, and that in the slow water it seemed as if we and the river were one, motionless, while mountains and sky swept past us on their way upstream, to the source of the Amazon, or to wherever it is that mountains and sky might choose to go.\n\n\"Good, guys,\" Chmielinski said after a while. \"Excellent. We almost made a bad turnover, but we did not.\" He shook our hands, and, exulting in the afterglow, Leon, Durrant, and I flashed the adrenaline-laced grins of fledgling river rats.\n\n\"The idea is not to beat the river,\" Chmielinski said. \"The river always wins. It does not care. We try the river because we must try. White water is, how do you say it, like you are bleeding...\"\n\n\"It gets in your blood.\"\n\n\"Yes. It is in your blood. It is a thing you are never forgetting.\"\n\nWith Chmielinski guiding us and then, for the hardest rapids, clambering back upstream to captain the Avon as well, we made the Cunyac bridge on schedule, four days after first putting in the river. The bridge, a sturdy wooden affair, is the most vulnerable section of the Lima-Cuzco road. We celebrated with a dinner of fried eggs and rice at a smoky, dirt-floored cantina tucked behind a military checkpoint. When we had finished, Odendaal asked me to step outside. We stood on the back porch, next to a sleeping pig.\n\n\"Piotr wants to take only the Riken from here on down,\" he said. \"With Zbyszek, Pierre, and Jack. And you.\"\n\n\"Who will paddle?\"\n\n\"You, Pierre, Zbyszek, except when Pierre is filming, then we let Jack use a paddle. I will kayak.\"\n\n\"What do you think?\"\n\n\"It will be bigger water now. Bad rapids. Long portages. A strong chance you will swim. A chance you could die.\"\n\n\"Piotr is a good captain.\"\n\n\"Piotr is very ambitious. If he runs this section of the river on a raft he will be the first man to do it. He will be a hero in Peru once again. Tim and Jerome do not want to take a raft. They do not think it will be safe.\"\n\nHe said that Sergio Leon would go to Lima to try to extend our visas, most of which were about to expire. Leon did not enjoy rafting\u2014he could barely swim\u2014and had requested other duty. Odendaal said Durrant would go with him.\n\n\"You may have trouble separating her from Zbyszek,\" I said.\n\n\"That is not an expedition consideration,\" Odendaal said. \"If there is a problem, they will be off the expedition.\" Relations between Durrant and Odendaal had not been smooth, which Durrant suspected had to do with her romance with Bzdak. The closer she had become to Bzdak, the cooler Odendaal had acted toward her. Nor had the situation been helped by the badgering Durrant had suffered from the Afrikaner film crew.\n\nA soft rain fell. A roar from inside the cantina indicated that a bottle was making the rounds.\n\n\"Think about it,\" Odendaal said. \"Let me know soon.\" He lit the homemade pipe he had taken to smoking. As he turned to reenter the cantina, he said, \"This is starting to feel like an adventure again. Enough of this tourist crap.\"\n\nI went to my tent, lit a candle, and tried to read _The Nigger of the Narcissus:_ \"... the solidarity in uncertain fate, which brings all men to each other....\" I soon put the book down. My mind was reeling. Before my taste of rafting, I had pushed hard to be included on the raft all the way down the white-water river. Now that I was being given that opportunity, I was not at all sure I wanted to take advantage of it. The river genuinely scared me.\n\nI walked naked to the Apurimac and dove in. She ran broad and smooth there beneath the Cunyac bridge, her current strong but even. There were no rapids\u2014that side of her was hidden around a bend, as if it were too rude a thing to be seen from the bridge\u2014and the water was pleasantly cool.\n\nIn the dark night I swam across the river at an angle upstream (what the kayakers called \"ferry-gliding\"), and paddled just hard enough to hold even in the current, to prevent it from carrying me downstream. I was trying, I suppose, to feel the Apurimac, to test her, to see if I could trust her. I enjoyed the river life after the grime and sweat of hiking the high country\u2014no dirt under the fingernails, a wonderful clean tiredness in arms and chest and shoulders after a day at the paddle. I had slept well those last few nights, except for the nightmares, in which I seemed to drown forever without actually dying.\n\nChmielinski was waiting at my tent, wearing, as always, a serious expression.\n\n\"What do you think about the raft?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\n\"Tim does not want it. I think it is a personal thing against me, he is protecting Fran\u00e7ois. I think it is important to have the raft. This is a chance to record history, Pierre with his filming, Zbyszek with his camera, and you with the book.\"\n\n\"Do you think it will be safe?\"\n\n\"No problem. I will ask you to paddle in the back again, next to me.\"\n\nHe said that if I went with the raft, I would be assigned Leon's role as quartermaster. The lowliest work on the team, sticky, fly-ridden, thankless duty. First man up in the morning to outfit the cook of the day, last man to sleep after counting and repacking provisions, all free time spent checking for rot and insects.\n\nMy options? Return to Lima with Leon and Durrant and be effectively off the expedition. Or go with the raft and travel country that few if any people had seen.\n\nWe left the Cunyac camp under a hot midday sun, the three kayaks ten yards in front of the raft, and bobbed for an hour on the slow, flat river. Then with Jourgensen wedged between Chmielinski and me, Bzdak, Van Heerden, and I put paddles to water and bent our backs to Chmielinski's \"Stroke... stroke... stroke...\"\n\nWithin a few miles we passed the site of what had been the greatest of the Inca hanging bridges, the key link in the highway between mountain and coast. In 1533 the Inca burned the bridge in a futile attempt to stop the Spanish on their march to Cuzco, and the Spanish later built their own wood-and-stone span on the site (upon which Thornton Wilder based his _Bridge of San Luis Rey_ ). In all, the bridge is said to have been in continual use longer than any other in the Americas, but today the chipped white-mortar Spanish abutments, the only significant mark the _conquistadores_ made in the Apurimac canyon, loom like ghostly portals to a dark, forbidding slash in the Cordillera Vilcabamba. The surrounding terrain is hot and stark save an occasional glimpse of a craggy snow-covered peak.\n\nIn mid-afternoon the headwind increased, blowing hard upriver as heat rose from the deep canyon below. It blew so hard, in fact, that even as we strained at our paddles it drove us backward, against the current, into an ugly whirlpool from which we extricated ourselves only when Chmielinski counted stroke in a desperate rage. We hid in the lee of a cliff while Biggs and Truran kayaked across the river with our bow line and planted themselves on shore. As they hauled on the line we paddled the raft. To cut wind resistance we knelt on the floor, bent to our task like supplicating monks.\n\nExhausted, we pitched camp in a thorny clearing near a hot spring presided over by a stout _mestizo_ woman, her frail, toothless husband, and their teenage daughter, a shy, barefoot beauty in a short, tattered cotton dress. A cement pool captured water from the spring, and the crumbling cement buildings nearby, where the family lived, suggested that the place may once have been a kind of resort.\n\n\"If you swim naked in the pool,\" the matriarch said, \"you will have twins.\" But she did not want her theory tested\u2014she shooed the girl away.\n\nBiggs was cook of the day. While I helped him set up his kitchen, the old woman rattled about the camp raising dust and shouting advice: \"Put more wood on the fire.\" \"Your pot is too small.\" Biggs cut her a slice of cheese. She walked away from us to eat it, returned, and asked, \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"To where the river ends,\" Biggs said.\n\nShe considered this. \"Europe.\"\n\n\"No,\" Biggs said. \"Europe is across the Atlantic Ocean.\"\n\n\"What is the Atlantic Ocean?\"\n\nShe left when the rest of the team returned from the pool. We built a fire and ate in silence. Afterwards, Odendaal said, \"Without a woman I feel like I am in the land of the dead.\" He paused to light his pipe. \"Now Zbyszek is one of us. Now he is among the dead.\"\n\nIf not intentionally cruel, the remark was certainly insensitive. Odendaal had dismissed Durrant from the rafting team in a way that she had not considered exceptionally gracious, and he had told Bzdak, in a patronizing tone, \"I am sorry to have to break you two up. It is a very nice relationship, and it lends a good feeling to the team.\"\n\n\"The issue is not the relationship,\" Bzdak had replied angrily. \"The issue is Kate is part of this expedition. She has earned the right to be on the raft.\"\n\nNow Bzdak ignored Odendaal, who, having failed to elicit a response, turned to the rest of us. His favorite activity on the river seemed to be playing the pipe-in-hand storyteller, the sage. \"How do you catch an alligator?\" he asked. No one spoke. \"Well, you take tweezers, field glasses, a boring book...\"\n\n\"Scorpion!\" Bzdak yelled. A three-inch-long bug glowing gold with reflected firelight poised on a rock two feet from his right leg.\n\n\"Zbyszek,\" Odendaal began again, this time in a harder voice, \"how do you catch\u2014\"\n\nBzdak jumped up on a boulder and perched above the rest of us, laughing his high, squeaky laugh and jabbing at the scorpion with a stick. The firelight glanced off the underside of his huge red beard and the front of his broad head and threw the rest of him into dark relief. He looked and sounded like some sort of wild Polish wizard.\n\nDazed from the afternoon's battle with the wind, we watched his thrusts and the scorpion's tentative parries. One step back, two forward, stinger cocked...\n\n\"Zbyszek!\" Odendaal said. \"I am not impressed.\" When Bzdak continued to ignore him, Odendaal said, \"That lady's daughter is very pretty. Maybe I will ask her to come for a swim with me.\" He stood up and left the fire.\n\nWhen Odendaal was gone Bzdak crushed the scorpion and kicked it into the flames, as if casting a wizard's spell.\n\nThe next morning, fearing the wind would rise by mid-afternoon and end our day, we launched our boats at first light and ran four fast miles, the kayakers in the lead, the raft trailing. Then the river widened to about fifty yards and the rapids began to show not just chutes and turns but waves and troughs. Some of these waves, as high as eight feet, loomed over the raft's bow like green walls and inhibited our ability to track the kayakers. At one point we ran right over Biggs, trapping him underwater, beneath the raft, and raking him over submerged boulders until Bzdak managed to reach under and yank the kayak free.\n\nBiggs was not happy, to say the least, and claimed that he had heard Chmielinski yelling \"Forward! Forward!\" as we ran him down. Chmielinski vehemently denied this, and sitting next to him on the raft I had heard no such thing. But we agreed that Biggs and Truran would ride at least fifty yards ahead of the raft, scouting the river and signaling with upraised paddles to stop or come ahead. Odendaal would try to keep up with them.\n\nThis system worked well until Odendaal suffered two punishing swims and Biggs and Truran abandoned their scouting duties to rescue him. \"He's shattered,\" Truran said when he caught up with us. \"Badly fazed. He'll lose all his skills. Tim's worried.\"\n\nOver the next few hours the river was rough but predictable, and we paddled as hard as we could until the headwind roared up. To either side of us the dark canyon walls rose vertically for hundreds of feet, perhaps more\u2014who could see up that far? They were fragile walls, without vegetation, all boulders and granite slabs tucked into soft dirt and scree and shale. The boulders clotting the river were not the smooth, water-sculpted stone we had seen so far but jagged blades honed by detritus hurtling down from above.\n\nA plume of smoke curled far downriver. When we arrived at the spot hours later it was still rising, but it was dust, not smoke. Hundreds of feet of wall had simply collapsed en masse into the river.\n\nSuddenly the Apurimac narrowed so dramatically that we were all struck silent. It squeezed into a gorge a quarter of its previous width, perhaps forty feet wide, which so concentrated the headwind that paddling our hardest gained us only a standstill. We had to make camp, but we saw no beaches, no flat ground, nothing but the gorge's sheer vertical walls.\n\nFinally we found a cluster of boulders along the left bank, and in between them small patches of sand just big enough to hold a tent or sleeping bag. Across the river, a waterfall tumbled in four long cascades down five hundred feet of slick rock. Jokingly, but presciently, Chmielinski named this \"Last Hope Falls.\"\n\nNerves were short and so was dinner, for no sooner had we begun to eat than it started to rain hard. We ran for our tents. I drifted off to sleep but awoke to a horrible, thunderlike _crack_. Lightning flashed, but the _cracks_ \u2014I heard several more after I climbed out of my tent to investigate\u2014were rain-loosened boulders tumbling down the wall.\n\nI slinked naked down to the food bags and tucked them beneath overhanging rocks. Lightning flashed again, and I heard amid the _cracks_ the occasional thud of a boulder hitting sand. Jourgensen, Odendaal, and Van Heerden had found shelter in small caves. Chmielinski was next to the river, his tent tied to the raft. With even a slight rain in this narrow gorge the water would rise rapidly and sweep the raft away.\n\nBzdak was still in his tent.\n\n\"I stay in here, maybe I get hit by a rock,\" he reasoned from beneath his rain fly. \"I go outside, maybe I get hit by a rock there, too, but for sure I will get wet. So I will stay in my tent.\"\n\nTruran had made a similar decision, though he tried to sleep up on his side, figuring that limited the possibility of either crushed organs or a crushed spine.\n\nI elected to do the same, and wore my helmet for protection. But the rockfall continued until dawn, and I did not sleep.\n\nIn the morning, bug-eyed and mumbling after the exhausting night, we asssessed our situation. Chmielinski guessed that in two days we had run eight to ten miles, and that we were thirty to forty miles from the point where, we hoped, Durrant and Leon would be waiting with supplies. \"Could take one day,\" he said. \"Could take one week.\"\n\nTo our surprise we ran well that morning, handling three hard rapids without a mistake, and regained some of the confidence lost during the night's rock bombing. But that memory hung close. Many of the boulders we now saw in the river were freshly fallen, caked with dust and mud hauled down from the walls. Finding a safe campsite now held priority over achieving distance.\n\nThen the river took an abrupt left and entered a gorge so steep and narrow its walls appeared to close overhead. Though it was midday no sun reached the water. The river itself was a mess\u2014fast, mud brown, roiling from the rain and still rising, studded with boulders that towered over our little fleet.\n\nThis was the Acobamba Abyss.\n\n# 8 \u2022 The Acobamba Abyss\n\nBelow us lay three bad rapids, a short stretch of calm water, and then, where the gorge suddenly narrowed, a single, twenty-foot-wide chute through which the whole frustrated Apurimac poured in unheeding rage. The river was whipped so white over the next half mile that it looked like a snowfield. The thrashing cascades raised a dense mist, rendering the dark canyon cold and clammy. Their roar made my head ache.\n\n\"You swim in that,' \" Bzdak shouted in my ear, \"you don't get out!\"\n\nBut the gorge walls were nearly vertical. We could not portage, we could not climb out, we could not pitch camp. Even had we found a relatively flat area, as the gorge cooled through the night boulders would pop out of the ramparts. The rock shower would be deadly.\n\nWe had no choice but to attempt to \"line\" the raft, a tedious, nerve-racking procedure in which we sent the raft downriver unmanned at the end of Chmielinski's one-hundred-fifty-foot climbing rope a length at a time.\n\nWhile I stood on a boulder on the left bank and held the Riken in place by a short, thin line tied to its stern, the two Poles affixed the heavy climbing rope to the bow and worked downstream with it as far as they could. At Chmielinski's signal I dropped my line and kicked the raft into the first rapid. Within seconds the boat was hurtling through the rapid at what must have been twenty knots, leaping wildly. I shuddered when I imagined riding it.\n\nIn the middle of the second rapid, the raft flipped. As it passed the Poles, half the bow line snagged underwater, tautened, and though rated with an \"impact force\" of more than a ton snapped as if it were mere sewing thread.\n\nUnleashed, the raft sped down the river.\n\nTruran, who had run the first rapid in his kayak, was waiting on a boulder near the calm water above the terrible chute. When he saw the raft break free, he dove into the river, swam for the raft as it drifted toward the chute, and managed briefly to deflect it from its course. He scrambled aboard, and as the raft accelerated toward the chute he caught a rescue line thrown like a football by Chmielinski. The Pole arrested the raft as it teetered on the chute's lip, and slowly hauled Truran back from the edge of disaster. (Chmielinski later described Truran's effort as one of the bravest he had seen on a river.)\n\nDraining as all that was, we still had to get the boat through the chute, somehow hold it to the wall and board it, and then run the ugly water below. The lower rapid could not be scouted. We could only hope that it held no surprises\u2014no waterfalls, no deadly holes.\n\nJourgensen and Van Heerden slowly worked their way down to the chute, creeping along the boulders that sat at the foot of the gorge's left wall. When they arrived, Chmielinski told them to rest. Then he and Truran anchored the raft with the stern line while Bzdak took the bow line, now shorter by some forty feet, and climbed hand over hand up the two-story boulder that formed the chute's left gate. From the boulder Bzdak then climbed to a foot-wide ledge that ran along the left wall.\n\nAt Chmielinski's command I followed Bzdak. I ascended the boulder easily enough, but negotiating the wet, slick wall was something else. It was so sheer that I couldn't find a solid grip, and I quickly developed what rock climbers call \"sewing-machine legs,\" an uncontrollable, fear-induced, pistonlike shaking. I felt cut off and alone. One misstep and I was in the river, which now churned angrily fifteen feet straight below.\n\nBzdak stopped on the ledge three feet in front of me and looked back. He shouted to me, but I couldn't hear him above the river's tumult. He inched his way back and put his head next to mine.\n\n\"DON'T LOOK DOWN!\"\n\nWe wormed along the ledge until we could lower ourselves onto a one-foot-square rock at the base of the wall and a few feet in front of the gate boulder. We squeezed onto that small rock, each of us with one foot on it and one in the air, and braced ourselves as best we could, trying all the while to ignore the exploding river next to us.\n\nBzdak twirled the climbing rope up off the top of the gate boulder and tugged on it, signaling Chmielinski to send the raft. I wrapped my arms around Bzdak's waist and leaned back like a counterweight. The raft vaulted the chute. Hand over hand, Bzdak reeled in slack line as fast as he could. I tensed, anticipating the jolt we were about to receive. The raft approached us, shot past, and BOOM! the line straightened and stretched, the raft hurtled down the rapid, I tried to calibrate my backward lean\u2014\n\n\"HOLD ME, JOSE!\"\n\nI couldn't. We were going in.\n\nYet somehow Bzdak was hauling the raft toward us, fighting it home inch by inch. Then the line was in my hands and he was in the raft, tearing a paddle loose from beneath the center net. The raft smashed up against the left wall. The river pounded through the chute, curled into the raft, knocked Bzdak flat, and buried him.\n\nTrying to hold the raft was like pulling against a tractor. I couldn't do it. But the raft bailed itself quickly, and Bzdak rose from the floor and paddled toward the rock. When he was five feet away he leapt for it. How he managed to land on that tiny space I do not know, but we made our stand there, anchoring the bucking raft from what seemed like the head of a pin.\n\nWe watched Van Heerden help a ghost-white Jourgensen over the boulder and along the wall, then down the wall into the raft. The two men took up positions in the front of the raft. Then Chmielinski climbed over the gate boulder with...\n\n... I read Bzdak's lips: \"Shit!\"...\n\n... Odendaal's kayak.\n\nIts owner appeared behind Chmielinski and stared at us. Chmielinski took aim and shoved the kayak down the boulder's face, dead on into the center of the lurching raft. Then he signaled me into the raft, but the rope had sawed my hands to bloody pulp and I couldn't uncurl them. Bzdak shook the rope loose. I dove the five feet from the wall to the raft and crawled to the left rear. Chmielinski worked his way down the wall and took Bzdak's spot. Bzdak jumped into the raft. With Jourgensen squeezed between them, he and Van Heerden got their paddles ready on front. I reached beneath the center net and yanked out a paddle for me and one for Chmielinski.\n\n\"What are we doing?\" I yelled to Chmielinski.\n\nHe yelled back, \"Fran\u00e7ois goes alone, he dies!\"\n\nBiggs and Truran had managed to traverse the river above the chute and sneak down the far side of the rapid, but it was too risky for Odendaal. Were he to make a single mistake during the traverse he would plunge through the chute and into what we could now see was a deadly hole a few feet below it. Instead, Chmielinski intended to mount Odendaal and his kayak on the raft and run the rapid.\n\nChmielinski had tried that strategy with an overwhelmed kayaker once before, in the Colca canyon. Like Odendaal's, that kayak had been almost as long as the raft, and with it strapped over the center net the wildly top-heavy raft had flipped moments after it entered the rapid. Everyone had taken a bad swim, Bzdak the worst of his life. If that happened here, we would drown in the hole. But Chmielinski reasoned that it was better that six men risk their lives than that one be condemned to a near-certain death.\n\nI looked up at Odendaal, standing atop the boulder. His eyes were frozen. He looked paralyzed. I knew the feeling.\n\nChmielinski screamed at Odendaal. He inched his way to the raft and into it and mounted himself spread-eagled on top of his kayak, facing to the rear.\n\n\"Squeeze on that kayak like it is your life!\" Chmielinski yelled.\n\nChmielinski could not hold Odendaal's added weight. He leapt and landed in the raft as it bucked away from the wall. Seconds later, even before I could thrust Chmielinski's paddle at him, we were sucked into the heart of the current. With Chmielinski screaming at the top of his lungs\u2014\"LEFTLEFTLEFT!\"\u2014we managed to turn hard and get the nose of the boat heading downstream. We skirted the ugly hole, but it shoved the raft sideways. We found ourselves bearing down on a \"stopper\" rock no one had seen, a rock that would upend us if we hit it.\n\nChmielinski screamed \"RIGHTRIGHTRIGHT!\" and we were sideways, then \"INININ!,\" a steering command intended for me, and I hung far to my left and chopped down into the water and pulled my paddle straight in toward me so the rear end of the boat swung left and the front end right. Then a wall of water engulfed me and all I saw was white.\n\nSomehow we shot around the stopper rock's left side but we were still sideways in the rapid \"GOGOGOGO!' paddling hard forward fighting in vain for control and the river slammed us up against another rock, this one sloping toward us, Chmielinski's side of the raft shot up on the rock, mine lowered to the river coming behind us, the water punched at the low end, drove it into the rock and stood the raft up on its side, teetering, \"UPUPUPUPUP!\" and I fought to climb the high side, to push it back down with my weight, but Odendaal and his kayak had me blocked and I saw Bzdak trapped the same way on the front end, the water pouring in knocked me off my feet, the boat started to flip \"GOGOGOGO!\" and all I could do was try to paddle free of the rock digging blindly with my paddle \"GOGOGOGO!\" and BOOM! we were free and bouncing off the left gorge wall and then heading straight for the gentle tail at the end of the rapid and the calm flat water beyond.\n\nJust above the rapid's last one hundred yards we found an eddy and put Odendaal out of the boat to walk along a sandy bank that ran almost, but not quite, to the end of the rapid. We ran the rest of it, two small chutes _boom-boom_ , and met Truran in the softly purling water below. He pointed overhead, to the narrow crack of sky between the gorge walls. Storm clouds were snagged on a dark peak. We had to find a campsite quickly, before the boulder-loosening rain hit.\n\nBut Odendaal had run out of walking room and stood stiff as a statue thirty yards upstream of us, at the rapid's tail. Biggs sat in his kayak in an eddy near Odendaal, shouting at him to jump in the rapid and swim. Odendaal refused. The exchange continued for ten, fifteen minutes. Then, as the sky darkened, we all began to yell at the Afrikaner. He looked up. He slipped. He was in the river. He bounced through the rapid unharmed and Biggs fished him out at the bottom. After we put his kayak on the water Biggs escorted him downstream.\n\nWe got lucky\u2014the gorge widened and we found a generous expanse of sandy beach. But after we unloaded our gear Odendaal lambasted Biggs over the scene at the last rapid, saying that as the expedition leader it was his right to have stood there two hours if he so chose. Disgusted, Biggs walked away and joined the rest of us around the fire. When Chmielinski had dinner ready Odendaal sat down but did not speak, choosing instead to play Biggs's harmonica softly to himself.\n\nChmielinski guessed that we had covered barely a mile that day. This was disappointing, but for the time being we relaxed. The storm clouds evaporated and we sat by the fire on that fine beach and watched a star show in the thin opening overhead, the river that short hours before had been a deafening monster now bubbling along tranquilly beside us.\n\nDuring the morning run on our second day in the abyss the gorge walls closed in on us once again, narrowing to perhaps thirty feet. At first this was a shock, but the river ran smooth and fast, and we calmed down. Truran, Biggs, and Odendaal paddled their kayaks ahead of the raft and disappeared around a bend.\n\nFifteen minutes later a gnawing worry gripped the five of us on the raft. Four hundred feet ahead of us the river appeared simply to stop. The gorge turned left, and the wall that crossed in front of us seemed to swallow the river. We expected to see a white line between the river and the wall, a line of riffles, the tops of rapids. The absence of such riffles suggested a waterfall.\n\nWe drifted, tense and uncertain. In the front of the raft Bzdak and Van Heerden shipped their paddles. I used mine as a rudder, keeping the bow pointed downstream while Chmielinski stood up and studied the river before us. After a few minutes he said, \"Okay, I see a white line.\" Then we saw it, too, but it looked strange, too hard and unwavering to be riffles.\n\nJourgensen, sitting between Chmielinski and me, asked, \"What if that line is part of the rock formations on the wall?\"\n\nWe drifted in silence. After about a minute, Chmielinski said, \"Shit!\" I had never heard him use the word. \"It _is_ a rock formation! To the bank, fast!\"\n\nWe paddled urgently for the left wall, and when we gained it Bzdak and I dug in the slippery rock for fingerholds. While we held the raft Chmielinski stood up and tried to determine what lay below the natural dam we assumed we were now approaching.\n\n\"This is the thing you are always afraid of,\" he said. \"You cannot go back, you cannot portage, you cannot climb out, the water is dropping away in front of you. Even if that is a waterfall, the only thing we can do is go.\"\n\nWe set off uneasily, no one speaking, all eyes on the water line. Where were the kayakers? Now the river ended fifty, now forty feet in front of us. We went to the wall again, found a crack, inserted fingers. Chmielinski climbed the crack, but when he was fifteen feet above us he fell, returning to the river in a dark blur that ended with a splash and his red-helmeted head bobbing toward the falls.\n\nBzdak and I paddled furiously. Van Heerden unclipped a rescue line and threw it downstream. We hauled the raft captain aboard just as we began to shoot over the falls...\n\n... but it was not a waterfall at all, just a long, gentle rapid. Steep\u2014hence no riffle tops\u2014but straight, no boulders, all lazy, harmless waves. And luck.\n\nThen our luck ran out. We reentered pinball country. We lined the raft through a cluster of gargantuan boulders, hour after hour of whipsawing rope, bloody hands, and bruised shins, and at the end of the day had to negotiate an ugly rapid that took an hour to scout and half a minute to run.\n\nSomething happened to me in that half minute. The rapid was a tricky one. It had three chutes and a dozen turns, the last around a broad hole. We handled the first two chutes well, but the third had a ten-foot drop\u2014a small waterfall. At the top of that last chute Chmielinski yelled \"OUT!,\" a signal to me to set the raft's nose straight, and I managed two correcting strokes before we hit the chute's left wall.\n\nThen the raft burst through the chute, a wave broke over the top of the raft, I saw nothing but water, and I heard Chmielinski screaming \"OUTOUTOUT!\" I dug with my paddle and managed three more strokes before we hit the edge of the big hole and the force of the currents spinning around the hole jerked the raft and threw me into the center net.\n\nOr had _I jumped_ into the net?\n\nI could not honestly tell. The rapid had been a difficult one, that much was clear, and when we completed it Biggs and Truran shouted congratulations to us. Chmielinski was jubilant, beaming, charged with adrenaline. \"Perfect,\" he said as he shook my hand.\n\nI wasn't so sure. I suspected I was beginning to crack.\n\nIn general, however, that run buoyed our hopes\u2014perhaps we would break free of the abyss the next day. There was a good feeling in camp that night, except for my self-doubts and a blowup between Biggs and Odendaal over Odendaal's failure to follow Biggs's instructions in a difficult rapid.\n\n\"Tim's in a terrible spot,\" Truran said to me as we sipped tea before dinner. \"He's like a veterinarian injecting his own dog. If Frans drowns, the responsibility is on Tim. People will say to him, you were the river captain, why didn't you take Frans off the water? But Tim really cares for Frans. He wants him to have a good outing, so he's reluctant to send him off. Maybe the lesson in all this is that if you can't do the job yourself, you don't put a friend in charge. You look for someone impartial.\"\n\nThat night Odendaal came to my tent. He was smoking his pipe and seemed pensive and subdued.\n\n\"Is my behavior on the river causing you rafters worry?\" he asked. Speaking for myself, I said, I was concerned mainly with running each rapid, with getting through the abyss alive. He was an afterthought, except when we had to carry him on the raft.\n\n\"That's good,\" he said. \"I was afraid... well, Tim's being too emotional. I am paddling at my best, but Biggsy is overworried. In a good way, of course. I know he acts as he does because he cares for me.\"\n\nI said Biggs certainly did appear to care for him. Then he wished me good night.\n\nThinking about it later, I found his assertion that he was \"paddling at my best\" surprising. As far as I could tell he was portaging any rapid he could. However, I did not think less of him for this. If anything I admired his prudence, and at times was envious that he could portage his kayak around many rapids that, with our much bigger raft, we had no choice but to run.\n\nI worked on my notes, but this did not distract me from questioning my own behavior on the river, especially on that last rapid. I had always assumed (without ever really testing that assumption) that the one thing I had control over was my nerve, my ability to act under pressure. Now I wondered if I had misled myself.\n\nWe had advanced one mile our first day in the abyss, two miles the second day. Our third day started off with no more promise. A hard rain had fallen through the night, and by morning the river had risen six inches. Biggs estimated that it had come up 20 percent overnight, from four thousand cubic feet a second to five thousand. We were awake at dawn and on the water by 8 a.m. By 11 a.m., lining the raft through three unrunnable rapids, we had progressed a grand total of about four hundred yards.\n\nAnd then we encountered a chute almost identical to the one at the entrance to the abyss. The Apurimac compressed to about twenty feet wide, and the walls rose not just vertically but in fact narrowed\u2014the powerful river had cut its gorge faster than gravity could bring the upper ramparts tumbling down. The kayakers found what they called a \"sneak\" along the right wall, a small chute next to the main chute that was an easy run for them but too small for the raft. Meanwhile, we couldn't scout the rapid and we couldn't line the raft through it.\n\nOnce again Bzdak and I climbed the gate boulder, inched along a thin ledge on the left wall, and retrieved the raft after Chmielinski shoved it through the chute. Once again Van Heerden and Jourgensen worked their way down the wall and into the raft. Once again we bore down on a monstrous hole. In fact, it was the biggest hole I'd seen, a gargantuan churning turbine easily thirty feet across, its eye sunk a good five feet below its outer lip. With Chmielinski screaming furiously we managed to skirt the hole, but as we did I had the distinct impression of it as a demon lurking over my right shoulder.\n\nWe shot past the hole, bounced off both walls and spun clockwise in a circle. With the portly Jourgensen riding on my corner of the raft we sat low in the water and the river pelted us constantly over the stern. Now, as we spun, he lost his balance and with an assist from the water beating me on the back sent me flying out of the raft. On my way out Chmielinski reached across and jerked me back in.\n\nJust as I got back into position I saw that we were bearing down on Biggs, who was in his kayak, in a tiny eddy right in the middle of the rapid, poised to rescue one of us in the event of a spill. Bzdak screamed a warning, but in the narrow gorge Biggs had nowhere to go\u2014we had come on him too fast. We ran him down, trapped him beneath the raft, and hauled him fifteen yards before his boat popped out, riderless, from beneath ours. Then Chmielinski managed to reach under the raft, grab Biggs by the life jacket, and yank him free, alive but distraught.\n\nWe broke for lunch exhausted and demoralized. After five hours of work we had advanced perhaps eight hundred yards. Food went down hard, because each man felt within his gut a stone of fear and fatigue. To our right, in the east, the sight of snow-capped 21,000-foot Auzangate hovering over the gorge brought little joy, for it reminded us that we were still some six thousand difficult feet above sea level.\n\nAfter lunch Chmielinski, Truran, and I scouted downriver and discovered our worst rapids yet. Four thundering drops, each at least two hundred yards long, with so much white water that at first they appeared to be one continuous froth.\n\nTruran broke the rapid down into distinct runs: \"Ballroom, Milk Shake, Liquidizer, Dead Man.\" He turned to me. \"Whatever you do, _keep paddling_. Keep control of the raft. And _do not swim_.\"\n\nBzdak joined us on the rock and appraised the river. \"What do you think?\" I asked.\n\nHe shook his head slowly. \"Don't swim. My god, don't swim.\"\n\nHe and I climbed back to the raft and sat on it, waiting for Chmielinski. From utter emotional exhaustion I fell asleep, and awoke to Chmielinski splashing water in my face. He ordered Van Heerden to accompany Biggs, Truran, and Odendaal, who had found a portage route too tight for the raft but adequate for their kayaks. The cover was that Van Heerden could film the rapid. The reality was that by now Chmielinski did not trust Van Heerden. The Afrikaner would not respond to Chmielinski's commands, and his habit of smoking on the raft, and of tossing the empty cigarette packages in the river, had already led to harsh words between the two.\n\nAfter the kayakers and Van Heerden left, Chmielinski said to Bzdak, Jourgensen, and me, \"Okay, guys, looks good. All we do is keep straight in the top chute.\" He paused. \"If you swim, try to go to the right.\" I had never heard him suggest the possibility of swimming a rapid.\n\nWe paddled upstream, turned into the current, maneuvered above the chute, and slowed slightly as we dipped into it. Then the river picked us up and heaved us forward. We were airborne. The only time I had felt a similar sensation was as a teenager, when I had ridden a motorcycle off a small cliff.\n\nThe raft hit the water, jackknifed, spun one hundred eighty degrees. We went backward into the Ballroom. Chmielinski and I cracked heads and then I was on my way out of the raft. I grabbed netting as I went over the side.\n\n\"Jack!\" someone screamed, and for a split second I saw Jourgensen in the heart of the rapid. He was under, up, under again, helpless, his life jacket his only hope, for he could barely swim. His face looked bloodless and frozen, his eyes blank. But he wasn't struggling. It was as if he had resigned himself to the inevitable.\n\nThe raft pitched, heaved, scooped me up. Chmielinski lay sprawled across the net, and at first I thought the force of our collision had knocked him out. The raft bolted up, then down. Bzdak, standing in the bucking bow like a defiant warrior, reached into the river and with one hand plucked Jourgensen back from eternity. He dropped the big man on the floor of the raft as if he were no heavier than a trout.\n\nTwo seconds later we plunged into Milk Shake.\n\n\"FORWARDFORWARDFORWARD!\" Chmielinski yelled as he scrambled back into paddling position. We paddled hard to try to regain control of the raft, but it was too late. The front right rose and we began to flip. Jourgensen struggled up from the floor, climbed Bzdak's back, and nearly knocked him out of the boat. Bzdak wrestled him off and threw himself at the high side with Chmielinski. The raft leveled for a moment, then started to spin left to right.\n\n\"SWITCH!\" Chmielinski yelled. That was a new one. He and I turned on the tubes and became front men, Bzdak the lone driver.\n\nWe handled the third rapid, Liquidizer, but lurched out of control as we tumbled over a short waterfall into Dead Man. We bounced off the left wall, hit a rock, spun a three-sixty, hit the right wall\u2014and somehow ricocheted right across the hole. I got one terrifying glance at its ugly swirling eye, and then we shot into the calm water below it.\n\nWe paddled to some boulders along the right bank, climbed out of the raft and sat in silence. You could almost hear the nerves jangling. Then Bzdak said, slowly, \"Those were the biggest holes I have ever run.\"\n\nChmielinski agreed but didn't elaborate, which was unusual for him. Jourgensen said nothing, but with shaky hands tried to light his pipe. After a while Bzdak said, \"We call that Wet Pipe Rapid, Jackie.\"\n\nAnd then the laughter started, nervous titters at first, then low howls, then wild insane roaring.\n\nHaving once again advanced but a mile over the course of an entire day on the river, we finally began to understand how long a distance forty miles could be. On flat land you could walk that far in two days. We might well need two weeks to travel it on water. We resigned ourselves to a long haul.\n\nThat night Chmielinski instructed me to cut our already-lean rations by half. We would fill out the cookpot with our one surplus ingredient, water. Nobody was happy with this, but none opposed it.\n\nAs bats wheeled above us we ate a thin gruel\u2014three packages space-age chili, one package powdered soup, water, water, water, eight bowls\u2014then huddled on a granite slab along the river, watching the stars in the slit overhead, following them down to the top of the gorge wall, which in turn was lit up with fireflies. It seemed as if the stars fell right to the river.\n\n\"I don't think I've ever seen a more brilliant canyon,\" Tim Biggs said. Grunts along the rock affirmed that all shared his thought. We were scared and tired, but those emotions concentrated our attention, told us that we were in a sacred place, a place untouched by humans and perhaps, until then, unseen.\n\n\"Rivers have their own language,\" Truran said. \"Their own culture. We're not in Peru. We're in a place that speaks in eddies and currents, drops and chutes and pools. So we only made a mile today. Can you think of a finer mile?\"\n\nI walked back to my tent and worked on my notes. An hour later, when I crawled into my sleeping bag, I heard the heavy breathing of Jack Jourgensen, who had pitched his tent near mine. I could not forget the look on his face that afternoon when he'd fallen into the rapid, the blankness of it, the resignation.\n\nJourgensen was nearly fifty-two, and at a crossroads. He'd been reading Leo Buscaglia's _Personhood_ and wondering, as he put it, \"What does it mean to get in touch with the world and yourself?\" He wanted to be more than a man who got rich selling highway paint. His presence on the Apurimac said he was a filmmaker, an explorer, an adventurer\u2014\"Viking\" was the word he liked to use in the diary he kept for his seven children, the youngest of whom, Leif, was only five months old.\n\nI think all of us were inspired by the fact that Jourgensen would attempt a journey that scared the wits out of men two decades younger and in much better condition, but I know that I, for one, felt guilty about his being there. The cold truth was that he did not belong on the river. He was overweight, with a degenerating disc, arthritic hips, and a history of gout, and the swimming and climbing taxed him much more than it did the rest of us. Back home, he had a huge family depending on him. Yet in Cuzco, when Durrant had said that as the expedition doctor she considered it imprudent to allow him on the raft\u2014\"What will you do if he breaks a leg, or has a heart attack? You could kill him trying to get him out of the canyon\"\u2014no one had responded. No one had wanted to lose the golden goose.\n\nI slept fitfully that night, my body bruised from the bad rapids. At first light I got up and checked the food bags for mildew. Bzdak was up, too, on breakfast duty. He made a pot of instant coffee and poured me a cup, although anticipation of the impending confrontation with the Apurimac already had my stomach in knots. We ladled the rest of the coffee into cups and distributed them to the tents.\n\n\"Zbyszek,\" I said when we had finished, \"if we have another rapid like those ones yesterday, will you run it?\"\n\n\"If there is no choice. Otherwise, no. What if someone breaks his leg? No way out. We put him to the raft and keep pushing. Not so good.\"\n\nThat morning the river's gradient increased, and supported by the rain that had fallen over the last three days, the water rose another six inches and grew more volatile. We encountered rapid after rapid that was off the scale of difficulty\u2014Class Sixes. For five straight hours the kayakers portaged and we worked the raft downriver on the end of Chmielinski's mountain-climbing rope.\n\nThis time, however, Chmielinski added a new twist to the lining procedure. He directed Bzdak to ride the raft and paddle it as we tethered him from shore. Chmielinski provided the bulk of the brains and muscle, but it was Bzdak who took the brunt of the risk. These were rapids a man could not swim and survive. The velocity of the water, let alone the rocks and boulders into which it would drive one, would crush a skull as easily as an eggshell. Yet all Chmielinski had to say was, \"Zbyszek, go there,\" and point to a boulder in the middle of the river, or to an eddy far downstream, and Bzdak was in the raft and flying, with no more response than a hand signal to ask, \"At which eddy should I stop?\"\n\nDuring six years in some of the wildest, most unforgiving places in the Western Hemisphere, these two disparate men had learned to depend on each other utterly. Despite the terrible risks they were running, despite our dire straits, it was wonderful to watch them work the precious raft down the beastly river. The only sign of the tremendous emotional pressure they were under was an occasional frenzied exchange in Polish.\n\nBy the afternoon of our fourth day in the abyss (and our sixth since leaving Cunyac bridge), Bzdak was exhausted. His eyes were red and puffy and his paddle responded too slowly to the raging water. I felt I should spell him on the raft, but Chmielinski would not hear of it. \"This is a special thing between me and Zbyszek,\" he said. \"We have many years together. It is correct for me to ask him to go, but not to ask you.\"\n\nChmielinski's reply came as a relief. I was more than grateful to scramble along the boulders behind him, hauling in slack line, paying out line as the raft took off, anchoring him so the speeding raft did not drag him into the river. I preferred the feel of rock under my feet, for by now fear of the river dominated my thoughts. My nerves were so raw from the white water that each afternoon, when the word came down that we were stopping to make camp, a wave of gratitude, of recognition that I had survived one more day, washed over me with a feeling that was palpable\u2014it felt as if my body, one big knot of fear the day through, had suddenly come untied. The simple act of sipping my evening cup of coffee gave me immense pleasure.\n\nPart of my fear was due to the fact that I could not get comfortable on the raft, which was packed in such a way that the fifth, nonpaddling man, either Jourgensen or Van Heerden, was crammed into my left rear quadrant. When Jourgensen rode next to me, weighing down our corner of the boat, I always felt that I was about to be pitched into the river. Van Heerden rode in back when he wanted to film, and jumped around constantly. Once, as we bounced through a rapid, he hit me with his camera, knocking me out of the boat and stamping my right temple with a purple wound. The tiny Riken, the agent of my salvation, of my deliverance through the terrible river, now seemed dangerously overburdened.\n\nIn all, it appeared that we might never escape the abyss, that it would never end. There was simply no flat water. It was rapid after rapid, mile after mile, driven by what Conrad described as nature's \"sinister violence of intention\u2014that indefinable something,... in unheralded cruelty that means to tear out of [a man] all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed or hated... which means to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his sight by the simple and appalling act of taking his life.\"\n\n\"What do you think, Tim?\" I asked Biggs later that day.\n\n\"I don't know, mate,\" he said. \"But I'd be lying if I didn't say the river had me a bit scared.\"\n\nRainy season had begun in the high Andes. Influenced by tributaries miles above us, the river changed color daily. At times she appeared a coffee-and-cream brown, at others emerald green, still others a glacial gray. In the early evening she might run smooth and unthreatening past the camp, yet by morning, having come up a foot during the night, be thundering and powerful. In some places she was studded with three- and four-story boulders, in others her banks were packed with crushed gravel. Given these changes in mood, in appearance, it was impossible not to think of the river as having a will and intent of her own. In the end, however, it was sound, a voice, that most gave her life\u2014she _roared_ as she charged through her canyon. She seemed not only willful but demonic, bent on the simple act of drowning us. You could shout at her, curse her, plead with her, all to the same effect: nothing. She barreled on indifferent, unrelenting.\n\nAnd so, inevitably, we turned our frustrations inward. On the river a shouted instruction might end as a yell and a grumbled epithet. In easier times, choice tent sites had been shared or left for another; now, as soon as we found a camp each man scrambled for the best land. Food was eyed greedily and served in strict portions.\n\nIn the abyss the competition between Chmielinski and Odendaal festered into open hostility. The Afrikaner's insecurity over his titular role as expedition leader manifested itself as a kind of delight when the Chmielinski-led raft encountered trouble. This attitude, though hardly admirable, was understandable. Several times a day Truran, Biggs, and the raft team would run rapids that Odendaal couldn't, and his solitary portages seemed to set him apart, to isolate him.\n\nChmielinski, for his part, had no respect for Odendaal as a riverman, and did not go out of his way to hide his disdain. \"He is afraid of the water,\" he would mutter on the raft as he watched Odendaal portage yet another rapid he considered easily runnable. He did not regard Odendaal as his equal, let alone his superior, in any way.\n\nAt the end of our fourth day in the abyss, when it appeared that both Odendaal and the raft team would have to make a long portage, Odendaal's face cracked in satisfaction. \"I'll be in camp two hours ahead of you!\" he said, and laughed. Then he clambered up a boulder, hauled his kayak after him, and set off.\n\nThis goading was more than Chmielinski could stand, for the raft carried all of Odendaal's food and most of his gear. After the Pole scouted the route, we portaged the food and equipment bags downstream in three backbreaking trips, heaving them up and over boulders and nursing them along jagged crags. Odendaal did not see us and did not know that we had managed to put the lightened raft on the river instead of portaging it.\n\nKayaking downriver ahead of us, Biggs had found a tiny cave with a soft, sandy floor. We reached this camp well ahead of Odendaal. He looked shocked when he arrived, and without a word left to set up his tent.\n\nThe next morning I awoke to the sound of Odendaal's voice at Biggs's tent, which was pitched near mine. Odendaal wanted Biggs, the river captain, to command Chmielinski to deflate the raft and portage it over the next few kilometers. This, he argued, would be faster than lining. Biggs was noncommittal.\n\nOn the face of it, Odendaal's was a strange bit of logic. We lined the raft much faster than we could portage it, and as we had demonstrated the day before, we portaged our equipment and lined the lightened raft faster than Odendaal portaged his kayak.\n\nHowever, if it came down to portaging the raft without the option of lining\u2014if we deflated the raft\u2014Odendaal would certainly move faster than we. And for Chmielinski, there was a world of symbolic difference between carrying a deflated raft overland and working an inflated one down the river. Deflating the raft would be humiliating, an admission of defeat.\n\nBiggs fetched Chmielinski, who had a mumbled exchange with Odendaal that quickly escalated into a shouting match. Chmielinski told Odendaal that he knew nothing about white water. Odendaal threatened to throw Chmielinski off the expedition at Cachora.\n\nI left then, and went to the cave. Truran was making coffee.\n\n\"If anyone goes at Cachora it should be Fran\u00e7ois,\" he said. He was silent for a moment as he filled my cup, then said, \"It's a constant game of one-upmanship with those two. They've got to get over that, or we'll put ourselves in even more danger than we already are.\"\n\nChmielinski did not deflate the raft, but that morning, as we attempted to line it through a rapid, it lunged around a boulder and pulled up short, teetering on its nose. Using one of our rescue lines, Bzdak, Truran, and I lowered Chmielinski thirty feet down the boulder's face. He freed the raft by slashing the snagged climbing rope, but the rope then ricocheted into aquatic oblivion. Suddenly, all we had left in the way of rope was our five short, thin rescue lines, which were dangerously frayed from overuse. Soon, unable to line the raft, we would be forced to portage. It would be slow, difficult, nasty work.\n\nBy lunch we had not advanced five hundred yards. Chmielinski sat by himself and spoke to no one.\n\nThat afternoon the rapids got worse. We would fight through a few hundred yards of bad water, lining some rapids, running others, but always hoping that beyond the next bend we'd find a calm, clear stretch. Then we'd peek around the bend and think, \"This is getting _ridiculous_.\" The rapids only got bigger, meaner, and longer.\n\nLate in the afternoon we faced yet another monstrous rapid around which we could not portage the Riken. Chmielinski picked a rafting route, and then, in an attempt at conciliation, consulted with Biggs and Odendaal, who concurred. \"You'll do well,\" Odendaal said to us as he set off to portage his kayak along a thin ledge on the canyon's left wall. Biggs agreed: \"You've run much worse.\" He and Truran shouldered their boats and went with Odendaal, and Chmielinski instructed Jourgensen to follow them. (He feared that Jourgensen's next swim would be his last.) Bzdak, Van Heerden, and I waited for Truran to reach the bottom of the rapid and position himself to rescue us. Then we took up our paddles.\n\nNo one had read the current moving left to right just beneath the top of the rapid. I'm not exactly sure what happened when we hit it. One moment I was in the boat, the next all was darkness and silence. I grabbed for what I thought was the raft and got river. The water grew cold, colder, frigid. I tried to swim, but I couldn't tell if I was going up or down, and in any case my flimsy strokes were useless against the powerful current. Something squeezed the wind out of me like a giant fist. Again I tried to swim, searching for light, and again I was dragged down and flipped over and over and over.\n\nI had taken some bad swims before, but this one was different. In a moment of surprising peace and clarity I understood that I was drowning. I grew angry. Then I quit. I knew that it was my time to die.\n\nSuddenly, as if rejecting such sorry sport, the river released her grip.\n\nI saw light. Kick. Pull. Pull toward the light. A lungful of water. Pull.\n\nAIR!\n\nThen the river sucked me back down again. Blackness, tumbling, head crashing off rocks.\n\nAIR!\n\nLIGHT!\n\nI surfaced to find the gorge wall hurtling past me. I hit a rock, snagged for a second, and managed to thrust my head out of the water long enough to spot Truran in his kayak at the foot of the rapid, holding in an eddy.\n\n\"Swim!\" he yelled.\n\nA blast in the back and I was in again. Everything went black. I sucked water up my nose and into my lungs. I bounced off something hard and surfaced next to Truran.\n\n\"Grab my waist!\" he shouted. I wriggled onto the stern of his kayak and clamped my arms around him. He deposited me near a sandy bank on the river's left side and told me to wait there.\n\nI knelt in the sand and vomited. When Truran returned, I waded into the river, stopped, and turned back to shore.\n\n\"Get in the water!\" he yelled. _\"Now!\"_\n\nThen we were in the rapid, and I was hugging him with whatever strength I had left, and the river was beating over me, as if angry she had not claimed me. Long minutes later I stood at the foot of the gorge's right-hand wall.\n\nVan Heerden was smoking a cigarette rapidly and shaking. Chmielinski looked at me as if at a ghost. When the raft had flipped the alert Poles had grabbed onto it again immediately and been yanked from the hole. Van Heerden had been tossed clear and driven toward a flat-faced boulder. The river went directly under the boulder. If Van Heerden had gone with it he would have been shoved under the boulder and killed, but as he was about to hit it Truran, scouting in his kayak, had yelled to him. Van Heerden had turned and reached for the raft, which was trailing him. The raft had slammed into the wall and pinned him. Van Heerden had been sucked under, but Chmielinski had managed to grab a hand, and Bzdak his head. When the raft bounced off the wall they wrestled him free. They assumed I had gone under ahead of him.\n\nChmielinski said, \"Guys, in the boat.\" Either we got right back in or maybe we would never have the nerve to get in it again.\n\nIt was dark when we made camp, on tiny patches of sand hidden among boulders. We managed to eat about half our thin dinner before Truran accidentally upended the cookpot. No one spoke, except Chmielinski, to announce that we had advanced all of one mile that day.\n\nCold, hungry, and scared, I doubted whether I, or any of us, would survive the abyss. And though I knew it was self-pity, I resented the fact that everyone in that sad little camp but me had at least one partner with him, someone who would have to face family and friends and say, _This is how he died_.\n\nThe skies opened up and rain fell hard. We bolted for our tents. I hurried into mine, lit a candle, and stared at it until it had burned almost all the way down. When I blew it out the darkness terrified me\u2014it reminded me of the darkness inside the river. I searched frantically for matches and burned two more candles one after another. I lit a fourth, my last. When it burned out I lay awake in the dark, eyes open, and felt my body tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.\n\nIn the black night I had pitched my tent right behind the big one Odendaal and Van Heerden shared. In the morning I heard them speaking in Afrikaans. They switched to English when Biggs joined them. Odendaal was considering a plan to remove the raft from the river once we were into smoother water. Van Heerden had shot all the film he wanted, and had had his fill of white water. He would depart. Truran, who had a nonrefundable airplane ticket back to South Africa, would also have to leave the river soon. Jourgensen, too, was ready to go home. From Cachora Bzdak and I would go to Lima with Leon and Durrant, and perhaps rejoin the expedition much later, in the jungle. Chmielinski would kayak with Odendaal and Biggs.\n\n\"Don't tell anyone,\" Odendaal said to Biggs. \"I don't want a lot of discussion about this, one of those things where everyone gives an opinion.\"\n\nI was stunned and then upset. The river scared me, but I hadn't decided that I wanted to quit, and I felt that I had earned the right to plead my case. Bzdak and I had put our lives on the line taking supplies through the hardest part of the river, and once, at great risk, had carried Odendaal himself.\n\nBzdak was angry when I told him what I had heard. \"Why am I trying my life for that guy if he just wants to throw me out?\"\n\nWe consulted Chmielinski. He spoke with Odendaal and returned livid. With the rest of us gone, he would be isolated with the two South Africans, and at Odendaal's mercy.\n\nOdendaal saw us talking and came over quickly.\n\n\"Piotr,\" he said, \"I told you not to discuss this with anybody.\"\n\n\"You're taking the raft out,\" I said.\n\n\"We're thinking about some changes,\" Odendaal said. \"Just discussing them.\"\n\n\"I overheard your conversation this morning,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"I knew you were listening.\"\n\nIf he had known that, of course, he would not have bothered cautioning Biggs to secrecy. But the truth or falsehood of his statement was beside the point. Until that morning Odendaal and I had maintained at least the pretense of shared endeavor. Now, under the pressure of the abyss, we had betrayed one another. He had plotted my removal, and I, in turn, had clearly cast my lot with the men by whom he felt most threatened. All illusions of neutrality had evaporated.\n\nWe stared in silence for a few tense seconds, and then he left.\n\nChmielinski was seething. \"No matter what happens,\" he said, \"the raft is going down the river. We make that deal a long time ago. It is stupid to change now.\"\n\nChmielinski responded to this latest crisis by working the raft with an intensity I had not yet seen. In barely restrained fury, he leaped from boulder to boulder and scrambled up small cliffs, manipulating the short lead line from the most precarious of perches. Often it looked as if the raft would yank him right into the river. Bzdak and I trailed him along the bank, hurrying to keep up, coiling what was left of our line as Chmielinski hauled it in, anchoring him as the raft rocketed downstream and the line whipped through his hands and pulled taut.\n\nImpatient because Bzdak and I could not match his pace, Chmielinski tried to line the raft through one rapid by himself. I climbed to the top of a boulder in time to see the raft tearing past him, the slack line paying out furiously and about to wrap itself around his right foot. I screamed. Somehow\u2014this took more strength than I could have summoned from my entire body\u2014somehow Chmielinski managed with one hand to arrest the line for a split second, yanking its stampeding half-ton to a halt. In the same moment he flung his foot far in the air as the line tightened around it. The line caught his shoe instead and ripped it off. Seconds later the shoe surfaced fifty yards downstream.\n\nBzdak and I scouted the next rapid. It was bad news, most of the current veering left into a deep whirlpool.\n\n\"We get sucked to the left, we're dead,\" Bzdak said.\n\nChmielinski did not need long to decipher our thoughts. \"Okay,\" he said with resignation, \"we line it.\"\n\nFrom his tone of voice it was clear that Chmielinski wanted badly to run the rapid. Bzdak and I knew that the raft's speed absolutely could not be an issue when the showdown with Odendaal came, but just when Chmielinski needed us most we were losing what nerve we had left.\n\n\"Look, Piotr,\" I said. \"You say go, I'll go. It's up to you.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" Bzdak said.\n\n\"No,\" Chmielinski said. \"We took a big swim yesterday. Better to learn to run small water again and feel good.\"\n\nWe lined the raft through the whirlpool's left side. It flipped. When we righted it, we looked downstream. Two tiny figures waved to us: Durrant and Leon.\n\n# 9 \u2022 The Middle Apurimac\n\nThey were camped on the bank opposite us, five hundred yards downstream, but the Apurimac thundered and roared as if mocking that fact. At least once in the abyss we had spent a full day traveling five hundred yards. It would not be safe to join our teammates until morning. We could see Durrant picking her way nimbly from boulder to boulder along the left bank. Truran kayaked across the river, spoke with her, and returned to huddle with Bzdak. Then the photographer hurried to where Chmielinski and I were setting up our tents.\n\n\"Piotr,\" he said, \"may I have permission to go across?\"\n\nChmielinski yelled to Truran, waiting in an eddy: \"You can make it with him?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Truran yelled back.\n\n\"Zbyszek,\" Chmielinski said, \"go there. Do not come back. We will meet you tomorrow.\"\n\nAs nervous as I could remember seeing him, Bzdak thrust his camera case at me, which was something like a mother giving up a child. He waded into the eddy, hugged Truran about the waist, and arrayed his bulk along the kayak's spine.\n\nThey danced slowly into the current, edging in and out of boils and small whirlpools. When they hit the heart of the current Truran turned directly upstream. The boat's plastic nose jumped in the air like a rearing horse, and the stern went under. Bzdak disappeared with it.\n\nThe river tossed him back up, he gulped for air, and, still clutching Truran, went back down.\n\nTruran struggled to a faint midstream eddy, the river howling and gushing to either side. Bzdak bobbed and went underwater. Only his yellow helmet, bursting through the froth every few seconds, indicated that he was still aboard the kayak.\n\nFinally, they gained the far bank. Bzdak and the doctor embraced.\n\n\"Look at that Zbyszek,\" Chmielinski said.\n\nThat night, Chmielinski, Biggs, Jourgensen, Truran, Van Heerden, and I gathered around the campfire and listened to Odendaal make his proposal: Remove the raft now. It was too slow. Biggs endorsed the idea, as did Jourgensen, which made the raft's demise almost a certainty. Jourgensen represented the expedition's fiscal salvation. He had seventeen one-hundred-dollar bills pinned inside his parka, and would give the expedition more when he could get to Lima. No decisions would be made without his approval.\n\nBut even Biggs, an Odendaal loyalist, did not accept Jourgensen's subsequent argument. Jourgensen suggested that we could predict the raft's future speed based on how fast it had come through the abyss. (At that pace, we would arrive at the Atlantic sometime in the next century.) His stand appeared to be an excuse to leave the river without seeming to quit. An honorable Viking stayed with his boat. Unless, of course, there was no boat.\n\nWhen his first argument didn't float, Jourgensen said, \"The raft is unsafe. Piotr is taking too many risks.\"\n\n\"Let's ask the crew,\" Truran said. He turned to me. On one level I agreed with Jourgensen. For him, at least, the raft _was_ unsafe. He did not belong on the water. But I didn't believe that the raft was unsafe per se. Risky, yes, but if there were no risk to running the Apurimac, we would not have been there.\n\n\"I want to keep going,\" I said. \"So does Zbyszek. We'll take our chances. I think the raft would be safer with fewer people and less weight. I'm sure Kate will join us if we need another paddle.\"\n\nChmielinski, for his part, believed that Odendaal knew nothing about the logistics of running such a steep, nearly inaccessible canyon. Without the raft to carry supplies, the kayakers would have to paddle fully loaded boats, and this would greatly decrease their maneuverability in the water. Even then they would have to depend on the countryside for sustenance, but the canyon was nearly uninhabited. Further, the river had to open up soon, had to level out. When it did, raft support would increase the team's speed.\n\nAnd then Truran, as was his wont, dropped a bombshell: \"This expedition is not going to reach the sea according to its schedule. I suggest we just give up that idea right now. Slow down. Accept the pace. Or else get completely into racing trim. Go as fast as possible. And that means getting rid of Fran\u00e7ois. He's the slowest man here. He cannot possibly keep up.\"\n\nStartled, Odendaal looked up from the fire. This was not an argument easily dismissed\u2014Truran was the team's most respected riverman. \"Okay,\" Odendaal said. \"Let us talk about that.\"\n\n\"If it's a question of speed, you must remove yourself,\" Truran said. \"If you do not remove yourself, then you cannot remove the raft, either. Zbyszek and Joe have earned the right to stay on this river if they so choose.\"\n\n\"We agreed long ago that the raft was going on the river,\" Chmielinski said. \"People have risked their lives because they believed what we said. They have worked hard. There is no question here. The raft is going.\"\n\nIf Odendaal forced his hand, he had a mutiny, and perhaps a race to the sea\u2014he and Biggs against Chmielinski and whoever went on the raft. On the other hand, if Odendaal consented to keeping the raft on the river, he had lost the showdown. What authority he still retained aside from Jourgensen's financial backing would evaporate.\n\nWe agreed to discuss it again the next day.\n\nI picked my way back to my tent by the light of the waning moon and listened to the rapids thunder in the cold night. In my mind I ran them again and again. Each run ended in a violent, suffocating tumble through water and rock and darkness.\n\nIn the morning, shivering from the cold, I walked downstream, searching for the source of all that aquatic thunder. I climbed a low cliff, looked down, and studied my nemesis: chute, drop, hole, stopper wave. It terrified me.\n\nI returned to camp, packed my gear, and loaded it onto the raft. Biggs had breakfast ready, but I couldn't eat. I walked back to the rapid and studied it again.\n\nTruran had followed me. He knew what I was thinking. \"See that hole?\" he said. \"It's turning left. If you swim, try to make yourself relax. You'll go around that thing a couple of times. You'll be helpless. Then it will spit you out. See it?\"\n\nThere: The river dumped into the hole and erupted in a wave, an explosion of white and silver. I looked closer. That swirl, running off the wave and into flat water\u2014would that save me?\n\nI hurried back to camp. I double-checked the raft's lines and netting, pumped up a soft side tube, strapped on helmet and life jacket. I sat on my tube impatiently. I wanted to get this over with. Finally, Chmielinski arrived, and Jourgensen and Van Heerden finished their morning smoke. They said nothing as they boarded the raft.\n\nWe splashed ourselves to wake up. Chmielinski barked orders. We turned upstream, into a back eddy, then into the current. The raft's nose swung into the rushing river. Something grabbed it. We rose up. The river spread below us as if we were poised at the top of a rollercoaster.\n\nChmielinski screamed \"OUTOUTOUT!\" I yanked hard on my paddle to correct and get us straight in the chute\u2014\n\n\u2014and _boom-boom_ we were through, into the flat water.\n\nOnly then did I realize how small the rapid actually was, a dinky thing that my imagination had amplified into a monster. My fear had fooled me completely.\n\nWhen we reached the opposite bank we learned that although Leon and Durrant had managed to bring our supplies to Cachora in Edwin Goycochea's truck, and from there had packed them on hired burros down the precipitous trail into the canyon, one of the animals, piled high with provisions that were to last us for the next few weeks, had misstepped and bounced a hundred yards down the canyon wall. The beast had landed on the supplies mounted on its back, saving its life but scattering our provisions. Fortunately, Durrant had managed to retrieve some of the staples. We would breakfast on oatmeal flecked with dirt, leaves, and an occasional tooth-jarring pebble.\n\nThat night, as I sat against a guava tree and worked on my notes, Odendaal approached me with a proposition. He invited me to leave the expedition at Atalaya and work my way to the sea alone. He said that everyone deserved the chance to reach the sea and implied that in a better world he himself would prefer the sort of trip he was now proposing for me. I pointed out that I was broke, that I had given him the seven thousand dollars I had raised in the States. He said that this was not a problem. He would return two hundred dollars to me. He assured me that he had researched the subject thoroughly and that this was quite enough to cover my trip.\n\nMy first reaction was, Oh, come _on_. But then I realized that he was not trying to swindle me. He believed what he was saying.\n\nAll at once I understood both the brilliance behind the entire Amazon project and its terrible flaw. No matter how farfetched the words that issued from his lips, Odendaal believed them. He believed that I could travel thirty-five hundred miles of unknown country with two hundred dollars in my pocket. He believed that by cutting me out of the expedition he was selflessly doing me a favor. He believed that he had intended for me to overhear his conversation with Van Heerden and Biggs the day before. He believed, as the river thrashed him, that he was paddling well. And he believed, even now, not only that he could lead an expedition all the way down the Amazon, but that he was actually doing it.\n\nIt was horrifying, and it was wonderful. If Odendaal had not had that extraordinary ability to interpret the ugliest truths in such a self-aggrandizing way, there would have been no Amazon expedition, and none of us would have been in Peru. He was, literally, a visionary. He saw what others did not. He was also the perfect salesman\u2014he could sell dross because he sincerely believed it was gold.\n\nI refused his offer.\n\n\"Look,\" he said angrily, \"Piotr has no money, either. If you go with him on the raft, you will never make it.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that.\"\n\n\"What do you know about _anything?_ I have been on _twelve_ expeditions. You have been on _none_. You know _nothing!_ You and your ridiculous hat. We _laugh_ at you!\"\n\nHe was right about the hat. But by now I knew something about his so-called expeditions.\n\n\"Piotr and I have a business disagreement,\" he said as he left, \"but we are friends. You and I, however, have a serious communication problem. If it gets worse, one of us will have to go.\"\n\nChmielinski and he were _friends?_ I understood then how completely out of touch Odendaal was. The saddest part was that he really seemed to think that it all came down to a question of money, that as long as he held the purse strings, it was his expedition.\n\nOur camp, on a hot, cactus-ridden slope a hundred yards off the cool river, was miserable. Away from the water the countryside simmered even in the shade, and our dust and sweat aroused an avaricious insect population. Killing the large blackflies brought a certain satisfaction. They were fat and slow, and once they settled onto a patch of flesh they took time to indulge. Their bite was not bad, and when crushed with a savage open-handed slap they disintegrated with a satisfying squish.\n\nFar more insidious were the biting, gnat-sized flies Peruvians call _mosquito_. You didn't feel the bite, but minutes later a powerful itch set in. The bites infected rapidly. Each of us bore scars about the ankles, wrists, and, among those who preferred to take a full measure of sun, buttocks. (Durrant theorized that the bugs inject an anticoagulant, for the bites bleed and fester but do not harden into scabs for some time.)\n\nThere were other delights. I pulled a parka from the top of my equipment pile and a furry tarantula ambled out, angry but not the least frightened. The sharp, lancelike spines of the desert plants made each footstep an adventure, with or without shoes. And that night, asleep, I felt my knife cord sliding along my neck. I reached for it and in one motion flung into the night the slick, wriggling thing I found. I wanted to dismiss this as a nightmare, but the oath emitted by Truran seconds later when something dark and squirmy flopped onto his mosquito netting suggested it was not. We had that day seen two black-and-yellow snakes that Bzdak had identified as vipers, and there were said to be bushmasters and corals in the area.\n\nThat was the last time I slept without a tent.\n\nOnce we left the Cachora camp, we would have one more possibility of resupply before we entered the restricted Red Zone. According to our map, the only place there might be access to the river on what we estimated would be a ten-day, one-hundred-fifty-mile run from Cachora to the Red Zone was at the village of Triunfo. The next day, after arranging a plan to attempt to meet the river team at Triunfo in five days with new supplies, and after collecting our letters to home, Leon climbed out of the canyon with the mules. Van Heerden went with him. If the raft remained on the river, Durrant would take his place.\n\nMeanwhile, Biggs refused to continue on the river until Chmielinski signed a statement recognizing Odendaal as the expedition leader and agreeing not to split the team. Biggs based his stand on a principle almost as old as men and boats: Water is no medium for democracy. When you signed on for a voyage you agreed to accept the leadership without question.\n\nChmielinski, of course, refused to sign anything, and he, Odendaal, Biggs, and Jourgensen spent most of that afternoon a hundred yards downstream from camp, arguing amid the thorns.\n\nMeanwhile, Durrant, Bzdak, Truran, and I discussed the crisis among ourselves. Bzdak brewed a pot of coffee, and though we were sweltering in the midday tropical heat, Truran and I built a fire. The four of us sat around it hoping, in vain, that its smoke would discourage the pesky mosquitoes.\n\nIt was clear to us that if the \"B\" squad (as Durrant referred to Bzdak, me, and herself) were forced to leave the canyon, the chances of our rejoining the river team would be slim. In effect, we would be off the expedition. \"If Piotr is serious about taking the raft alone and leaving Tim and Fran\u00e7ois to continue on their own, I'll go with the raft,\" she said. Bzdak and I were prepared to do the same.\n\nMuch to our relief, Truran agreed to accompany the raft if the team split. Without a kayaker scouting ahead of us, and ready to rescue us in the event of an accident, the Apurimac would be even more dangerous than she had been so far. Truran's decision did not come easily, however. He would now be competing against one of his closest friends, and as he put it, \"Tim doesn't finish second.\"\n\nThere were elements of tragedy in Truran's decision. Although he rejected Biggs's dogmatic Christianity, he respected Biggs as a principled man, one who acted with little regard for personal gain. But Truran disagreed with Biggs on the subject of Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal, and the disagreement was as profound as the bonds of friendship. Biggs believed that Odendaal's strength was his ability to carry an expedition to completion. He also thought, however, that Odendaal would be better off traveling without people \"who knew his past history.\" Truran, alone among the rest of us, knew that history, and he had concluded that Odendaal was fundamentally unfit to lead a river expedition.\n\n\"Frans lost a mate a long time ago,\" Truran said, \"and he's been trying to make up for it ever since.\" He said that a decade before, when he and Biggs had been members of the kayaking team at the University of Natal, Odendaal had come to them seeking men for a source-to-sea attempt of Africa's Limpopo River. Odendaal had already tried the river once, but three weeks into that first expedition his entire team save one man, Johan Smit, had left. Odendaal and Smit pushed on alone and became trapped in a whirlpool. Odendaal lost consciousness; when he came to, Smit was dead. Odendaal quit the Limpopo.\n\n\"When Frans asked me to go back there with him,\" Truran said, \"he told me his mate had died trying to rescue him, and that he had to 'beat' the river.\"\n\n(Odendaal had never mentioned the accident to me, but months later, reading his unpublished Urubamba manuscript, I came across a passage describing his state of mind when he thought he was dying from altitude complications:\n\n\"Crazy, I thought. This happened to me once before. In the whirlpool with Johan Smit. When I saw no way out of my drowning and realized that the world concerned me no more, I had laughed. Under the water. I was unconscious when the water released me, he died. I was there again, alone.\")\n\nTruran, Biggs, and several other men returned to the Limpopo with Odendaal. According to Truran, two-thirds of the way down the river, just above its worst rapids, Odendaal got in a violent argument with them and left the expedition. The rest of the team went on to make the first recorded descent of the Limpopo's roughest water, only to be stopped at the Mozambique border. Without mentioning the split, Odendaal later wrote that political events in Mozambique had prevented the expedition from reaching the river's mouth, but that he was satisfied he could do it. Truran considered this highly disingenuous, and had never forgiven Odendaal.\n\nTruran said that he had come to South America out of loyalty to Biggs and a love of white water, but as far as his relationship with Odendaal was concerned, he was a hired hand. He was convinced that Odendaal was on the Amazon for the wrong reasons. He was exorcising ghosts, battling the memory of Smit's death. \"He's not a kayaker,\" Truran said. \"He's terrified of water. He's a man with something to prove.\" Odendaal was free to do that, Truran said, until his behavior compromised the integrity of the expedition, as it now threatened to do.\n\nThen Durrant raised another point. \"Fran\u00e7ois wants the raft off the river,\" she said to me, \"because he wants _you_ off the river. He's performing terribly, and he doesn't want you writing about it. He realizes he made a mistake bringing you here.\"\n\nIn the end we reached an uneasy truce. Odendaal, though refusing to acknowledge that he had a mutiny on his hands, agreed to include the raft as part of the river team. Chmielinski signed Odendaal's agreement, primarily because he believed the film project a worthy pursuit. But the next day, as we loaded the raft and prepared once again to confront the Great Speaker, he said to me, \"Francois is my enemy.\"\n\nThe Cachora confrontation led to at least one unexpected but welcome development: The raft team became a tight unit. Jourgensen, as was his prerogative, remained with the raft. But he was tired now, content to ride most of the time as a nonpaddling passenger, and he wanted friends. Durrant took Van Heerden's place at the right front paddle. Though not as physically strong as the departed Afrikaner, she was more confident. She was a swimmer, and she knew water. When Chmielinski yelled \"Go!\" she paddled hard.\n\nAfter we executed our first rapid smartly, bending neatly through three sharp turns and catching a benediction of cold spray at the bottom, a wave of shared knowledge rippled through the raft: _This boat belongs on the river_. For the next three hours we shot rapid after rapid, maneuvering like a seasoned crew, whipping the blue balloon through a slalom of tight curves. We were in control, running backward and forward and sideways, through elevator-like drops and rolling waves. We laughed and hollered in our exhilaration.\n\nThis river, this forgotten place, was ours now, and ours alone. No towns, no bridges, no roads, no huts, no gold panners, no peasants working postage-stamp fields. A _wild_ river. \"It's _running_ ,\" Chmielinski said, and we were running with it.\n\nThe canyon narrowed; again the walls rose sheer and slick. An unnamed river poured in from the left and mined the Apurimac with boulders, but we ran them without mishap. When we had beaten them Durrant looked up and shouted: To our right, above the canyon's east rim, rose the spectacular white-and-maroon peaks of the Cordillera Vilcabamba. We finished the day with a long, gushing seesaw of a rapid, three hundred yards of troughs and waves, at the bottom of which we were as wet and happy as ducks.\n\nTruran and Biggs were waiting in their kayaks. As we waved in greeting Biggs screamed and pointed behind us. Odendaal's kayak was shooting along, overturned and riderless.\n\nIts owner surfaced upstream, bloody and gagging and clinging to a boulder in the middle of the river. Biggs fought his way against the current and got Odendaal onto the tail of his boat and safely to shore, but the accident lent an eerie note to an otherwise wonderful day. With the exception of Biggs and perhaps Jourgensen, the rest of us had witnessed the Afrikaner's suffering with indifference.\n\nWe camped on a small, pretty beach at the foot of a granite cliff. Chmielinski made dinner. He was the expedition's most orderly cook. He took pains to prepare a kitchen, erecting driftwood-and-rock counters and a rock fireplace replete with chimney, laying out his utensils in a careful row, throwing a cloth over our waterproof food crate to convert it to a table.\n\nWhen Chmielinski got down to the actual cooking, his philosophy was, as he put it, \"I am a slave for that time.\" He served each person himself, moving rapidly from one to the next, refilling tea and coffee cups, dishing out seconds if there were any. He prepared the expedition's most elaborate dinners. That night, he cooked a pot of powdered mushroom soup, a thick stew of packaged beef bolstered with fresh onions and carrots Leon and Durrant had brought into the canyon, and two desserts\u2014fresh bananas and chocolate bars, and a pudding made of instant rice, raisins, cinnamon, and evaporated milk.\n\nAfter dinner, when the others had retired, I packed the food crate while Chmielinski cleaned dishes.\n\n\"It was good today on the raft,\" he said. \"Good running. This is the way a river should be.\"\n\n\"We seem to have regained some confidence,\" I said. \"And Kate is very good with a paddle.\"\n\n\"Confidence is the thing. We must be prepared to take the raft alone.\"\n\n\"Do you think it will come to that?\"\n\n\"I do not know. But we must be ready to do it.\"\n\nEarly the next morning the kayakers shot a big rapid and signaled us to follow, which we did without scouting. After all, now we were _running_.\n\nNo one saw the hole. The raft bucked once and vaulted Chmielinski and me forward off the back tube like rocks from a slingshot. As I flew over Bzdak, paddling on the left front, our helmets cracked, and then I was underwater. I came up perhaps ten seconds later, punchy and disoriented, and forty yards downstream of the hole.\n\nJourgensen got the worst of it. He and Bzdak stuck in the hole, and it sucked him under three times before the Pole was able to haul him out. Later, his eyes dull as stone, Jourgensen said, \"I thought I was dead for sure.\"\n\nIt had been a mistake not to scout the rapid. We could not afford an injury. We were traveling through unpopulated, impenetrable country. The terrain between the canyon floor and its rim was hot, dry, scrubby, and unforgiving, with no sign of people, not a single cultivated terrace, not a hint of a trail.\n\nFor the next two days we ran almost continuous rapids, and got battered in the process. Jourgensen's bad swim had given him the appearance of a zombie, and he never really recovered. Paradoxically, Odendaal's stubborn pride was emerging as his most admirable trait, but he had endured several punishing swims and wore an ugly gash along his right cheek. Once more we carried him on the raft through a rapid he could neither portage nor run, and it angered him. Biggs was worn down from the grinding internecine contention, and Bzdak, his heroism now quotidian, badly damaged his left knee. It was swollen and immobile. Chmielinski crumpled his right hand in a fall and could barely use it, and he developed a pain in his right foot that Durrant suspected was a fracture (though he refused to acknowledge it as anything more than an irritation).\n\nMy own nerves were shot: Every rapid was a terror. I lost two fingernails and most of the knuckle skin on my right hand, and badly bruised the heel of it, which made paddling extremely painful. Scouting the rapids, scrambling over one wet slick boulder after another, stumbling and falling so often that it now felt as commonplace as walking, I had beaten both shins to pulp.\n\nDurrant, to my amazement, was unfazed. The hole that had nearly killed Jourgensen she had found \"somewhat exciting.\"\n\nTruran, as ever, slid easily through the worst the river threw at him, as if the _apu_ Rimac had designated him our guardian angel. He alone had yet to swim, he rescued those of us who did, and if he was ever frightened he did not show it. His presence boosted the raft team's confidence immensely; in an activity that depends to such a great degree on rhythm, hesitation induced by doubt can be deadly.\n\nMeanwhile, the schism within the expedition widened. Odendaal all but stopped speaking with Durrant, Bzdak, and me, talked to Truran and Chmielinski only as necessary, and spent long hours huddled with Jourgensen and Biggs. Chmielinski insinuated himself into these sessions to the extent he could. Jourgensen was beat up\u2014\"I've had two close calls... and enough white water to last a lifetime,\" he wrote in his diary\u2014and had decided to leave the river as soon as we found Triunfo. Whoever he gave his money to would gain material control of the expedition.\n\nEach night, for the sake of future travelers, Chmielinski labored over his graph-paper notebook, sketching in the section of river run that day, consulting with Truran to corroborate his memory, marking the turns, the rapids, their class of difficulty, branding the worst with names ominous in their dry simplicity: \"Broke Nose Here,\" \"Jack Almost Drowns.\" The Peruvian military map we had actually to use was grossly inaccurate, but in the absence of anything better a convincing seductress. \"Triunfo,\" it claimed with all the authority of the printed page. The gullible read the black dot below the name as a guarantee of hot food, cold beer, a cantina\u2014life.\n\nLate in the afternoon of our fourth day out of Cachora Biggs spotted a faint trail climbing the river's steep left bank. Two miles up the trail sat Triunfo (\"Triumph\"), which proved to be nothing but the ruins of a sugar mill abandoned more than a decade earlier in response to land reforms instituted by the radical general Juan Velasco Alvarado, who had seized power in a 1968 military coup (he was ousted in 1975). Instead of cold beer and dancing partners Triunfo offered crumbling mud-brick walls and scraps of rusting metal. Only the mill bearings, their stainless-steel races chipped but gleaming, suggested that Triunfo had ever been anything more than an elaborate hoax.\n\nWe had no choice but to climb out of the canyon in search of Leon and Van Heerden. Jourgensen had to leave the river, and we badly needed one last resupply before the Red Zone.\n\nAt dawn the next morning, leaving Bzdak and Durrant to attend the camp and the slower Odendaal and Jourgensen to ascend at their own pace, Chmielinski, Biggs, Truran, and I clawed up through unruly stands of mango and banana and about noon stopped briefly at a hut no larger than our raft. Inside it sat a grinning Quechua woman with a baby at her brown breast. She gave us _platanos_ , like bananas but plumper and not as sweet, and we rested briefly at the door of her hut, chomping the fruit and admiring the view. The intense Andean light, the vast blue sky, the parade of humpy brown _cerros_ atop the canyon rim, the white peaks of the Cordillera Vilcabamba receding into infinity like ocean waves\u2014these were shocking after four weeks in the deep, dark canyon. I felt as if I had been released from a prison.\n\nThe river ambled along thousands of feet below, but all I could see was a silver-gray rock crease where the canyon walls seemed to have sealed her off. I was startled by how isolated the Apurimac was. She had nothing at all to do with life in these mountains. She was utterly alone.\n\nWe passed through a settlement called Marabamba with no word of Leon and Van Heerden and at sunset reached the village of Karquique, about halfway up the canyon wall, its sixty huts set around a network of neat paths, here and there a tin roof reflecting the evening light. The village teacher said that he had not seen any gringos, or heard of any being spotted on the mountain trails. He directed us to a crossroads three days' hike away. Perhaps our friends would be there.\n\nAs we readied ourselves to depart, a young girl ran toward us.\n\n\"Gringo!\" she yelled, and pointed far up the mountainside. Two mules were easing down the trail, led by a man too tall to be a Peruvian. If we had left Karquique an hour earlier, we might have missed Van Heerden and Leon altogether.\n\nVan Heerden brought disturbing news, gleaned from a BBC shortwave broadcast along the trail: Capetown had exploded. The riots were the worst in recent history, the death toll high. Biggs and Truran fell into a deep funk. This lifted slightly when the teacher induced Leon to cut his five-year-old daughter's heretofore unshorn locks, thereby becoming her godfather. In return, the teacher cooked us chicken soup and guinea pig and let us sleep in the schoolhouse.\n\nJourgensen and Odendaal arrived the next day, having spent the night in Marabamba. Jourgensen would leave for Cuzco with Leon and Van Heerden and the mules, and proceed from there to the United States. \"If you can't trust one another,\" he asked Chmielinski and Odendaal in a tired voice, \"what's the point of the expedition?\"\n\nStill, Jourgensen believed that the expedition must have one undisputed leader, and in the end he backed Odendaal, who was also his business partner in the film. \"Frans and I had become good friends in just a few weeks,\" he wrote that night in his diary. \"We liked the way each other thought about things, and we both have a fairly even temper. Frans is a philosopher at heart and so am I. People who love adventure tend to love life... Frans is a VIKING!\"\n\nChmielinski felt deeply betrayed. He and Jourgensen had been friends for years, and here on the Apurimac it was the penniless immigrant Bzdak who had twice risked his life to save Jourgensen's. Chmielinski told Jourgensen he was \"crushed.\"\n\nThen we gave letters to the battered rich man, said good-bye, and descended again into the dark canyon.\n\nBelow Triunfo the river grew with every mile, expanding remarkably in width and depth, and the rapids grew with it. We ran them well, considering that our raft was laden with three weeks' supplies, but we had worn an irreparable hole on one of the floor tubes, rendering it floppy and unstable. As each rapid approached (that's how it felt, as if the rapids were charging up to confront us), I wondered, is this the one that we will underestimate, the one that will swallow us for good? On the biggest drops I found myself diving shamefully for the center net. I did not want to swim again, ever.\n\nTwo days below Triunfo we passed the mouth of the Pachachaca River and paused to bathe in its translucent green waters. A few miles farther we crossed the Pampas confluence. We had anticipated a raging beast (the Pampas is one of the Apurimac's principal tributaries), but we met a docile giant. And abruptly, right there below the Pampas, the fearsome Apurimac gorge appeared to end, opening into a valley filled with light. It was like sliding out of a cave.\n\nThat night the sun hung in the sky long after we had expected it to set, and though we were still a mile above sea level we dried quickly in the desert heat. We made camp on a stretch of fine white sand, and Chmielinski and Bzdak built a roaring driftwood fire.\n\nIn the morning we heard what sounded like small explosions or rockfall coming from somewhere across the river. Not for several days would we understand that this was small-arms fire, and that we were under attack.\n\n# 10 \u2022 The Lower Apurimac (The Red Zone)\n\nWhen we entered the lower canyon that first day below Triunfo it felt as if we had finally escaped the dark, constricted underworld of the middle Apurimac, but by the following day we knew better. There was more light in the broader canyon, but it revealed only hot, steep, yellow-red dirt walls, barren of vegetation, that appeared poised to tumble into the river at any moment. The canyon's right-hand rim towered two miles above the river, the left almost that.\n\nIt was a ghostly, intimidating place, and the river herself seemed hell-bent to be somewhere else. The Pampas swells the Apurimac's volume by about 25 percent, and while the corrosive power of this added mass widens the river, it also increases its gradient. The roller coaster gets wider and steeper and longer and faster, until the river appears to be a single unbroken chain of white water. The noise of these rapids drowns out every other sound in the canyon. Down on the water, paddling the raft, we had to shout to be heard more than a few feet apart.\n\nThat second afternoon in the lower canyon we took a break near a thick wire cable that ran from a boulder high on the left bank to one high on the right bank, a distance of perhaps seventy-five yards. In the hundred and fifty miles of river between Cunyac bridge and the marine garrison of Lechemayo, just below the river's last major rapids, there are three such cables, or _oroyas_. Other than raft, they are the only means of crossing the river. There had been an _oroya_ at the Cachora camp, and I had watched, amazed, as a Quechua man negotiated it hand over hand, his feet dangling high above the thrashing river, then hauled across behind him his wife, his child, and a bewildered cow affixed to the cable by ropes and two hand-carved wooden yokes.\n\nAccording to what we had learned in Karquique, from the right-bank terminus of the _oroya_ under which we were stopped a vague trail climbed to a pass at about twelve thousand feet, and from there descended into a region known as Vilcabamba. It was here, in a rugged, isolated land of snow peaks, swamps, and steep gorges\u2014and not, as is so often claimed, in Machu Picchu\u2014that the legendary \"last refuge\" of the Incas once flourished.\n\nThe story, briefly: Shortly after they occupied Cuzco in 1533, the Spanish installed a compliant young Inca prince, Manco, as a puppet ruler. Three years later, after the _conquistadores_ had chained him up, called him a dog, pissed on him, raped his wives, and stolen his gold and jewelry, Manco rebelled. He laid siege to Cuzco for eight months before being forced to retreat. He fled north and west, and in 1539 settled in the remote Concevidayoc valley, near the eastern lip of the Apurimac canyon. There, he turned the sleepy village of Esp\u00edritu Pampa into a capital worthy of an Inca, building palaces and temples, fountains and bridges, canals and plazas. He called his city-state Vilcabamba.\n\nIt took the Spanish thirty-five years to conquer Vilcabamba. By then, Manco was dead, and his son Felipe Tupac Amaru ruled. The Spanish led Felipe from Vilcabamba at the end of a gold chain. The final chapter of the Inca empire closed in Cuzco's main plaza, where Felipe was hanged and his body mutilated. After his execution the Spanish settled in Vilcabamba and profited from its sugar, coca, and silver for almost two hundred years. When those resources were gone they abandoned the valley.\n\nHiram Bingham, the American archeologist who in 1911 discovered what has become South America's most famous ruin, Machu Picchu, also passed through Vilcabamba several times, but missed the city buried there. He went to his grave believing that Machu Picchu was the fabled lost city of the Incas. Not until another American, Gene Savoy, led expeditions to the region in 1964 and 1965 was Vilcabamba correctly identified. The ruins have largely been ignored since Savoy's discovery, and the region itself is nearly uninhabited, a ghostly adjunct to the ghostly lower Apurimac canyon. According to Gregory Deyermenjian, an American who visited the site in 1986, only one thatch hut stands at Esp\u00edritu Pampa, and the nearby ruins are so overgrown that he, too, would have missed them had not a local man pointed them out.\n\nAs we departed the _oroya_ we heard three sharp reports. We dismissed these as rockfall set off by the northwesterly headwind, which now blew so fiercely we were forced to kneel in the raft and paddle with heads lowered while Chmielinski counted stroke. After half an hour of this penance I glanced up and saw the canyon walls moving slowly past us in the wrong direction. The wind was blowing us upstream. When Bzdak and Durrant came to the same realization and collapsed in laughter, Chmielinski had no choice but to call it a day. The kayakers agreed, we pitched camp, and Chmielinski announced that we would wake at three-thirty the next morning and be on the water by dawn.\n\nWhich, bleary-eyed, we seemed to be. Light was just beginning to filter into the canyon as we loaded the raft and prepared to put it into the river at the top of a good-sized rapid. Chmielinski and I heard several whizzing sounds, followed by a series of the now-familiar reports. Suddenly Biggs shouted and pointed across the river, toward the canyon's right wall. A few hundred yards above us six men were descending the wall. One of them knelt and put a rifle to his shoulder. A bullet zipped into the river two feet from where Truran sat in his kayak adjusting his spray skirt.\n\n\"Go!\" Chmielinski yelled.\n\nNever had I been so grateful to enter a rapid. At first I wasn't so much frightened as overwhelmed. I had never been shot at, never watched a person try to kill me. It took a few moments to digest that idea. _Then_ I was frightened, but at that point we were hidden in the rapid and hurtling away.\n\nWe ran the rapid, found fast, smooth water below it, and glided swiftly down the right side of the river. Half an hour later, we heard a deep rumbling directly opposite us, and turned to the left bank to see dozens of boulders and small rocks plummeting into the water. A plume of golden dust arched skyward. Had it been a natural avalanche? Or one deliberately set off?\n\nNow the brown, barren canyon walls had eyes. Now they teemed with a life unseen but vividly imagined. As we paddled down the river we surveyed the walls for a trail, for any sign of man. We found none, but, distracted from the discipline of rafting the river, we shot a rapid without scouting it and vaulted sideways into a hole. The raft flipped and threw all four of us into the river.\n\nAs I reeled through the underwater turbulence I thought, \"Hold on to the paddle,\" for we were down to two spares. However, when my tumbling ceased and I began to rise to the surface, I thought something else altogether: Was I about to come up to a bullet in the head?\n\nA shadow loomed above me. I reached up, grabbed the upturned raft's center net, and pulled myself into the black, cavelike air pocket between river and floor. The raft dragged me along swiftly, my legs colliding with submerged rocks. I heard coughing and hacking, some of it my own, some Bzdak's. The sounds caromed eerily off the raft's rubber skin, and at first I didn't realize that he was right next to me.\n\n\"You okay?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yah, yah,\" he sputtered. He hacked twice to clear water from his air passages. Then, in a hoarse, urgent voice, he asked, \"Where is Kate?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Have to get out.\"\n\nI reached under the tube and groped for the safety line on the outside of the raft. When I found it I went underwater, reluctantly, crossed under the tube, and popped out into daylight, the roar of the rapid, and canyon walls rushing past.\n\n\"Quickly up!\" Chmielinski yelled from the top of the raft and extended a hand over to grab me.\n\nBzdak surfaced next to me. \"Where is Kate?\" he yelled.\n\n\"Up!\" Chmielinski yelled back. He hauled me aboard, then Bzdak. When we had climbed onto the raft Bzdak asked again, more urgently than before, _\"Where is Kate_?\"\n\n\"There!\" Chmielinski said. He pointed upstream, to the heart of the rapid, where a small round object was spinning around in the hole. Durrant's head. Truran, who had worked his way upstream in the slower water along the right bank, kayaked into the froth, grabbed her, turned, and raced down to us. We paddled the raft behind a boulder and then, nerves jangling, yanked and tugged with our remaining rope until we righted it.\n\nBiggs and Odendaal caught up with us a few minutes later. \"Everyone all right?\" Biggs asked. Our murmurs of assent were hardly emphatic. \"Then we best move as quickly as we can,\" he said. Odendaal said nothing, but he was smirking.\n\nAt the next rapid he spilled out of his boat and took a bad swim, and Truran, Chmielinski, Durrant, Bzdak, and I did a little smirking of our own.\n\nThough the river was thick with fourth- and fifth-class rapids, that day we ran more of them than we usually did, and the few we lined we lined as quickly as we could. We ate lunch furtively, in a hidden, rock-walled nook, wondering if we had outrun our attackers, if we were safe. \"I know I risk my life in my kayak,\" Truran said, eating quickly from a can of tuna, \"but at least I have some control over the situation. The river's not an _aggressor_.\"\n\nHaving entered the Red Zone, we assumed that the men who had attacked us that morning were members of the Sendero Luminoso. Over beers in Cuzco we had joked about the war between the government and the Senderistas, as the movement's members are called, but none of us had taken it very seriously. In my notes I had commented only on the \"poetic symmetry\" to be found in the political history of the Apurimac canyon, whose rugged natural boundaries had protected the fledgling Inca state, formed one critical flank of Vilcabamba, spawned Tupac Amaru II, and now nurtured Peru's bloodiest uprising since she won her independence from Spain in 1824.\n\nWe were not alone in our ignorance. In the nearly six years since the morning in 1980 when the guerrillas had announced their war of revolution by hanging dead dogs from lampposts in Lima (to protest China's treatment of the Gang of Four), Peruvian authorities had failed to penetrate the group. The guerrillas had volunteered almost nothing about themselves, publishing in that time only three pithy communiqu\u00e9s. They were regarded as the fiercest and most uncompromising of the myriad guerrilla factions then operating in South America. The movement is the brainchild of Abimael Guzman Reynoso, who came to the National University of San Cristobal in Ayacucho (as it happens, Quechua for \"corner of corpses\") in 1962 as an assistant professor of philosophy and founded the Sendero Luminoso a few years later. He is believed to have spent time in China in the mid-sixties and to have returned to Ayacucho convinced that Mao's revolution could be replicated in Peru. Considered a brilliant, scholarly man, he built a strong following at the university, and by 1968 Senderistas were running the administration. Guzman, the director of personnel, instructed his supporters to learn Quechua and to spread the Maoist doctrine in the rural highlands. He went underground in 1978 and has not been seen since.\n\nBy 1985 Peruvian intelligence estimated the guerrillas' numbers at two to four thousand armed soldiers and as many as fifteen thousand sympathizers, mostly rural Quechua in the highland departments of Ayacucho and Apurimac. At least six thousand people had died as a direct consequence of the war.\n\nThe Red Zone, which was under martial law, included most of the Apurimac canyon below the Pampas confluence. In late 1985, shortly before we began our navigation of the river, Peru's minister of war announced that 80 percent of the Red Zone had been pacified and that the Senderistas had been isolated. Almost no one we spoke with in Peru believed this. The popular belief was that the conflict was intensifying, and that support for the guerrillas had spread nationwide. It appeared to be particularly strong in Lima, which in the year before we arrived had suffered over a thousand bombings. (Government figures would later show the hostilities claimed more than three thousand lives over the next year.)\n\nAs could be expected, the government maintained that the guerrillas were thugs and that they recruited mainly through intimidation and terror. According to the _New York Times_ , however, a confidential national police report said that while one third of the conflict's victims could be described as \"communist terrorists\" and two thirds as \"civilians,\" few were soldiers or police. This was a strong suggestion that many of the war's atrocities were perpetrated not by the guerrillas but by agents of the state. Indeed, according to the report, most relatives who had witnessed abductions attributed them to national security forces. Several mass graves found in the Andes in 1984 held bodies later identified as those of people who had last been seen being detained by the police or military. According to a United Nations report, there were more \"disappearances\" in Peru in 1983 and 1984 than in Chile during the first six years of the Pinochet government. The worst abuses occurred in those rural areas controlled by the Peruvian marines, including the Red Zone.\n\nFor their part, in a rare public statement released in 1986, the Senderistas claimed responsibility for \"more than thirty thousand actions in six years of popular war, five thousand actions each year, more than thirteen military actions daily. Every two hours, somewhere in Peru, there is a military attack.\"\n\nAfter lunch we resumed our travels at a furious pace, until, in mid-afternoon, we encountered a rapid that Chmielinski thought imprudent to run without scouting. We stopped the raft at a small beach on the right bank. While Bzdak and Durrant stayed with the boat, Chmielinski and I scurried through the cactus along the bank. We climbed a boulder and spotted the kayakers waiting in the calm water below the rapid, gesturing frantically for us to come ahead. Something was wrong.\n\nI turned and ran for the raft.\n\nAs I leapt past Durrant and Bzdak, into the boat, two men charged from the bush. One of them held a submachine gun, the other what to my untrained eye looked like an ancient carbine.\n\nMachine Gun was dead silent, but Rifleman screamed wildly, put his gun to Bzdak's head, and demanded the raft's lead line. Chmielinski stepped out from behind a boulder, hand outstretched as if to shake, but Machine Gun trained his weapon on him and Rifleman confiscated his watch and hunting knife.\n\n\"We are the Shining Path,\" Rifleman yelled, as if challenging us to do something about it. Barefoot, wearing camouflage baseball hats, torn khaki fatigues, and holey soccer jerseys rolled up over hairless bellies, both men looked far more like working _campesinos_ than a crack military cadre.\n\nA dozen men emerged from the bush, several armed, all wearing the same sort of patchwork rags.\n\nMachine Gun spoke for the first time. \"Have you heard of us?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" Chmielinski said.\n\nMachine Gun smiled and nodded to Rifleman. Then he turned back to Chmielinski and said, \"Our captain attacked your camp this morning.\"\n\nSpeaking Spanish in a low, easy voice, Chmielinski said, \"We are not soldiers. We are not here to harm you.\" He said that we were of more use to them as propaganda than as corpses, and that they should let us go.\n\nMachine Gun, to whom the other men clearly deferred, appeared willing to be persuaded. He, Rifleman, and Chmielinski climbed the bank and sat down, out of earshot of the raft.\n\nDurrant, Bzdak, and I remained on the raft, its nose drawn up on the beach. I sat in the back left corner, Durrant in front of me, Bzdak in the right front. Another guerrilla held the lead line. Bzdak asked him if he had heard the score of the Peru-Chile World Cup soccer game that was to have been held that day.\n\n\"Soccer [ _f\u00fatbol_ ] is an American capitalist plot,\" he said.\n\nThree young women and six small children emerged from the bush. Giggling and blushing, the women approached the raft. Unlike the men, they wore traditional Quechua clothing\u2014woven skirts and blouses\u2014accented by gaudy plastic earrings. One carried a transistor radio tuned to a Cuzco station playing Andean folk music. Shyly, she offered the radio to Durrant. After Durrant indicated that she enjoyed the music, they negotiated an exchange of earrings. Emboldened by the trade, two of the women reached down and felt Durrant's breasts. (\"To see if I were made from the same model,\" she said later.)\n\nA solemn boy of perhaps ten surveyed all this from shore while fondling a haftless shiv and staring at me with what I could not help but regard as a warrior's eyes. After a few minutes, several very old women walked out of the bush. And then the whole scene seemed cockeyed. On the one hand, it was hard to believe these men would butcher us in front of their mothers, wives, and children. On the other hand, by what could I gauge the ridiculous? The entire history of this region was drenched with senseless bloodshed.\n\nThen I heard someone yell, in rough Spanish, \"I am a communist! I am a communist!\" I turned to see Odendaal standing twenty yards down the bank with his hands over his head. Nervously, Rifleman signaled him to sit down across from Chmielinski.\n\nMinutes later Chmielinski hurried down the bank, into the raft, and dug for papers that identified him and Bzdak as Polish citizens.\n\n\"What's up?\" I whispered.\n\n\"Stay on the raft,\" he said under his breath. \"If they find out we have an American with us I think we are in big trouble.\"\n\nChmielinski returned to his negotiations. The boy with the knife climbed aboard the raft. I handed him a paddle. He maneuvered the tethered raft up and down the bank, his eyes wide and pinned to mine, his mouth firm and serious. Satisfied, he thanked me. He walked away with the grim pride of a man who had confronted the enemy on the enemy's turf.\n\nSuddenly Rifleman jumped up and started shouting at Chmielinski and waving his gun.\n\nDurrant whispered, \"I feel like I'm reading a novel about myself.\"\n\nAs Chmielinski later explained it, when he had handed Machine Gun his and Bzdak's papers, he had delivered a line that usually worked magic in Peru. He had said that he was from the same country as the Pope. _Big_ mistake. Rifleman had been on a team that had attempted to assassinate _El Papa_ when he had visited Peru.\n\nWhen Rifleman cooled down, Chmielinski started again. From time to time Odendaal appeared to say something. The discussion continued for about an hour or so. Finally, Chmielinski led Machine Gun and Rifleman down to the raft, Odendaal following.\n\nMachine Gun said that they would let us go, but they wanted a donation.\n\nRifleman asked about Durrant's sturdy waterproof watch, which had hands but no numerals. Bzdak explained that to use the watch, one had to approximate the time, divide by four, add the quotient to... Rifleman no longer desired the watch.\n\nWe undid our bags. Chmielinski extracted our fishing net, with which we had caught not a single trout. Machine Gun nodded in appreciation and accepted it. But when Chmielinski withdrew the film crew's boom microphone, Machine Gun's eyes widened and Rifleman raised his gun. Slowly, coolly, Chmielinski mimed its function. Machine Gun and Rifleman relaxed.\n\n\"Fish,\" Rifleman said. Chmielinski had agreed to give him five cans from our stores. I removed them from the food box.\n\n\"Six cans,\" Rifleman said.\n\n\"Five cans,\" Chmielinski said, with surprising vehemence.\n\n\"Six.\"\n\n\"We agreed on five. That is what I will give you.\"\n\n\"Give him six!\" Durrant hissed.\n\nChmielinski stood firm. I thought I would faint. I could not see the wisdom of getting shot over a can of tuna.\n\nRifleman accepted the five cans. He smiled. Machine Gun smiled. We smiled. We shook hands all around. Machine Gun gave Odendaal a poster of their presidential candidate. And then we closed up our bags, tied them under the net, jumped in the boat, and paddled like hell for that big rapid, which we then ran without scouting. Once into the flat water below it we stroked for all we were worth. We did not look back.\n\nBelow the rapid the river bent sharply left and delivered us into a translucent mist. Twenty minutes later the mist lifted, unveiling, to left and right, mountainsides covered with rain forest. The air, an hour before dry and brittle, now hung thick and moist and pungent with balsam. Parrots and parakeets sounded off overhead, and above them circled two hawks. Brown balls that looked like oversized coconuts revealed themselves to be monkeys as they looped through broad, leafy trees and swirling liana vines. We had emerged from the land of the dead.\n\nIn the flat water Odendaal paddled ahead of us, and an hour after sunset we found him, Truran, and Biggs in their kayaks, hidden behind a rock. With the kayakers in the lead, our fleet drifted silently under the light of the rising half-moon until Biggs spotted a creek protected by a rock wall. We pitched camp on a high sandbar near a grotto bursting with tropical ferns. Chmielinski cooked dinner, but when he started to serve it by candlelight we put the candles out immediately. Better to spill our stew than to make ourselves easy targets for a sniper.\n\nAs we sat in the darkness and ate, Odendaal gave his version of the Sendero confrontation. After instructing Biggs and Truran to kayak ahead in search of help, he said, he had sacrificed his own safety to race back to the guerrilla camp and offer himself as a hostage if the guerrillas would set the rest of us free. He believed that he had rescued us.\n\nChmielinski, of course, did not remember it this way. Later, he told me that the guerrillas had referred to Odendaal as \"that crazy guy.\" Whatever the case, Odendaal's return to the guerrilla camp had been bold but unneccesary, and he did not fully comprehend the gravity of the situation\u2014though he knew that our captors were something called \"Sendero Luminoso,\" he believed they were unrelated to \"the violence that exists elsewhere in Peru.\" The explanation that seemed better to fit the facts of his behavior was Truran's: The memory of his partner's tragic death on the Limpopo River drove Odendaal to seek redemption through feats of bravado that he interpreted as heroic.\n\nAfter dinner we stood watch through the night in one-hour shifts. Each lookout wore Chmielinski's rescue whistle, which he was supposed to blow loudly at the first hint of strange activity. At the sound of the whistle Biggs and Truran, who slept with their kayaks in a place removed from the main camp and close to the river, would sneak away and paddle through the night until they could find help.\n\nBzdak and Durrant kept a two-hour watch together and shook me awake at eleven o'clock.\n\n\"Kate thinks every shadow is a Sendero,\" Bzdak whispered.\n\nDurrant said, \"It's creepy.\"\n\nI took up my position atop the rock wall. The river gurgled at my back, and on the slope facing me fireflies illuminated the shadowy slanting bush. As I stared at those flickering dots I thought, _Is that one there a bug? A match? A candle? A flashlight? Why does it continue to flash in the same place?_\n\nAt midnight I went to Odendaal's tent.\n\n\"Fran\u00e7ois,\" I whispered.\n\nHe jumped up and shouted, \"All right all right! Everything okay! No worries!\"\n\nWhen he was fully awake and had quieted down I said, \"Your watch.\"\n\nThen I retired. At 4 a.m. Chmielinski said softly, \"Joe,\" and left a mug of hot coffee at my tent.\n\nAbout noon the next day we landed at the marine outpost of Lechemayo, across the river from the charred remains of what had been a settlement called Villa Virgen. Two dozen shirtless, crewcut young men in khaki pants stared at us from the bank. When we beached they brought bananas and pineapples and beer. The garrison commander, an older, serious man, was not happy to see us. We were in the Red Zone without permission, and he had trouble swallowing Chmielinski's description of how we had descended the river. No boats that he had seen could handle the Apurimac above Lechemayo. At first he was suspicious when we said we had not met any guerrillas, but then his face cracked in a lurid grin. \"You were lucky,\" he said. \"Last week they hanged five civilians up there.\"\n\nBelow Lechemayo new rivers entered the Apurimac every mile or so. The Great Speaker swelled and picked up speed, but she ran smooth and deep. Her voice fell to a whisper. Every few miles on either bank crude log watchtowers loomed over the thick green canopy. Rural irregulars used them in the campaign against the guerrillas, but I was certain they were also useful to protect the dozens of coca-bush plots we now began to see. They were everywhere, not hidden at all, planted in hundred-square-foot patches carved out of the bush, their bright greasy leaves twinkling in the sun like green coins.\n\nWe arrived at Luisiana the day after Lechemayo. Although there is a small village there, Luisiana was, or had been, better known as a cacao plantation and resort hotel run by a godfatherlike figure, or _patr\u00f3n_ , named Pepe Parodi. We found a state of riotous entropy. The guerrillas had bombed the guts out of Luisiana. Its gardens and patios and swimming pool were cratered and charred, the resort compound overrun with jungle vegetation. Pepe Parodi had fled to Lima. All that remained of any consequence was a small distillery run by a shifty-eyed _mestizo_ who offered to sell a bottle of what the label described as \"Luisiana Brandy\" but tasted like cheap cane alcohol.\n\nThe _mestizo_ did grant us permission to camp in a mud patch near the mouth of the stream that carried the village's refuse into the Apurimac. The night was clear, but the stars, veiled by jungle humidity, lacked the brilliance they had displayed in the high Andes. We built a bonfire and Odendaal called a meeting.\n\nWe had planned to pick up four sea kayaks some two hundred and fifty miles farther down the river, in the village of Atalaya. Leon would be bringing them there by jungle plane. Three of these boats were to be manned by Odendaal, Biggs, and Chmielinski. Because we were so far behind schedule (at least two months), Truran had no choice but to leave the expedition to return to England for what would probably be his last shot at a berth on the British national team. Nor did he have any great desire to paddle the flat water. There had been a tacit agreement that I would use the fourth kayak if I wanted to. Chmielinski did not want to be isolated on the river with Biggs and Odendaal and had strongly urged me to paddle the fourth boat, as had Truran, Bzdak, and Durrant.\n\nThere in the Luisiana mud, however, Odendaal announced that he was changing the plan. He would not allow me to kayak the first leg of flat water below Atalaya. Instead, Bzdak, Durrant, and I, together with Leon when he rejoined us, would form what Odendaal called a \"free-lance\" team. We would be on our own. However, if we were able to move ourselves and the extra kayak the four hundred miles from Atalaya to Pucallpa in time to rendezvous with Odendaal, Biggs, and Chmielinski, I would then be permitted to paddle the fourth boat. Odendaal gave as his reasoning that if I kayaked that first leg, I would slow the river team.\n\n\"Why don't you give Joe a chance?\" Truran said. \"Let him paddle from Atalaya to Pucallpa. If he can keep up, you haven't broken his journey. If he can't keep up, take him off the river in Pucallpa.\"\n\n\"No,\" Odendaal said.\n\n\"He has an opportunity to be the first North American to travel the entire Amazon under his own steam,\" Truran said. \"That would be a real feather in the cap for this expedition.\"\n\n\"I am acting in the best interests of this expedition,\" Odendaal said.\n\n\"Speed has nothing to do with it, Fran\u00e7ois,\" Durrant said. \"You are the slowest person here at everything you do. You are acting out of personal animosity. You don't want anybody on the river now but you and Tim.\"\n\n\"This is what the expedition needs,\" Odendaal said, his voice rising. \"It has nothing to do with my personal feelings.\"\n\n\"We help you through the bad water,\" Bzdak said. \"Now you are going to push us out.\"\n\nOdendaal denied this.\n\n\"Your plan is for the benefit of Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal,\" Truran said, \"not for the benefit of this expedition.\"\n\nOdendaal exploded. \"This is my expedition!\" he yelled.\n\n\"This expedition belongs to all of us!\" Chmielinski shouted back. \"We are all working. You, me, all of us.\"\n\nThe atmosphere was so tense that we ignored the headlights that had suddenly sliced through the night. Jeep doors opened and shut and we were surrounded by Peruvian marines who trained their weapons on us. A young captain demanded our passports. He studied them for several minutes while his men searched our tents. Satisfied, he smiled. \"There is a curfew at six o'clock,\" he said. \"If you leave your camp, you will be shot on sight.\" Then he wished us a safe journey and left with his men.\n\nWhen the marines were gone Durrant asked Odendaal, \"Are you saying that you can remove an expedition member at your whim? For no reason other than that you are in a bad mood?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" Odendaal said. He glared at her. \"If I so choose I can remove _two_ people!\"\n\n\"So Joe goes now,\" Truran said, \"and then Kate and Zbyszek, and then Piotr. And then it's just you and Tim.\"\n\nWhen Odendaal did not respond, Truran continued. \"I don't think the question here is how fast someone can or cannot paddle the river,\" he said. \"The real question is whether Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal is fit to lead this expedition.\"\n\n\"Are you saying you have no confidence in me?\" Odendaal asked angrily.\n\n\"Yes,\" Truran said.\n\nOdendaal leapt to his feet. \"Then that is the question!\" He turned to the rest of us. The fire glinted off the underside of his face, throwing it into reverse shadow. \"Do the rest of you agree with Jerome?\" he demanded. \"Do you? _Do you?_ \"\n\n\"What do you want, Fran\u00e7ois?\" Durrant said.\n\n\"I demand a vote! I demand to know _exactly_ what each of you thinks of me!\"\n\n\"Then you are asking us to commit ourselves either for or against you,\" she said.\n\n\"I will not leave here tomorrow without a vote!\"\n\n\"And if we vote against you,\" Bzdak said, \"then you will try to throw us out any way you can.\"\n\n\"I give my solemn vow that if the vote goes against me, I will turn the leadership of this expedition, and all its remaining resources, over to whomever you select to replace me.\"\n\nTim Biggs quietly tended the fire and kept his peace.\n\n\"Fran\u00e7ois,\" Chmielinski said, \"do you know what you are doing?\"\n\n\"Jerome!\" Odendaal shouted.\n\n\"Frans,\" Biggs said, \"maybe this isn't the time.\"\n\n\"I will be damned,\" Odendaal shouted, \"if I will go down this river with an expedition that does not want me as its leader!\"\n\n\"Then let it be,\" Biggs said. He sounded tired, resigned to the inevitable.\n\n\"Jerome!\" Odendaal shouted again, pointing a finger at Truran.\n\n\"No confidence!\" Truran shouted back.\n\n\"Joe!\"\n\n\"No confidence!\"\n\n\"Tim!\"\n\n\"Yes. Confidence.\"\n\n\"Zbyszek!\"\n\n\"I vote no.\"\n\n\"Kate!\"\n\n\"Really, Fran\u00e7ois,\" she said. \"This is childish. Be reasonable.\"\n\n\"How do you vote!\"\n\n\"Don't make me do this. We're in this together. We don't want to remove anybody.\"\n\n_\"Confidence or no confidence?\"_\n\n\"All right, then. If you intend to remove Joe, no confidence.\"\n\n\"Piotr!\"\n\n\"Frans!\" Biggs yelled.\n\n\"Piotr!\"\n\n\"Fran\u00e7ois,\" Chmielinski said, \"you do not understand what you have done.\"\n\nIt appeared to be true. Odendaal looked from one to another of us with a blank stare. Either he did not comprehend what had just happened (\"He hadn't done his sums,\" Truran would say later), or he was startled to find his bluff called. Even without Chmielinski, the vote was four to one. He was out.\n\nBiggs jumped up and stood between his friend and the fire, shielding him from the rest of us.\n\n\"Look, why don't we leave this until the morning?\" he said. He smiled nervously. \"Everyone needs a good night's sleep. What do you say, mates? Let's do this in the morning, eh?\"\n\nHe led Odendaal away from the fire, into the darkness.\n\nBiggs was on breakfast duty the next morning. Before we ate he asked for a prayer.\n\n\"It's Sunday,\" he said. \"The day we speak with our God. If we ever needed his help, we do now.\"\n\n\"Tim,\" Truran said, \"it's Saturday.\"\n\nBiggs said his prayer nonetheless, and we ate in silence, scratching at mosquito bites, until Odendaal spoke.\n\n\"There will be no vote,\" he said. \"Last night I failed to consult with my co-leaders. By putting myself in a position to be removed as leader, I abrogated my agreement with them. Anyone who has a problem with my leadership may speak to me about it in Atalaya. I will permit Joe to kayak from there. When we reach Pucallpa, we will decide if he shall continue.\"\n\n\"Who will decide?\" Truran asked.\n\n\"I will,\" Odendaal said. Then he excused himself, saying that the _mestizo_ had promised him a bottle of brandy. He walked up the mud beach to the ruined estate.\n\nWhen Odendaal was gone, Biggs said, \"That was really a courageous thing Frans did last night. He really put himself on the line.\"\n\n\"Courageous?\" Durrant said. \"You call that courage? He flushed us out, and when he lost, he went back on his word. It was the height of cowardice.\"\n\n\"We voted, Zulu,\" Bzdak said. \"He lost. He is out.\"\n\n\"That's it, Tim,\" Truran said.\n\nBiggs was solemn. \"If you throw Frans over, a stink will settle on this whole expedition. I don't want any part of it.\"\n\n\"It stinks now,\" Durrant said. \"It has to change.\"\n\nBiggs saw Odendaal returning, ran along the beach, and stopped him before he reached camp. Truran joined them. He told Odendaal that we were prepared to stick by our vote.\n\nWhen Odendaal sat down with the rest of us his eyes were vacant and his face ashen. He spoke slowly and would not look at anyone.\n\n\"It is apparent,\" he said, \"that this expedition no longer trusts me. I understand that you intend to remove me as leader, and that my word is no longer enough to maintain my position. I don't want to end this expedition, and I don't see a way to divide it cleanly. I apologize to Joe and to each of you who feels I have plotted against you.\" He said that if we would allow him to remain as leader he would agree \"not to put my personal goals ahead of the expedition's.\"\n\nNo one spoke. After a few moments I realized that the others were watching me as if to say, right now you have the most to lose, so what do you want to do? But the looks on their faces were undeniable. Nobody had the energy for any more fighting, not then, not in that suppurating mud patch, not with the marines peering over our shoulders, not with all we'd been through over the last few days.\n\n\"It's fine with me if you call yourself the leader,\" I told Odendaal, \"if you'll agree to open your decisions to veto by simple majority vote.\"\n\n\"I'll do whatever you want.\"\n\n\"That sounds fair to me,\" Biggs said, and the others agreed. At Odendaal's request we put the agreement into writing and signed it.\n\nWhen we had finished Odendaal walked over to me and shook my hand. I was amazed. For such a proud man, his was an enormous effort.\n\n\"One day,\" he said, \"we will laugh about how stupid we have been.\"\n\nI said that I hoped we would do just that.\n\nAn hour later we all stood in the mud and jungle heat and said good-byes. Odendaal and Biggs, who had yet to secure Brazilian visas, would kayak the two hundred and fifty miles to Atalaya ahead of us and try to establish communication with the consular offices in Lima. We would meet them in Atalaya in a week to ten days. We wished them luck. Then they mounted their boats and paddled into the heart of the current, Biggs tense and alert, Odendaal listless and glassy-eyed.\n\nTwo hours later, the raft packed, the kayak tied to the stern, Bzdak, Durrant, Chmielinski, Truran, and I set off.\n\nReturning to the river was like coming home from a bad vacation. The tropical heat was blistering and the humidity a dead weight, but after the turmoil of Luisiana we found it immensely relaxing to drift back into the bosom of wild country. That evening we camped on a long, clean beach, its glistening white sand warm late into the night. Across the river, throwing down a gentle chorus of birdsong and cicada buzz, the forest rose in a green wall of broad leaves and snaky vines so dense it looked like a single plant. Behind our camp, bushy hills climbed through a skirt of clouds to a high ridge. White puffballs hung above the ridgetop, and when the sun dropped between cloud and mountain, the sky lit up crimson, violet, and gold. It was the first real sunset we had seen in six weeks.\n\nA post-catharsis peace reigned in camp. Truran cooked, Bzdak read, Durrant and I bathed in the cool Apurimac, here emerald green, fifty yards wide, and running smoothly but so swiftly that to stay abreast of camp I had to swim against the current as hard as I could. Chmielinski, reviewing his hand-drawn maps, looked up and said, \"Something is wrong here.\" He paused, then concluded, \"Ah\u2014Fran\u00e7ois is gone. No one is watching who I am talking to.\"\n\nLater, sitting around the fire while Truran dished out beef burgundy, we tried to decide what exactly had happened at Luisiana, and what we would do next. None of us believed the confrontation with Odendaal had been our last, not with almost thirty-eight hundred miles of river still to run. We agreed that one reason Odendaal behaved as he did was his insecurity with his role as the expedition leader and with the river itself. \"He hates the river,\" Truran said. \"He wants to have done it, but not to do it.\" He also said that it would be a mistake for us to trust Odendaal's word. \"He's an Afrikaner, you know, and they have a tendency to destroy anything that doesn't work according to their terms.\"\n\nChmielinski seconded this, and added that while he had once considered Odendaal a smart man shackled by an inability to control his emotions, he now considered him simply \"stupid.\" He thought the best thing to do would be to humor Odendaal until we gained control of the remaining expedition supplies.\n\nDurrant ventured that Odendaal might benefit from \"positive reinforcement,\" but added that \"he started this trip in a better position than any of us to get on well, and step by step he has squandered those advantages.\"\n\nBzdak was blunt and succinct: \"The river has broken him.\"\n\nI did not trust Odendaal, but I did consider my own insecurities similar to his. In fact, that afternoon, just before he left Luisiana, we had sat by ourselves and had a brief talk, an attempt at hatchet burying. He had agreed when I said that we were alike, that we had both arrived in Peru unsure of ourselves. He had been worried about his ability to lead an expedition of such magnitude; I had lacked confidence in my ability to fit in with a group of strangers, and to travel the river and write about the experience.\n\nAnd deep down in my stomach, the place where, as a child, I had believed my soul could be found, burned the knowledge that what I despised in others was that which I feared in myself. Looking over my notes a little later, I found an entry made during the Cachora-to-Triunfo run, after Odendaal had taken a bad swim. \"Admit it\u2014a certain satisfaction watching FO bloodied\u2014this is ugly stuff.\" It confirmed that I was capable of exactly what I detested most about Odendaal, the pleasure he seemed to take from the suffering of those with whom he shared a common purpose. As the wise old French admiral says in _Lord Jim_ , \"One talks, one talks, but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man, and no more brave.\"\n\n# 11 \u2022 The Ene\n\nChmielinski and Truran insisted that I use the Luisiana-to-Atalaya leg to get in shape to paddle a sea kayak. They designed a regimen that kept me in Truran's white-water boat for an hour the first day, two hours the second, three the third, and so on. In theory, when we finished the ten-day run to Atalaya I'd be able to sit in the kayak all day. Meanwhile, they, Bzdak, and Durrant paddled the raft and amused themselves by jeering at my efforts, mocking my fear, and fishing me out of the cool brown Apurimac.\n\nThe kayak terrified me. It wasn't much longer than I, and compared to the lumbering raft it seemed a tippy, skittish insect. The raft rode above the river, but the kayak sat right down in it and vibrated with the rumble of distant rapids long before my ear picked them up. Also, I found myself utterly incapable of judging the river's myriad new currents. The rapids were smaller than the upper Apurimac's, but the river was pocked with frothy white _remolinos_ , or whirlpools, up to forty feet wide, with outer lips that rose as much as four feet above their vortex eyes. My bladder gauge said these could easily swallow a kayak.\n\nDrowning was my most immediate concern, but I had others. According to Durrant and Truran my most serious problems on the three-thousand-five-hundred-mile haul from Atalaya to the sea would be fatigue and tenisinivitis (a painful, debilitating inflammation of the tendon sheaths in the wrist). The only cures for tenisinivitis are complete rest for six weeks or surgery. To prevent it, one must learn to wield a paddle properly, but as with paddling the raft, proper technique is the opposite of instinct.\n\nTo simplify gravely, the key to manipulating the quarter-turn, two-bladed paddle is to regard the arms as fulcrums. For example, to execute a left stroke, one does not pull the blade toward the body with the left hand. Rather, one extends the left arm, hand loosely gripping the paddle shaft, pushes with the right hand from the waist forward, and at the end of the stroke retracts the left arm.\n\nRepeatedly, I found myself concentrating so hard on technique that I forgot to look where I was going, only to discover myself hurtling toward a whirlpool, a bank, or a boulder. I then tossed technique to the wind and paddled furiously. Too often the result recalled my first time on ice skates, when my eyes, frozen in fear, had locked on the skating-rink wall even as I slammed into it.\n\nOne soggy accident built on another, and I couldn't help thinking, as I hauled myself back into the kayak: Three thousand five hundred miles _of this?_\n\n\"Tell yourself two things,\" an exasperated Truran said to me again and again. \"Don't tighten your fingers on the paddle, and think _push_ , not _pull._ \"\n\n\"You will have a lot of time to practice,\" Bzdak yelled from his safe perch on the raft, and laughed in his squeaky way. He enjoyed my flailings immensely and teased me without mercy until the day I called him a talking _pierogi_ (a sort of ravioli I had once eaten in a Polish restaurant). He was stupefied: \"Where did you learn this word?\"\n\nLate in the afternoon that first day out of Luisiana I heard Chmielinski shout. I looked up from my paddling to see the raft about a hundred yards downstream. Chmielinski was standing up, his hands cupped into a megaphone.\n\n\"Joe, what is that?\" He pointed toward what appeared to be a half-submerged rock in the reeds along the left bank.\n\nI paddled out of the main current, toward the rock. A vulture had perched on it but took flight just before I banged the rock with my paddle. It felt as if I had struck a heap of wet rags. Only then, shocked, did I focus on the blue feet bulging through sandal straps, the swollen gray thighs, the oozing hole that had once been a stomach, the torn gold sweater and crimson chest, the pecked-away face framed by black hair.\n\nChoking back nausea, I turned and paddled downstream as fast as I could.\n\n\"It was a body,\" I said when I caught up with the raft.\n\n\"Anyone we know?\" Truran asked.\n\n\"I don't think so. It looked Peruvian.\"\n\nShaking, I tied up the kayak, climbed aboard the raft, and made myself a nest amid the food bags in the center. I lay down and shut my eyes. A couple of hours later we stopped at a marine checkpoint, but the lieutenant greeted the news of the corpse with no more concern than he would that of a dead dog. He did not even ask where we had seen it.\n\nSan Francisco, the largest settlement on the Apurimac, consists of a score of one-story buildings of wood and cement and a boxlike marine headquarters. If San Francisco were in the high country it might be quaint, all whitewashed colonial architecture and cobblestone streets, but the jungle eats the quaint, and San Francisco is not so much a town as a slum. The two main streets are mud, the buildings are dank, moldy, and starkly industrial in design, and the people look tired and defeated.\n\nAbout fifty locals gathered around the raft the afternoon we arrived. They were loud, as if noise could hold back the encroaching jungle rot, but they seemed more bored than mean, their lethargy the weariness of the besieged\u2014San Francisco sits well within the Red Zone, at the end of a jagged dirt road that winds down out of the mountains from Ayacucho, fifty miles southwest.\n\n\"Hey, Whitey, you want to buy some marijuana?\" a grizzled _mestizo_ yelled out, his T-shirt identifying him as a member of the \"California Yatch Club\" [sic]. Another man urged us to sample his \"oro _blanco_ \" or white gold\u2014cocaine.\n\nLeaving the others to guard the boat, Chmielinski went to register with the base commander, and I investigated the marketplace. Not since Cuzco, a month earlier, had I had the opportunity to shop for fresh food. Now that simple act overwhelmed me. Blindly, without bothering to haggle over prices, I grabbed lentils, tomatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, parsley, bananas, ginger, chilies, evaporated milk, cooking oil, _avena_ \"Quaker,\" cinnamon, a plastic pail for water and one for a lunch bucket, a machete, and, with First Mate Bzdak in mind, three bottles of _pisco_ and a case of beer.\n\nExhausted, I shouldered my treasure and walked into the street. I heard a loud epithet and turned to find myself face-to-face with a dozen rifle barrels\u2014I had wandered right into a marine flag-raising ceremony. I walked another block and sat down in the shade. A burro stopped and stared at me and unleashed a superb volume of urine, then galloped up the street scattering women and children. A dwarf and a young boy with a deformed right leg chased the beast. The boy wobbled like a bowling pin until he slipped and fell in the urine puddle.\n\nWhen Chmielinski found me we hauled our supplies down to the river. The crowd had doubled in size and pressed in on the boat. A drunk lunged for Durrant, she whacked him with her paddle, soldiers dragged the man away. We departed as fast as we could.\n\nWe lost sole possession of the river at San Francisco, where the Ayacucho road crosses a bridge (the first on the river below Cunyac, and the last until the Atlantic) and slops to a muddy end. At that point the traffic has no choice but to slide into the river itself, where it is serviced by a fleet of ragged boats often called _yonsins_ , or Johnsons, after the Swedish manufacturer of the outboard motors of choice in the area.\n\nThe dorylike Johnsons are designed to traverse the broad whirlpools and flat but deceptively strong rapids of the lower Apurimac and the Ene River, which begins thirty-five miles below San Francisco. The typical boat is about forty feet long but only a couple of feet wide, with a shallow draft and low gunwales that rise barely to the hips of the seated and invariably terrified passengers. Studied from a distance, a Johnson beating along the river looks like an enormous motorized pencil.\n\nNear the right bank, where the current was weakest, a Johnson lumbered upstream. It veered toward us. A shirtless man balanced like a bowsprit at the top of the prow, his brown chest bared and thrust into the wind on this bright, suffocatingly humid day. He held a thin pole about twelve feet long and studied the river intently. Behind him, strung along the boat one by one, sat the sort of farrago one expects to see on a Peruvian bus: dark little men in bright straw hats and gaudy shirts, fat women with chickens clutched snugly in the laps of their crisp white-cotton church dresses, children half-naked, goats in harnesses, drums of kerosene and gasoline, bushels of bananas and pineapples.\n\nThe Johnson chugged alongside our raft. A second bare-chested man sat at the stern, working twin forty-horse outboards. His nonchalant expression contrasted sharply with the looks of lugubrious determination on the faces of his passengers, who were not happy to be bouncing around in the middle of the river. They were bound for church\u2014this was Sunday\u2014but not at all sure they'd arrive. The boat's utter lack of life preservers was a matter of economics, not confidence.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" Bowsprit shouted.\n\n\"Brazil!\" Chmielinski shouted back. \"To where the river ends!\"\n\nAt this a great cheer erupted from the Johnson, and the worried faces gave way to gap-toothed grins that said, Now _there_ is a ship of fools! We had painted our noses and cheeks white with zinc oxide against the sun, and for insect armor we wore our black-and-gray-striped, chain-gang long underwear. With his loud red bandana tied over his head Bzdak looked like a gypsy, and Truran had fashioned a garish, sun-blocking nose plate from cardboard and silver duct tape. Durrant wore a bathing suit, unheard of on the river, and all four men sported scraggly beards. We were a motley crew, if not a disgusting one, but the locals waved and wished us luck. As we did them, in the sincere belief that at this moment, with the Johnson beginning to climb the rapid we had just descended, their cause was the needier. The men clutched their hats, the women clutched their chickens, and their faces reverted to that mask of hardened resignation.\n\nThe pilot attacked the rapid head-on. Water gushed up and over the low gunwales. The propellers jumped out of the water and the pilot gunned all eighty _caballos_ to no avail\u2014the blades caught only air and foam. The boat stalled, the river beat on it, Bowsprit planted his pole and struggled to drive the boat forward. He failed. The frantic pilot maneuvered to keep his nose straight in the rapid\u2014if he went broadside the boat would capsize immediately\u2014and the passengers screamed.\n\nSlowly, however, the prop caught water, gained fragile purchase, held its own. Bowsprit strained mightily. The Johnson earned a foot, four feet, ten feet. Then it burst through the top of the rapid and another great cheer rose up and the boat hurtled toward San Francisco, Bowsprit silhouetted defiantly against the wind.\n\nThe knowledge that such everyday heroics, and heroic tragedies, are part of the river's rhythm should have put my struggles with the tiny kayak in context, but pain has a way of destroying perspective. The day we left San Francisco I managed two hours in the cursed thing, and got out of it in a state of extreme discomfort. The vessel offered no back support, and, with my legs crammed into the hull, I could not move at all. When Durrant said she was not feeling well, and fashioned herself a sickbed atop the food bags, I gladly tied the kayak to the raft's stern and took her position at left-front paddle.\n\nIt was the first time I had worked that part of that boat. I asked Bzdak for advice.\n\n\"Best thing,\" that veteran long-distance paddler said in a low whisper, \"is take it easy.\" He had perfected a grandiose, elegantly inefficient paddling technique, one that required almost no work but gave the appearance, to the ever-vigilant Captain Chmielinski, of extraordinary effort.\n\nAn hour later I had the Bzdak Stroke down cold, and sat happily on the raft and watched the jungle slip by. As we pulled away from the smoky outlying huts of San Francisco the vibrantly green bush grew dense and thick. The low jungle wall ran unbroken along the banks, but in the sloping hills beyond it were neat squares of a duller, more orderly green\u2014coca plantations and grazing meadows and the odd banana orchard. Every half hour or so, to break the grip of the incessant tropical sun, we dove into the still cool Apurimac, now a hundred yards wide and running slowly, at perhaps four knots.\n\nAt high noon (Chmielinski called out the exact time) we shipped our paddles and dug avocados, cheese, and a pineapple out of the plastic pail stored on the raft's cool floor. After lunch we paddled in shifts, Chmielinski and I working in back while, in front, Bzdak and Truran slept, read, and teased Durrant.\n\nTwo hours later we traded places. Chmielinski went immediately to sleep. I, too, started to drift off to the earnest cadence of Truran and Bzdak paddling behind us, their every sharp thrust timed to Truran's authoritative \"Stroke!\" But after one particularly strenuous sequence I sneaked a glance from under my hat and saw their paddles lying unused on the raft floor. Each man had a beer in hand, and at each count they gave a little jump on the back tube, which felt enough like a stroke to keep Chmielinski slumbering.\n\nAbout four o'clock the flat green Mantaro River entered from the left, or west, signaling the beginning of the Ene River. In the late afternoon light, the most beautiful of the day, we waved good-bye to the Apurimac, our home those last two months. Above us, puffy cumulus clouds turned gold and crimson, and the sun, on its downward arc, reflected softly off the jungle wall. In midday the bush had been an indecipherable monochrome, a solid block, but at dusk each tree, each vine, each broad plant leaf glowed with its unique shade of green, and the river, as it ambled through that happy republic of foliage, seemed for the first time a gentle place.\n\nPromptly at five we searched the banks for a campsite, soon found a broad, sandy island, and quickly enacted our domestic routine\u2014unload the raft, pitch tents, gather firewood. I took a swim, which included my semiweekly shampoo, and stood naked in the setting sun to dry and marvel at the jungle's fecund splendor. Then into cotton pants and shirt as the _mosquitos_ and blackflies came out, and off to the campfire to marvel again, this time at cook-of-the-day Chmielinski's impeccable kitchen: utensils laid out to hand, bowls and spoons and cups in careful rows, coffee poured, dinner simmering away in the stew pot.\n\n\"Piotr,\" Truran asked as we sipped coffee, \"have you always been so... _neat?_ \"\n\nChmielinski thought about this while he cut carrots into the stew. \"Yes,\" he said finally. There had been no choice. He had been raised in a family of nine children, and without order they would have been lost. He added that he had an identical twin brother, and that he had not seen any of his family since he had left Poland in 1979. Then he stopped. \"Where is that Zbyszek?\" he asked suddenly. \"He never misses his coffee.\"\n\nIt rained hard during the night, a dense, tropical rain, and in the morning fog curled upward in soft plumes toward a patchwork-gray sky. A fine mist hung over the water, then swelled to rain.\n\nLate in the day we drifted into a _pongo_ , where narrow rock walls compressed the Ene and increased her velocity to about six knots. The river rolled and boiled. The locals called this the _pongo_ of the Seven Devils, for the seven furious whirlpools that are said to be capable of swallowing a Johnson. Nervous, flustered, I struggled to master the kayak before meeting the demons. But they were only my fear, and the _pongo_ spit me out unscathed.\n\nBelow the _pongo_ we entered Campa Indian territory. From the left, or northwest, bank of the Ene steep hills clotted with stands of rain forest and open, rolling savanna rise to about five thousand feet. These roadless highlands, called the Gran Pajonal, include some of the least-penetrated areas of Peru, and are inhabited mainly by Ash\u00e1ninka, as the Campa speakers call themselves. The four thousand or so Ash\u00e1ninka who live in the Gran Pajonal's roughly one million acres are one of the last peoples native to the upper Amazon basin who retain to a noticeable degree their traditional ways. In part this is because they were long considered exceptionally savage. Unlike many of their indigenous neighbors, they had the foresight to massacre the early Franciscan missionaries. In fact, in 1740, under the messianic half-breed Juan Santos de Atahuallpa, they drove missionaries completely out of this part of Peru, and the difficult terrain and their fierce reputation kept their territory free of outsiders for the next one hundred and fifty years.\n\nAt the turn of the twentieth century, however, the rubber boom brought prospectors flooding into the Amazon, this time armed with sophisticated weaponry. By 1935 the Franciscans had built three missions and an airstrip in the Gran Pajonal, paving the way for colonization after World War Two, particularly by Europeans. The newcomers established themselves along the rivers, which offered the best agricultural land. (Despite the Gran Pajonal's apparent fertility, less than one half of 1 percent is considered arable.)\n\nMany lowland Ash\u00e1ninka have since settled around the white colonies and missions, and though they often display the outward signs of their traditional life\u2014they wear long, dark cotton _cushmas_ , paint their faces with bright orange achiote-seed rouge, and draw dark, cat-whisker lines about the eyes, cheeks, and foreheads\u2014they have for the most part built an existence around handouts, odd jobs, canned milk, white rice, and the Christian god. They provide the work force for the colonist farms (according to a Danish anthropologist studying the area, there has been an active trade in Ash\u00e1ninka children, and it is not an uncommon practice to whip an upstart Ash\u00e1ninka with a dried bull's penis), but the intricacies of white law often prevent them from owning land.\n\nMeanwhile, the Peruvian government, faced with an enormous international debt, is anxious to tap the Amazon basin's oil, timber, and minerals, and as part of an ambitious colonization program has encouraged a variety of missionary groups\u2014Roman Catholic, Baptist, and evangelical\u2014to \"educate\" such native peoples as the Ash\u00e1ninka. Such efforts, however well-intentioned, are devastatingly insidious. Traditionally, the Ash\u00e1ninka lived in small family-group clusters, but as missionaries have gathered and herded them into larger settlements, communicable disease has increased enormously. As, in consequence, have medical clinics manned by people long on the Word but short on real medical ability.\n\nUntil recently, the dense forests of the high Gran Pajonal offered refuge for the Ash\u00e1ninka, who continued to survive there by hunting and gathering and slash-and-burn agriculture. As settlers have pushed into the highlands, however, conflicts have naturally increased. It is unlikely that many Ash\u00e1ninka will remain \"uncivilized\" for more than another generation or two.\n\nThe Ene River is considered frontier, although the government has established a beachhead of sorts at the six-shack village of Puerto Prado (store, whorehouse), near the Ene's confluence with the Peren\u00e9 River, at the southern foot of the Gran Pajonal. Judging by the few we met, the _mestizo_ colonists who have fled to the Ene from Peru's cities, which are generally horrible, have worked hard literally to carve a life from the virgin bush and cannot afford to look back. Luis, a twenty-six-year-old from the city of Huancayo (his thatch hut was decorated with a Beatles poster), proudly showed us a recently planted grove of avocado seedlings that would not bear fruit for at least four years, assuming floods, insects, and weak soil did not do them in first. \"I had more fiestas in the city,\" he said, \"but here I have a future.\"\n\nLater that same afternoon, after we had pitched camp on the Ene's muddy left bank, I waded up a clear-water creek and met three men who were naked except for their soapsuds. When I asked in Spanish to use their soap they found the question uproariously funny, laughing and poking one another and pointing at me, but in the end they said yes. I lathered up until we shared the same uniform. They were short, dark men with strong, fatless trunks, broad chests, shoulders knotted with muscle, and stubby, slightly bowed legs. With the exception of the thick black growth on their scalps and pubic regions they were completely hairless. One of them reached out and tweaked my chest hairs. I gasped. They laughed again.\n\nThe tweaker introduced himself as Mikele. The other two men, who appeared to be his age, were in fact his sons. They said they were Ash\u00e1ninka, and that they had a farm farther up the creek. We dressed\u2014they wore cotton pants cut off at the knees\u2014and hiked to their land.\n\nMikele and his sons appeared to be prospering. Their three families had cleared and planted about five acres with banana, papaya, pineapple, avocado, lemon, guava, mango, and yucca. (Yucca, or sweet manioc, is to the Ash\u00e1ninka what potatoes are to the Quechua.) Chickens shared the clearing with a pig ripe for butchering. The main building, a large, sturdy log platform, looked like an outdoor stage. A loft had been built at the back and covered with mosquito netting and a thatch roof.\n\nMikele's youngest son, ten-year-old Jesus, had studied at the Franciscan mission at Puerto Ocopa. \"Ow are jew, meester?\" he asked me. \"Are jew clin?\"\n\nMikele sold me a dozen mangoes, three yucca roots the size of my forearm, and ten eggs. With the money I paid him he would buy salt and kerosene in Satipo, a one-hundred-forty-mile round-trip that would take him three days in his dugout canoe, which was powered by a seven-horse outboard motor. He would have to make the trip within the week. The Ene was rising. In a month the river would be too high to travel, the farm cut off. They would be isolated for three months.\n\nI asked Mikele about the _colonos_.\n\n\"Our people have always been near the river,\" he said. \"There is not much hunting anymore, but the soil here is good. We are doing well. Our farm is big. We are not hungry.\"\n\n\"How do you get along with the whites?\"\n\nMikele smiled. \"That is our land, too,\" he said. \"We will let them stay until we need it.\"\n\nAs is the custom, he did not wave or say good-bye when I left. Hiking back to our camp, I found myself wondering what he would think of snow, or the ocean.\n\nAfter two and a half months of river travel we had finally returned to sea level. What a homecoming. The jungle floor was, in a word, wet. Always, everywhere. Mud collected in every dark hole and crevice, wood didn't burn, sweat didn't dry, cuts didn't heal. The acrid odor of jungle rot gained purchase in our clothes, and in the thick jungle humidity the stink simmered and our clothing disintegrated. Sand infested the food, the drinking water, the tents. It wore holes in the raft's rubber skin and rubbed blisters on our shanks.\n\nAnd, everywhere, bugs: spiders, cockroaches, moths, bees, wasps, ants, chiggers, ticks, and, of course, mosquitoes. They buzzed and hummed around our eyes and ears, bit our feet and ankles, and embedded their greedy little snouts in our skin, which soon erupted in sores that festered constantly. Even the most angelic of these pests, the butterflies, collected in such swarms that they became a nuisance. They descended on the raft hundreds at a time, in vast fluttering clouds, and hung upside down from the bill of my baseball cap.\n\nIn an odd way, the troubles we had faced almost daily in the high country\u2014the cold, the altitude, the deadly white water, the guerrillas\u2014had helped keep us going. Progress had been a matter of overcoming immediate and often mortal obstacles. If nothing else, those dangers had focused us. The jungle was a different matter. Entropy is the law of the bush; one wallows in it and slowly sinks. In the soggy jungle funk we grew languid and sluggish. We argued and complained about trivialities: Who should fetch the firewood, what to cook for dinner, when to wake up, how hard to paddle the raft in the slow-running river, where to make camp. We threatened to destroy ourselves by anomie.\n\n\"Look, guys,\" Chmielinski said our third day on the Ene, after some silly squabble. \"What are we going to do? We can argue and be rude, or we can learn manners. We can stick to our rules. An expedition is easy when everyone is feeling good. When you are feeling bad, rules tell you what to do. If it is my turn to cook, it does not matter how I feel. I do not have my own life.\"\n\n\"But you must allow for bad luck,\" Durrant said.\n\n\"Luck does not matter. The firewood is wet, there is not enough food, the stove is broken. Does not matter. You must perform your duty.\"\n\nThis was a code Chmielinski had brought with him from the Old World. It had seen him through six years of adventuring in South America, and was reflected even now in the careful attention he paid to every task he performed. As Chmielinski told it, in his Poland everyone had a specific role, a place, well-defined duties within the structures of family and community. In that poor and troubled country one's dignity was found in the performance of those duties.\n\nChmielinski's was not an attitude I initially endorsed. From my corner of the New World, from my culture of abused abundance, I regarded the preoccupation with duty and manners and prescribed social roles as a weapon of the powerful few, the invoking of arcane forms for the purpose of intimidation.\n\nI had to admit, however, that life as I saw it lived in the jungle tended to support Chmielinski's view, at least in a visceral way. The mountain homes of the Quechua had been chaotic affairs, smoky black holes with animals underfoot, entrails drying on the walls, pots and pans and corn husks scattered about. Order had been external, in the ceaseless _puna_ , which rolled on barren and unchanging for as far as the eye could see and the heart could bear to imagine. On the jungle floor, however, domestic life was an exercise in stark minimalism. Home was a platform, four poles, a thatch roof, a hammock, and a mosquito net, surrounded by a rapacious verdant chaos. Every day the jungle had to be chopped back, disciplined, bent to man's order, or the illusion of it.\n\n# 12 \u2022 The Tambo\n\nLate in the afternoon on our fourth day on the slow green Ene we began to look for Puerto Prado, near which the Ene would join the Peren\u00e9 to form the Tambo River. I let the raft drift ahead and paddled the hundred yards from the middle of the river to the left bank. Two men were fishing with line thick as a pencil.\n\n\"How big are the fish here?\" I asked one man.\n\nIn answer he pointed to his friend. \"One of him,\" he said. They were after _zungaro_ , a catfish that can exceed a hundred pounds.\n\nThe second man said, \"Yesterday we saw two gringos with plastic canoes.\" Biggs and Odendaal.\n\n\"Where is Puerto Prado?\" I asked.\n\n\" _This_ is Puerto Prado.\" I raced after the raft and caught it just before the Ene bent sharply right and due east. We beached the boats and climbed a small sand-dune island.\n\nThere, below us, was an absolute monster of a river\u2014the Peren\u00e9 in full flood, engorged by rainy-season runoff from the central Andes. Roiling, mud brown, flecked with frothy white whirlpools and swirling currents, she charged along at a good ten knots, roaring like gravel falling out of a dump truck and carrying a flotilla of uprooted trees the size of small tugboats. On the far bank, perhaps four hundred yards away, hundred-foot chunks of earth collapsed into the river in silent explosions, taking with them fifty-foot trees that shuddered as they fell.\n\nWe made camp there on the dune's crest. The news that Biggs and Odendaal had passed through the day before surprised Chmielinski. \"They should be going faster,\" he said. \"Something is not right.\"\n\nThat night the Peren\u00e9's roar filled the air, making sleep difficult, and as the river meandered ever closer I heard the percussive collapsing of the near bank. By morning our island had shrunk to about two hundred square feet, or a tenth its previous size. On one side the Peren\u00e9 was still in flood, and on the other our once-gentle friend the Ene had overnight become a blustering brown giant chortling along at two to three times her former speed and volume.\n\nMeanwhile, running from the flood, the whole world seemed to have climbed aboard the dune. Under my pants, discarded in the sand the night before, I found a frog the size of an apple flanked by a dozen offspring. A snake slumbered in the raft, lizards crawled among the food bags, and, in the tent Durrant ran screaming from, clutching a towel about her breasts\u2014\n\n\"Get out, Zbyszek! There's a huge spider in there!\"\n\n\"Yah, look this,\" Bzdak, not fully awake, mumbled from inside the tent. \"Lot of small ones, too. I think\u2014I think he reproduced on me!\"\n\nDurrant stuck her head back inside and shrieked. \"He did! Bloody hell! There's thousands of them!\"\n\n\"He reproduced pretty good.\"\n\nOn one side the Ene sidled ever closer, from the other issued the continuous thunder of terra no longer firma tumbling into the wild Peren\u00e9. We loaded the raft quickly and sloppily, tied the unmanned kayak to its stern, and put in at the tip of the island, where the two rivers met.\n\nAt first that fast new river was frightening. Though considered a \"headwater\" of the Amazon, the Tambo is twice the size of the Sacramento, the biggest river in California, and comparable to the mighty Columbia. She would barrel along straight and fast for a quarter mile, lulling us with a bouncy joyride, her rolling boil drumming lightly on the raft's underside and only hinting at the force at work below. Then she would slam into a curve and snap us awake with powerful turbulence and huge whirlpools that surfaced and sucked and disappeared like some kind of carnivorous aquatic giants. We escaped their grasp only by paddling hard to Chmielinski's urgent cadence.\n\nAn armada of uprooted trees sailed in and out of the frothy brown devils, some of them chugging along harmlessly, others threatening to puncture the raft with their sharp branches. We parried with our paddles, fending them off as if they were marauding pirates.\n\nBy noon, however, we had adjusted to the brown Tambo's charged rhythms, learned to read her swift currents and skirt her voracious whirlpools, and simply by riding her current we traveled faster than at any time since we had stepped off our respective buses in Arequipa, and twice as fast as we had on the Ene.\n\nChmielinski lashed a paddle to the stern. While one of us worked it like a rudder, the rest drank beer and relaxed. I scribbled in my notebook, Durrant settled onto the food bags and read, Bzdak took pictures and slept, Chmielinski studied his Portuguese Berlitz.\n\nTruran dove into the Tambo, swam to a runaway log raft with a hand-carved wood paddle lashed to it, and rode it downriver twenty yards ahead of us, flirting with the whirlpools.\n\n\"Great stuff!\" he said when he returned to the big raft an hour later. \"Give me a little money for food and one of those rafts and I'd be happy here for months.\"\n\nLate in the day the Tambo took a sharp left turn and headed due north. Behind us, the peaks of the Andes had faded to small gray shadows; to our left, low clouds hid the hills of the Gran Pajonal. I took my turn at the rudder enveloped by green bush, brown water, and the bright blue sky overhead. Now and then, in a thin clearing along either bank, a ghostly, _cushma_ -clad Ash\u00e1ninka stood stiffly as we approached, then offered a wave that escalated from tentative to frantic as we sped out of his life. Here and there I spotted a hut, smoke curling from a fire, or a dugout canoe hauled up on the muddy bank by a path leading into the dark bush.\n\nDespite the flood, despite the fact that in that roadless country the rivers are the only highways, I saw no trash, no bottles, no cans, no plastic, no Styrofoam. No power poles, no billboards, no neon signs. And heard no sounds but the voices of my friends\u2014\"Jos\u00e9, _cerveza_ please\"\u2014the Tambo's insistent lapping on the rubber raft, and the occasional anguished roar of a tree dying a natural death.\n\nIn a day and a half on the swift Tambo we covered almost seventy miles. About noon the second day Chmielinski spotted, along the right bank, a white clapboard house atop a grassy hill with a clear, sweet-water creek running below it. Up the creek, squatting amid the bush like misplaced Andrew Wyeth paintings, were acres of rolling pasture, a whitewashed schoolhouse, a pump house, a grain mill, a herd of fat cattle, a manicured soccer field, and a dozen neat bamboo huts.\n\nChmielinski estimated that we were ten miles short of Atalaya, which we now envisioned as the threshold to the civilized world. We decided to stop at the idyllic _hacienda_ , clean ourselves and our abused equipment in the clear creek, and arrive in Atalaya clean and refreshed. But we received an odd reception at that neat white house. A skinny, nervous _criollo_ glanced at the papers Chmielinski presented him, said we could make camp next to the soccer field, and slammed the door shut.\n\nWe set up camp and did our wash. While Bzdak mixed cocktails from _pisco_ and a powdered fruit drink, Chmielinski spoke briefly with two shy young sisters, one of whom said she was the _hacienda's_ schoolteacher. We saw no one else until a few hours later, when a squat, barrel-chested Indian man showed up with a soccer ball. As we kicked it around another half dozen Indians materialized, and soon we had a game, big, strong gringos versus small, fast Indians. Our opponents said nothing, but they played with wild abandon, exploding with shrieking laughter at every errant shot, goal, bad pass, or tackle. The game ended suddenly, when my knee popped\u2014it felt as if a nail had been driven into it\u2014and the Indians disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived.\n\nDurrant and Bzdak carved me a walking stick, and at sunset, in pain, I retired to my tent, lit a candle, and read Conrad for a few minutes. I soon found myself distracted. Something about the _hacienda_ felt strange. Everywhere else we'd been we'd attracted crowds of curious locals, but here in the middle of this fairly large settlement we were being left completely alone. It was eerie.\n\nIn the morning, as we packed to leave, Truran and Durrant echoed my thoughts. \"It feels like we're in some sort of religious camp,\" Truran said. \"You know, where they tell you when you can eat and when you can talk and when you can take a leak. Gives me the creeps.\"\n\nWe saw no one as we paddled down the little creek and turned right into the muddy Tambo.\n\nWe smelled Atalaya several miles before we saw it. The breeze wafting up the Tambo mixed the stench of Atalaya's ordure, kerosene, and diesel with the sweet-sour odor of jungle rot, producing the first sign that we were emerging into the modern world. Then, on the left bank, we saw corrugated tin roofs glinting amid the green jungle wall, and a flotilla of log rafts, dugout canoes, and leaky aluminum flat-bottom skiffs. Little dun warts grew into thatch huts, and farther on, raised on stilts, stood shaky structures of plank, twine, leather, and cardboard. Their open pipes dripped effluvia into the river. Rats and pigs ambled along the mud bank and paused beneath the pipes to anoint themselves. Brown faces darted through the bush and stopped at the single cement ramp that is Atalaya's port.\n\nAtalaya sits a mile above the Tambo's confluence with another great jungle river, the Urubamba. To the west, cutting the village off from Lima, rise the dense gray-green hills of the Gran Pajonal, and, behind them, the Andes. To the north and east is the Amazon basin. No roads leave Atalaya; she is serviced only by sporadic river traffic and an air taxi that splats onto her soggy grass landing strip once a week or so. Other than tiny Satipo, sixty miles southwest by air, she stands alone, isolated, the only real town for hundreds of miles in any direction. She has perhaps a thousand inhabitants, and a mud plaza and mud streets, and, along the river, a commercial center\u2014a row of precarious lean-tos and stalls, not one of which looks older than yesterday, or as if it wouldn't topple in a good storm.\n\nThis was the face of our Oz. It had been six weeks since we put the raft in at the military bridge near Cuzco. Wallowing in Atalaya's mud meant deliverance.\n\nTo our surprise, Atalaya did have a clean, two-story cinder-block hotel whose dollar-a-night rooms included bed, shower, electric fan, sink, and refrigerator. There was electricity from six to ten at night, but the fans did not work, and a refrigerator that is cold only four hours a day is a peculiarly Peruvian notion. Still, the beds and sheets were clean, and with some creative gymnastics beneath the water that dribbled from a hole in the bathroom wall I approximated a shower.\n\nThat night, having stored the raft and kayak in the hotel courtyard, Chmielinski, Truran, Bzdak, Durrant, and I took to Atalaya's streets. The air was humid but cool, and from the hills that rose beyond the last shack in town the scent of night-blooming jasmine slipped down and rode gently above the mud. Young couples strolled arm in arm, sidestepping puddles and flushing chickens and pigs before them. A mufflerless motorcycle carrying three passengers skidded past us. A gas-powered generator rumbled in the church next to the plaza. Sticking my head through a side window, I saw a standing-room-only crowd of about a hundred and fifty, watching Johnny Weissmuller in _Tarzan the Ape Man_.\n\nA bearded leprechaun slouched up the street: Tim Biggs. He appeared happy to see us, but distracted. He said that he and Odendaal had arrived in Atalaya only two days before us\u2014\"Frans was pretty sick, man, he could hardly use a paddle. He floated most of the way\"\u2014and that their visas were still in limbo. Having failed to secure them by radio, Odendaal had hopped the air taxi out of Atalaya and gone to Lima. Biggs did not know when he would return, but he accepted this mess with some relief. \"Even if the visas come through now, I think I'll head on home. I'm not too excited about spending another three months without Margie, you know?\"\n\nWith Biggs gone, the kayaking team would be Odendaal, Chmielinski, and me. That was a shocking notion, to say the least, and one that needed more thorough digestion, but we agreed to drop expedition talk for the moment and get on with a decent celebration\u2014it was Biggs's thirty-fourth birthday. We found a bar, and because we were now broke borrowed money from Biggs. This we invested in beer, keeping Biggs busy while Bzdak lifted his room key and snatched the pair of khakis I had loaned Biggs in Arequipa, and which had become his river uniform. These we wrapped in a towel and gave him as a birthday present. He seemed delighted.\n\nAfter we had weaved our way back to the hotel that night the manager handed Chmielinski a note he'd forgotten earlier. Truran and I accompanied Chmielinski to his room and sat with him as he read the note by candlelight. It was from Odendaal. Though there was still a chance his visa would come through, he had decided to give up his dream of kayaking the Amazon. He said we should continue without him.\n\nWhen Chmielinski had finished reading the letter we sat in silence for a moment. Then Truran squeezed me with one arm and shook Chmielinski's hand with the other. \"Good luck, gents,\" he said. \"Looks like it's up to you.\"\n\nUp to us? Up to Chmielinski. My short stretch in the white-water kayak had convinced me that it would be absurd to attempt to paddle such a beast thirty-five hundred miles. I had already decided to travel instead with Bzdak and Durrant on a Johnson, carrying Chmielinski's supplies and rendezvousing with him as possible, but this idea I kept to myself. We were not going anywhere soon. Odendaal had said he would be returning to Atalaya to complete his filming, but he had neglected to indicate what would happen to the remaining expedition assets, which were now at his disposal and without which we could not hope to continue our journey. The money we had borrowed from Biggs gave us a budget of about two dollars a day per person for one week. We decided to wait for Odendaal.\n\nThe next afternoon the heavens opened up with a blinding deluge, a foreshadowing of the rainy season that within a few weeks would leap upon us with all claws bared. The streets flooded, and as I stared down at drowned chickens, I was happy not to be on the Tambo. Two hours into the storm the river was strewn like a lumpy stew with tree trunks, derelict rafts, half-sunk canoes, torn-up thatch roofs, and every weird sort of jungle debris, all of it literally hurtling along. I shuddered as I studied the river. Caught up in that mess in a kayak, I would be squashed like a water bug.\n\nThe two young women from the mysterious _hacienda_ , the teacher and her sister, tracked us down in Atalaya, where, as it turned out, they lived. Their names were Wendoly and Rosa Torres, and they took the five of us to their home and introduced us to their father, Alejandro, the chief custodian at the village school and the father of four other daughters and two sons. The two-story home he had built on the outskirts of town, of bricks baked in his kiln, was the tallest building we had seen since Cuzco. \"Who wants to marry one of my daughters?\" he asked when we visited. \"I will build you a house right here, myself!\"\n\nWhile we sat and talked with him beneath the shade of a mango tree, near the creek that ran behind the house, Wendoly and Rosa shyly served platters of papaya, mamey (something like a cross between an apple and a plum), and small, exceptionally sweet mangoes out of which Torres had bred the teeth-separating fiber that can make eating the fruit such a chore.\n\nBzdak asked Se\u00f1or Torres if he knew any mysteries of the _selva_ , as the jungle is known. We had witnessed the horrible work of one, the bushmaster or _shushupe_ , which is the largest venomous snake in the world. (The bushmaster and the fer-de-lance are considered the deadliest vipers in the Amazon.) Thirty-six hours after being bitten by a bushmaster an Ash\u00e1ninka man had walked down out of the high country into Atalaya's tiny medical clinic. Durrant had assisted the two clinicians in an unsuccessful three-hour attempt to save the man's gangrenous left leg, which had looked like a cocoa-colored balloon oozing yellow axle grease. (The facility, sponsored by the Save the Children foundation, had no electricity and no running water, but it was the only place within several hundred square miles that could legitimately be called a medical clinic.)\n\nSea kayak with Christmas tree, Iquitos. (illustration Credit 12.24)\n\nOn the River Sea: Piotr Chmielinski (left) and the author near the Brazilian border, two thousand miles from the Atlantic.(illustration Credit 12.25)\n\nFriends in Tabatinga. (illustration Credit 12.26)\n\nPiotr Chmielinski and _caboclo_ fisherman with the author's birthday dinner. (illustration Credit 12.27)\n\nIn storm's wake on the Solim\u00f5es. (illustration Credit 12.28)\n\nPiotr Chmielinski (foreground) and the author. (illustration Credit 12.29)\n\nSea kayak with bushmaster.\n\nThe author (left) and Piotr Chmielinski in sea kayaks; Kate Durrant aboard the _Roberto II_. (illustration Credit 12.30)\n\nDowntown Gurup\u00e1. (illustration Credit 12.31)\n\nThe author (left) Piotr Chmielinski, and _caboclo_ fishermen near Maraj\u00f3 Bay. (illustration Credit 12.32)\n\nOz: the author (left) and Piotr Chmielinski at Bel\u00e9m. (illustration Credit 12.33)\n\nThe author (left) and Piotr Chmielinski at the mouth of the Amazon. (illustration Credit 12.34)\n\nAs soon as the jungle taxi returned the man would be sent downriver to the city of Pucallpa, where his leg would be amputated. Despite this tragedy, Torres dismissed our worries. \"You sound like people from Lima,\" he said. \"They expect to be attacked by ferocious animals and snakes and insects. Ask Rosa about that. She is twenty-four years old, she has lived in the jungle her whole life, and she has never seen a jaguar. She has never been bitten by a snake. Every day we make the schoolchildren swim across the Tambo. Piranhas have not eaten them.\"\n\nFar more dangerous, Torres said, were the _narcotraficantes_. The _selva's_ major export is coca paste, most of which is shipped by plane or boat to Colombia to be refined into cocaine. Atalaya sits right in the heart of the action, and certainly seemed to have a druggy tone. One night, for example, I had a beer with an American (the first American, I realized later with mild shock, that I had seen in three months) who was staying at our hotel. He was a blond young Southern Californian\u2014he looked like a fraternity boy. He said that he had been arrested trying to smuggle five kilos of processed cocaine out of Peru and been sentenced to ten years in a prison colony on the Urubamba River. After serving several years he had been released on a kind of probation and been allowed to buy a four-hundred-acre farm next to the prison, including a house, two power boats, and a shortwave radio, and to live there while he served out his sentence. He grew vegetables, which are hard to find in the _selva_. He was particularly proud of his tomatoes. He had a Peruvian wife, and he was permitted to visit Atalaya every few weeks\u2014\"got a side-squeeze here.\" In all, he said, it was not a bad life, but he could not leave Peru.\n\nHis room was right below mine. Each night when he had returned he had played American rock and roll on his tape recorder, very loudly, into the wee blue hours.\n\nTwo men staying in a room next to Biggs on the hotel's first floor had identified themselves as narcotics police. They left their door wide open, so that anyone walking past saw the half dozen guns resting on their beds.\n\nOn the second floor, sharing one room and a single bed, were four peons whom Truran and I recognized from the soccer game at the _hacienda_. It was to discuss these men that Rosa and Wendoly had brought us out to the Torres house. They said that the _hacienda_ was in fact a coca-paste factory, and that we had inadvertently landed at the factory an hour after a plane loaded with five hundred kilos of paste had taxied down the grass runway hidden behind the schoolhouse, hit a cow, caromed into a tree, and sheared a wing.\n\nIf what the Torres sisters said was true, and we had no reason not to believe them, the peons had been working frantically to unload the plane even as we blissfully ignorant gringos paddled up in our strange blue boat. The _patr\u00f3n_ \u2014the nervous man who had answered the door of the neat white house\u2014had not known what to make of us. Were we DEA? CIA? He and the plane's pilot had kept us under gunsight surveillance while several of his men distracted us with the soccer game. Meanwhile, other men had dismantled the plane, dumped it in the river, and sent the paste downstream in a motor boat. The four peons in the hotel had been assigned to watch us in Atalaya.\n\nThis news disconcerted us for several reasons, not the least of which was that we had seen the peons and the police shooting pool together in Atalaya's one dingy hall.\n\n\"Be careful,\" Torres said as we left to return to the hotel. \"In the _selva_ nothing is quite what it seems.\" As for his daughters: \"That hoodlum can find himself a new schoolteacher.\"\n\nWe spent the next six days trading mean stares with the _narcotraficantes_. They shadowed us everywhere but did us no harm, although one night, as Truran and I went in search of beer, one of the peons popped up out of the dark, drew a finger across his throat in a cutting motion, and hissed the name of our hotel.\n\nFinally, Odendaal returned, with Van Heerden and Leon. He wore crisp new clothes and carried a roll of one-hundred-dollar bills. The good news was that the expedition now had a treasury of about five thousand dollars, courtesy of Jack Jourgensen. The bad news emerged during a meeting at the hotel, when Odendaal, armed with charts and graphs, explained why he was passing but a third of the money along to the four of us who would continue on the river. He concluded by saying that he and Van Heerden would be filming in Peru a while longer, and that when he was done he would fly back to the United States, go on to London to present an account of his descent of the Apurimac to the Royal Geographical Society, and return home to South Africa for Christmas. He said that despite the present circumstances he was still the expedition leader, that Chmielinski, Bzdak, Durrant, and I were to continue on the river under his name, and that when he returned to the States from his Christmas vacation to begin the spring term at his university he would contact us in Brazil and issue instructions for completing our journey.\n\nThere was no point in arguing with Odendaal. He controlled the money and could do with it as he pleased, and the idea that he could lead an expedition from thousands of miles\u2014indeed, continents\u2014away appeared to make perfect sense to him.\n\nThe next day Odendaal left Atalaya, accompanied by Biggs. Minutes before their hired motorboat was to leave Biggs rushed into the hotel lobby, where Chmielinski and I were packing our kayaks.\n\n\"Nothing personal, right, mates?\" he said, and then, as we shook hands, he wished us luck.\n\nSergio Leon also left with Odendaal, to help with translations and filming logistics. He was tired. He and Van Heerden had had a rough time transporting the sea kayaks from Lima to Pucallpa\u2014they had been confronted by guerrillas but not harmed\u2014and I felt sorry for him. He had enjoyed our hike in the Andes, but he had quit his job and spent all his money mainly to explore the Amazon rain forest, and now it looked as if that experience would be denied him. However, he did not appear to have in him the emotions of sadness or regret. My last image of him is dominated by his wide smile.\n\nThat day Durrant, Bzdak, Chmielinski, and I also said good-bye to Truran, as he waited for the air taxi. Up until that moment he had debated whether to continue down the river with us, but in the end he still couldn't handle the idea of kayaking all that flat water. Also, he had turned thirty in Peru\u2014old for competitive kayaking\u2014and owed himself one last try at a world championship. He had to begin training almost immediately.\n\nIt was strange, and hard, to stand there in the jungle and try to offer proper thanks to Truran. He had saved my life more than once, had blocked Odendaal's attempts to drive me off the river, and, above all, had inspired me with his courage. But Truran didn't want to hear my thanks. He spent his last hour on the Amazon instructing me in paddling technique (\" _Push_ , not _pull_ \"), and told me that if Chmielinski tried to travel too fast, as he almost certainly would, I must refuse. If I didn't, my wrists would give out and I'd have to quit the river.\n\nThen, with a grin and \"Cheers!,\" he boarded the tiny plane and escaped.\n\nChmielinski and I would make the four-hundred-mile trip to Pucallpa in the white-water kayaks Biggs and Odendaal had left in Atalaya. (The irony of my paddling Odendaal's boat did not go un-mentioned.) Chmielinski estimated that we could paddle that distance in ten days. Durrant and Bzdak would wait in Atalaya until the river went down and boat traffic resumed and they could negotiate a ride to Pucallpa. No one in Atalaya knew when that would be possible.\n\nWe washed out the boats behind the hotel and then hauled them into the lobby and began to pack. For me this was a charade. I still had not told Chmielinski that he would be kayaking alone. Having failed to find a graceful way to express my cowardice, I proceeded to pack the boat as if there were nothing else I would rather do.\n\nA blond man of about forty sat down on the floor beside us and watched us work. He had checked into the hotel the day before. He was Italian, but in Spanish he said that he had been in Atalaya a year ago, with his wife and young son.\n\n\"We wanted an adventure,\" he said. \"We bought a dugout canoe and some food and things and put the boat in the Ucayali. Two days later we were sucked into a whirlpool. The canoe turned over.\" He paused to light an \"Inca\" cigarette. \"I went around and around, and then suddenly I shot down the river. I swam for I don't know how long, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. When I reached the bank I had nothing left, not even my shirt.\n\n\"Some Indians were fishing there. They walked me to their village, and then a couple of days later they took me to a mission with an airplane landing strip. I got free rides all the way to Lima, but the Italian consul would not help me\u2014I had to beg in the streets. Three months later I was back in Italy, but I had lost everything.\"\n\n\"What happened to your wife and son?\" I asked, and regretted the words immediately.\n\nThe man began to cry, softly, and said only, \"Everything.\" Everything but the memories that had called him back to Peru.\n\nThat was enough for me. When the Italian left the lobby I stopped working on the boat. The time had come. I had seen the mountains, I had seen the jungle, I had endured more close calls than I cared to remember.\n\n\"Well, Piotr,\" I began, \"I've been thinking.\"\n\n\"What have you been thinking?\" he asked, and looked straight into me, his unflinching, ice-blue eyes holding my own with an unbreakable grip. That look held no emotion, no bullying, no prodding, nothing but an even measuring of the spirit that asked, _What exactly are you made of?_\n\nMy answer was: hesitation, doubt, weakness. I experienced a blind, overwhelming desire to be in my own country in my own home in my own bed, curled up with my girlfriend, a glutton's feast spread out beside us, the present secure, the future bright, the Amazon and Chmielinski, that Polish drill sergeant, thousands of safe miles away.\n\nChmielinski continued to stare at me.\n\nI said, \"I was thinking about how exciting this is going to be. You and me and our little kayaks and that big river. You know, exploring and all that.\"\n\n\"Good, Joe,\" he said. \"That is the rightful thing.\"\n\n#\n\n**THREE \u2022 THE RIVER SEA**\n\n# 13 \u2022 The Upper Ucayali\n\nChmielinski and I left sleepy Atalaya in mid-afternoon. Bzdak, Durrant, and Wendoly and Rosa Torres saw us off. Spurred on by the Torres sisters' encouraging squeals, Chmielinski began the journey of three thousand five hundred miles with a flurry of quick strong strokes, but my attempt to imitate his performance was a fraud. My stomach hurt; I felt the flu coming on. The sun was intense, the humidity suffocating, the Tambo a maelstrom.\n\nWe paddled into the middle of the river and let the strong current sweep us away. Minutes later the jungle had reasserted itself. Verdant walls queued along either side, marching to the river's edge. The flooding Tambo had undercut her clay banks, and one four-story tree after another had collapsed into the river. Their tops were submerged like the heads of drowned corpses, but their trunks stayed rooted to the earth and vibrated with the current. Every hundred yards or so one of these trunks would suddenly spring back up, breaking the river's surface with a roar and launching a volley of spray from its shuddering branches.\n\nThat was the brutality of the jungle\u2014its anonymous, threatening mass. The high Andes had been brutal but transparent, showing themselves plainly to the eye for miles in every direction. In the jungle, however, everything hid behind a lurid green barricade. The bush seemed to be one many-limbed, conniving beast.\n\nThe tropical sky, by contrast, presented itself boldly. Concocted from an intense mix of tropical heat and humidity, it was never all of a piece, but its theaters were distinct. We were ten degrees south of the equator and heading due north. The sun was directly overhead, the sky blue and blinding. Though I wore sunglasses and a hat, I saw spots before my eyes and my head burned. A few miles north, however, a haystack of deep purple storm clouds dropped a steady, sharply defined column of rain that looked like a cyclone's tail. To our left, sanguine cirrus feathers hovered over the bush. Behind us, the dark ridges of the Gran Pajonal faded to gray behind a thick skirt of low fog.\n\nA mile below Atalaya the Urubamba River joined the Tambo from the right. These two big jungle rivers form the Ucayali, which at the confluence is about half a mile wide. We would follow the Ucayali for twelve hundred miles, more than twice the distance we had traveled since reaching the river's source three months ago. Those twelve hundred miles would deliver us only to the Ucayali's confluence with the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n River, near Iquitos. From there we would paddle four hundred miles to the Brazilian border, and from the border another two thousand miles to the Atlantic.\n\nSwollen from the week-long rain and mined with floating trunks, the Ucayali plowed through the bush with intimidating strength. Pockets of turbulence swirled up from the deep, erupted in spinning mushroom caps, and spun off in unpredictable currents that grabbed my kayak and pushed it back, sideways, in circles. Trunks thumped my boat, and I saw the bloated carcass of a drowned pig, its hooves in the air. My shoulders and forearms ached from working the paddle.\n\nThe river offered no sign of people until dusk, when a fat barefoot woman in muddy rags signaled us from shore, near the mouth of the tiny Unine River. She hooted our efforts to climb the soupy, fifteen-foot left bank. Dragging our boats behind us, Chmielinski followed her into the bush and I followed him, walking in this duckling fashion along a path that opened to neat rows of coffee, corn, peanuts, and tobacco and a trim thatch-roofed shelter mounted on bamboo stilts.\n\nA short, bare-chested _mestizo_ sat in the middle of the shelter, wearing a self-satisfied expression beneath tiny dark eyes that sparkled like a panther's. His thick hair had gone to silver, but his belly was hard and flat, his shoulders and arms thick with muscle. Though shoeless, he had a regal air. He introduced himself as Don Rafael Machelena, _patr\u00f3n_ of Unine. (\"Don\" connotes power and respect.) He rapped Chmielinski's kayak, threw his head back, and snorted.\n\n\"Where are you going in this contraption?\"\n\n\"To the Atlantic Ocean,\" Chmielinski said.\n\n\"In this? You are crazy. You will not make Pucallpa.\" He snorted again. \"Do you want a cup of coffee? It may be your last.\"\n\nIn the middle of that desolate bush Don Rafael served us a thick, delicious brew in elegant china cups, the first real coffee we had tasted in months. (Like many poor coffee-producing countries, Peru exports its best beans and serves instant.) He shaved tobacco from a club that looked like a green salami and rolled us each a strong smoke.\n\n\"I grow this stuff,\" he said. \"The coffee, too.\"\n\nThe woman was his wife, Elsa. She cooked us a dinner of rice, eggs, yucca, fried bananas, and a piquant paste made from peanuts and chilies.\n\n\"I grew all this, too,\" Don Rafael said as she served it. \"And chocolate! I sell it to the Russians. Those idiots need it. It is cold over there!\"\n\nChmielinski heated a serving of our beef burgundy. Don Rafael turned up his nose and said, \"How barbarous.\"\n\nHe had never left Peru\u2014\"How can I? That is for rich men\"\u2014and he had been to Lima only once, but as the night wore on and we burned one log after another we discussed Lech Walesa, Ronald Reagan, Fran\u00e7ois Mitterand, the Dalai Lama, and whether Swiss watches are as good as they're said to be. He read us a letter from a man he had met on the river who now lived in Nepal. \"It is some world,\" he said when he finished, and we agreed.\n\nBy then I had a sore throat and my head ached. I excused myself and rolled out my air mattress and listened to Don Rafael and Chmielinski. I was glad that we had stopped in Unine. Contented and self-sufficient, Don Rafael gave the anonymous bush a wise face.\n\nIn the morning the _patr\u00f3n_ brewed more of his coffee and Chmielinski boiled a pouch of chicken cacciatore. \"This is crazy,\" Don Rafael said as he ate it. \"Plastic food.\" When he finished he gave us a clump of bananas and two clubs of his tobacco. \"If you do not smoke, hit some vagabond over the head with it!\" He advised us to travel as fast as we could. The floods would begin in a matter of weeks.\n\nThen he marched into the bush, machete in hand, and we slid down the slick bank into a cold fog.\n\nIn all my imaginings of the Amazon I had never thought about fog, but there it was, cold and clammy, just like fog anywhere. Chmielinski and I paddled side by side, our boats perhaps six feet apart. The fog was spooky stuff to kayak in. It seemed to smooth the water into a glass sheen, to hush it, but every few minutes I heard a loud farting sound and a slapping at the river's surface. An hour later, when the fog burned off, Chmielinski hissed at me and nodded toward the mouth of a creek. Something surfaced, I heard the farting sound, it went under. I counted. At forty-one seconds it breached again.\n\nI paddled over to investigate. A blast behind me startled me so badly that I almost tipped out of my boat. I turned and waited. About a minute later a pink-and-gray blob bubbled up and voided a blowhole the diameter of a large marble.\n\nIt would be several days before Chmielinski and I convinced ourselves that those flatulent schmoo-heads were dolphins, which we hadn't expected thousands of miles from the Atlantic. In fact, freshwater dolphins as primitive as those pinks, or _Inia geoffrensis_ , are found only in one Chinese lake, the Ganges River, and the Plata, Orinoco, and Amazon rivers in South America. With their dorsal humps, thick elongated snouts, and doughy bodies they more closely resemble beluga whales than the common marine bottlenose dolphin.\n\nHowever, the Amazon also has a close freshwater cousin of the bottlenose, the \"black\" dolphin, or _Sotalia fluvatis_. From what I would see, pinks and blacks share habitats (some marine biologists would disagree). In demeanor, however, they cannot differ more. A black cavorted in the space I had so hurriedly paddled away from after that blast from the pink. Leaping out of the water again and again in a smooth arc, it appeared to be about three to four feet shorter than the pink, and the grace of its performance seemed to mock the lumbering ancient, who surfaced indolently, barely nudging its blowhole out of the water.\n\nNeither freshwater dolphin possesses any loudly exotic talents (although the pinks are fond of rubbing one another, and of hanging out in large cuddling clusters), but together they occupy a significant niche in the sexual folklore of the Amazon. A dolphin eye, dried and grated into a woman's food, will drive her mad with desire. If a man views a woman through the ring of a pink's dried eye socket, she will be unable to resist him. A dolphin ear worn around the wrist guarantees a prolonged genital tumescence. Intercourse with a female dolphin is so intense a man will die in the act. According to the most pervasive bit of lore, a male dolphin can assume the appearance of a young man. Dressed all in white and wearing a hat over his blowhole, he appears in river towns and seduces virgins.\n\nPink dolphins do have a gymnastic, Gumby-esque ability to turn around completely within a space the length of their body, which enables them to follow shallow, flooding rivers into the jungle floor and to maneuver around the debris that clogs the river in flood season. However, this provides little defense against _Inia's_ sole predator, _Homo sapiens_. The pinks are nearly fished out in the lower Amazon, and increasingly rare on the upper river.\n\nOnce I had adjusted to their snorting, the pinks were, like Don Rafael, an avuncular, reassuring presence. If something that goofy could handle the Amazon, I thought, maybe there was hope for me.\n\nThe upper Ucayali is an intestine of a waterway, twisting and turning more than any other major river in the Western Hemisphere. By plane, Pucallpa is about a hundred miles from Atalaya, but by boat on the Ucayali it is four times that. There are no reliable maps of the river\u2014it floods every year, changes course by many miles, and wipes out entire villages in a single swipe. The survivors move on, and a year later the village pops up somewhere else entirely, a collection of thatch huts where before there had been only bush and bank.\n\n\"Where is Tabacoas?\" one asks in Ipar\u00eda. \"Tabacoas?\" comes the response. \"It used to be one day from here, but it is farther than that now.\"\n\nThe river divides into dozens of channels, and it is often impossible to know which of them to follow. The sun provides no clues. One moment it shines in your face, the next on the back of your head, and two turns of the river later it is in your face again. You plunge blindly ahead, trusting in the direction of the current.\n\nThough maddening, the Ucayali is also sublimely beautiful, most visibly so within the tight confines of the narrow side channels we so often found ourselves plying. In these canals (seldom more than ten yards wide) we easily approached parakeets, large crowlike birds of neon blue, parrots, darting golden finches. Where two canals met, dolphins and flying fish whipped the surface, and a few yards farther on a muddy log might rise up on stubby legs. As we closed in, these heavy-lidded caimans would slide off the bank and disappear in what only my naive sense of trust told me was the opposite direction.\n\nThe upper Ucayali is a river of loners. A few grizzly _mestizos_ , such as Don Rafael, work small plantations to which an Indian settlement may be attached, but for the most part the river is peopled by Ash\u00e1ninka who continue to live traditionally, in small, isolated family groups. Our second day on the river we saw only one other boat, a dugout canoe paddled by an Ash\u00e1ninka boy moving stealthily through the shadows along the bank, a hundred yards behind us. After three hours of this we stopped, hid in a creek, and surprised him.\n\nHe was not alarmed. He wanted to make a deal. He said, \"You need a turtle,\" and held out a specimen the size of a man's hand, with a hole punched in its shell and a piece of yarn threaded through the hole. Holding the yarn like a leash, he set the turtle down on the floor of the canoe and whistled. The turtle huffed to the front of the canoe, teetered on the edge, and stopped. The boy whistled again, and the turtle returned.\n\n\"You need a turtle,\" he said a second time. Chmielinski explained that if we took the turtle it would surely die. The boy sighed and said, \"Then eat him.\"\n\nChmielinski paid him for the turtle but did not take it.\n\nI felt like the turtle\u2014teetering on the brink of escape but trapped at the end of a leash. To overcome my fear I had taken to throwing myself into the warm, silty Ucayali every couple of hours, and had begun to enjoy swimming in it. But we had to get down the river before the floods, and to that end Chmielinski had established a staggering regimen.\n\nEach day we rose before dawn and from then till noon paddled fifty-five minutes of every hour and took a five-minute floating break in the kayaks. (Chmielinski called these respites \"five minutek.\") At about noon we stopped paddling for a half-hour lunch. The first two days out of Atalaya we tried to eat on land, but the mosquitoes forced us to return to the boats and drift with the current. After lunch we paddled fifty minutes of every hour until sunset, then made camp.\n\nTwelve hours a day in the boats, seven days a week. Fifty strokes a minute, thirty-six thousand strokes a day, two and a half million strokes to the Atlantic. At times the existential chasm suggested by the execution of a single stroke paralyzed me, and I had to set down my paddle and drift until Chmielinski, realizing I was no longer at his side, paddled back and prodded me into a sort of life.\n\nAfter three days on the Ucayali my wrists were painful to the touch, inflamed with the tenisinivitis about which Durrant and Truran had warned me. I had flu and a gastrointestinal complication picked up in Atalaya. (\"One hundred percent of the population here has parasites,\" the clinician had said.) I could not hold food, and I was so tired I couldn't sleep. The heat and humidity were awful, the sun so relentless that I continued to see spots.\n\nBut I was not lonely. Or, I was not as lonely as I wanted to be. That may have been the worst burden of all. On the raft we had been a family of five, the days filled with jokes and conversation and camaraderie. The real advantage to such numbers, of course, is that it is easier to hide in a crowd. Now it was just Chmielinski and I. I did not mind that we were strangers. In fact, I welcomed it. I am a selfish person, and prefer to wallow in my own company. No, the problem was quite the opposite: You cannot live with someone around the clock for months on end, in relative isolation, and not expect him to share the most intimate details of your life. You cannot spend all of your time hiding behind baseball talk (in fact, with Chmielinski, I could not spend _any_ time talking baseball). With nowhere to hide, I saw, to my horror, that this stranger would come to know me inside out.\n\nHere I must give Chmielinski his due. He brought to our enterprise an attitude exactly opposite to mine. He acted as if he _wanted_ the company, and made every effort to keep me on the river. He carried all our tonnage\u2014the canned food, the kerosene stove, the water jug. He crammed far more than his share of the supplies into the nose of his kayak and down into its tail, strapped them on his deck and affixed them to the hull with elastic cords. Water jugs, pineapples, fuel cans, stove, spare paddles\u2014his boat looked like a floating junk shop. And with all that weight it rode low in the water, which meant he had more resistance and had to paddle that much harder. When the afternoon wind came up the river lapped into his cockpit.\n\nBy our fourth day I was embarrassed at how little I carried.\n\n\"Give me something,\" I said.\n\n\"I give you something, Joeski. When we get to Pucallpa, I give you the biggest ice cream you can eat.\"\n\nHe selected our campsites, persuaded the Ash\u00e1ninka that we were of the same species and not hostile, cooked breakfast and dinner, made sure I took my malaria pills. Once, overcome by fever, I passed out in my kayak. When I came to he was towing me. He sang songs, mainly Polish marches, and he sang them loudest at dawn. His voice rocketed across the river and into the trees, where it ignited flocks of parrots and set howler monkeys to roaring.\n\nOne afternoon he said, \"Joe, you sing now.\"\n\n\"I can't sing.\"\n\n\"Sing anything you like.\"\n\nThere was no way out of it. _\"They call it Stormy Monday,\"_ I began, _\"but Tuesday's just as ba-a-a-a-a-d\u2014\"_\n\nHe cut me off. \"I sing,\" he said. \"You write.\"\n\nThat night we camped with an Ash\u00e1ninka family, two young men dressed in holey _cushmas_ and a bare-breasted old woman in a ragged skirt. They lived in a thatch-roofed hut raised on ten-foot stilts (the matriarch indicated we were to sleep in their chicken hutch), and the sum of their possessions was two tin pots, a machete, some fish hooks, a bow, and assorted arrows, though there were mosquitoes and fleas in abundance.\n\nOne of the young men showed us the arrows. The shafts were of wild cane, the fletching parrot feather, the tips a hardwood further hardened by flame and lashed to the cane. One arrowhead was round and bulbous, for knocking out of trees what was, I believe, an exceptionally stupid turkeylike bird. Another, for taking fish, had barbed serrations, and a third, broad as a fist and sharp enough to draw blood when tapped, was for _sachavaca_ , or tapir. The man said that five years ago you might have seen a hundred or more cross the river in a single day (a memory shared by Alejandro Torres in Atalaya), but now he was lucky to see two or three. He did not know what had happened, but the hunting was terrible.\n\nThree logs smoldered in the middle of the muddy, forty-foot-wide clearing. Their smoke was supposed to keep the mosquitoes at bay, as was our repellent, but the welts on my face, neck, arms, and legs indicated otherwise. I rubbed my hand with repellent and held it out at eye level, palm up, over the fire. Within perhaps thirty seconds it was black with mosquitoes, about a quarter of which displayed the raised wings of _sancudos_ , or malaria carriers.\n\nOur hosts cooked their sparse evening meal, fish boiled with _platanos_ , and said that although there was not enough to share, we were welcome to use their second pot. Chmielinski prepared a batch of _comida pl\u00e1stica_ (here I will hazard the claim that our meal marked among the Ash\u00e1ninka the first appearance of beef Stroganoff), and as we ate we joined the family in a kind of Zen walking meditation, circling the fire in an attempt to outwit the mosquitoes. When this failed, the stoic Ash\u00e1ninka were content to be bitten, but Chmielinski and I threw down our bowls and commenced a frenzy of swatting.\n\nWhen Chmielinski went down to the river to wash the cookpot I tried to open my water bottle\u2014the fever had given me a terrific thirst\u2014but my wrists were too sore to twist the top. The old woman saw my predicament, squeezed the bottle up against her floppy breasts, and loosened the lid, but this was only a temporary solution. We erected our tents in the chicken hutch, and later that night I awoke to find my hands so swollen I couldn't unzip my tent to let myself out to urinate. This wasn't just painful, it was humiliating\u2014I felt like a baby in a crib. It was time to stop kidding myself. Chmielinski was an explorer, but I was a masochist. I decided that if we reached Pucallpa I would quit the river once and for all and go home where I belonged.\n\nI lost track of the days. Chmielinski woke me in the morning, I followed his boat's wagging tail, I collapsed at night. At the town of Bolognesi\u2014huts, chickens, pigs, bugs, mud\u2014Chmielinski went in search of fruit while I crawled onto a grassy knoll overlooking the river and vomited. I rolled over to look at the blistering noon sky and saw five old peasant women staring down at me.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" one asked.\n\n\"Brazil.\"\n\n\"You should fly.\"\n\nTo reach Ipar\u00eda we paddled through a stinking swamp expecting \"all the things in which we do not believe\" (as John Steinbeck once wrote of skin diving). We hauled our kayaks up a thirty-foot sandstone bluff by rope, and found six slatted huts and a gentle, middle-aged _mestizo_ woman named Flora, who was terribly frail except for her strong bony fingers. She lived with her half-blind father, Guillermo, and her quiet adolescent grandson, Elvis Presley.\n\nWhere had Elvis Presley gotten his name? He shrugged and made a desultory display of playing air guitar. He was not proud of the name. He led us to a thatch-covered patio and helped us prepare a camp. He dreamed of being a lawyer: \"They are smart men.\" Later that night we would hear him reading aloud to his grandmother and great-grandfather.\n\nOn her prized possession, a two-burner kerosene stove, Flora cooked us a spirit-reviving soup of cilantro and rice. She, Elvis, and Guillermo grew rice in the swamp. For many years they had farmed near Iquitos, but every rainy season the floods had wiped them out. They had been in Ipar\u00eda two years. It was higher ground, Flora said, and life was better. Guillermo agreed. \"We have the moon and the river, and plenty to eat. Sometimes no money, but the people are good. Not like those bums in Lima.\"\n\nFlora's husband had gone away to Iquitos three months ago and not returned. She did not know what had happened to Elvis's parents\u2014it had been years. In the morning she said she would like to have a rice-harvesting machine, \"so I can grow old with all of my fingers.\"\n\nElvis and Guillermo helped us lower the kayaks back into the swamp. As we paddled away, Flora cried out, \"How you suffer!\"\n\nIt was late November. The Pachitea River had flooded, and where it entered the Ucayali it looked as if a man could cross it on the floating trunks. The village at the confluence, also called Pachitea, is the largest Shipibo settlement on the Ucayali. Julio Caesar Gomez, the government teacher who taught the village's school, estimated that there were about two hundred families in the village, though it was difficult to say with certainty, for the Shipibo were always coming and going. Given its proximity to Pucallpa, Pachitea is visited by representatives of the Summer Institute of Linguistics, a nondenominational coalition of evangelical missionaries devoted to translating the Bible into the indigenous tongues. Gomez said that when the missionaries were in Pachitea, the Shipibo stayed in the village, because the missionaries brought them presents. The Shipibo, he said, were very attentive at the religious services, and particularly enjoyed the singing. But when the missionaries returned to Pucallpa, \"the Shipibo forget everything.\" It was Gomez's opinion that the majority of Shipibo had not been converted to much of anything beyond an appreciation for plastic jewelry and canned milk. \"The children especially are afraid,\" he said. \"Their parents tell them that if they are bad, the white men will steal their skin and shrink their heads.\"\n\nThe chain-smoking Gomez and his young wife, who hosted us for the evening, were overfond of neither missionaries nor Indians, and escaped downriver to Pucallpa whenever possible. Gomez owed the government one more year of teaching, and then they were going to travel.\n\nThe Shipibo speak Chama, one of some thirty surviving languages indigenous to the Peruvian jungle. They wear their black hair in a bowl cut, and the women also grow it long in back, to their waists, and adorn themselves liberally with jewelry, particularly through the nose and ears. The women dress in traditional woven skirts and blouses, but most of the men have adopted the modern trousers-and-T-shirt trappings of the average starving _mestizo_ in Lima.\n\nThe Shipibo were aggressively curious, crowding around our boats, giggling and elbowing one another and pointing at us. Most wore a sort of knowing grin, as if they were about to pull off an elaborate practical joke. We watched a soccer game between two teams of adolescent girls. The field was huge, larger than a regulation pitch, but they covered it with amazing speed. They played barefoot but kicked the deflated ball ferociously\u2014one girl launched a bullet of a shot\u2014and they tackled often, their bones crunching with the sound of chicken wings being torn apart.\n\nAs for the _ling\u00fc\u00edsticos_ , as the Summer Institute missionaries are known, they have had a base in Pucallpa since 1947, and their influence in the upper Amazon basin is pervasive and controversial. Their defenders point out, rightly, that for decades the _ling\u00fc\u00edsticos_ have been the only outsiders apart from the Roman Catholic missionaries to have an interest in the welfare of the Indians, and that by teaching the Indians to read and write they help to prepare them for their inevitable clash with the forces of so-called progress. The _ling\u00fc\u00edsticos'_ critics point out, also rightly, that their work with the natives, and most particularly their translating of the indigenous tongues, is inspired by the simple fact that it is the most effective way to replace the indigenous cosmologies with such Christian doctrines as guilt and hell. (The only missionary I met on the Amazon who claimed to be affiliated with the _ling\u00fc\u00edsticos_ , a Baptist dispatched by the U.S.-based South American Mission, was also the only English-speaking person I met who referred to the Indians as \"savages\"; in Atalaya, as a prelude to a ceremony arranged for our benefit, he had forced a hungry, embarrassed, \"saved\" Ash\u00e1ninka boy to sing \"Nearer My God to Thee\" in his native tongue before permitting him to eat.)\n\nThe moon was coming full and the river running strong, and I was starting to recover from my illness, whatever it was. The next morning, our tenth since leaving Atalaya, we decided we would push on straight into the night until we reached Pucallpa.\n\nWe paddled steadily through the day, and late in the afternoon hitched a ride on a raft built of some two hundred mahogany logs, manned by six ragged fellows from a village several hundred miles away, near the Brazilian border. Afloat for almost three weeks, they looked like shipwreck survivors. They planned to sell their logs in Pucallpa. Because the most accessible hardwoods in the upper Amazon basin have long since been cut, their load would earn them sufficient cash to get them through the next year.\n\nAs we drifted I brewed coffee on our stove and one of the men built a fire on a log, stuck a branch in a plucked chicken carcass, and cooked it over the fire. We ate and drank and watched the moon begin its ascent. I tried to recall where we had been the last time it had come full. The Acobamba Abyss. I had almost drowned.\n\nWhen Chmielinski mentioned that he was Polish, the raft's captain, a huge man the others called Gordo, or Fatso, asked if he was the Pole who had run the Colca River. Chmielinski said he was. The men gathered around and pumped him with questions about Lech Walesa. Chmielinski admired Walesa and had no trouble speaking about Solidarity, which he did for the next twenty minutes.\n\nWhen Chmielinski had finished, Gordo said, \"But they put him in jail.\"\n\n\"The communists did that,\" Chmielinski said.\n\n\"And well they should have,\" another man said. \"He was disrupting the government. You cannot have that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" a third man asked. \"Look at us. What do we have to lose? These logs?\"\n\n\"I don't think communism is so bad,\" Gordo said. \"Peru could use a change. The generals and the drug dealers own Peru.\"\n\n\"Communism sounds good until the communists take over,\" Chmielinski said. \"Then everything changes. People disappear, there are shortages. Everyone suffers.\"\n\n\"We already have that,\" the second man said. \"I cannot imagine it getting any worse no matter who runs the country.\"\n\nGordo opened a papaya and passed it around. It was perfectly ripe, glowing red and orange as the sun now settling into the jungle wall. Another man gave us sugar cane stalks for our journey.\n\n\"We will meet you in town,\" Gordo said. \"I know a place\"\u2014he named a cantina\u2014\"the women have melons like _this._ \" He held two papayas to his chest. The other men laughed. We put our boats in the water and left the men coasting on their fortune.\n\nThe sun set and the bank and the river melded into one. The full moon cast only enough light to show us we were traveling through an alien world. I heard dolphins breach and snort. In the blackness, the _whoosh_ of whirlpools forming and disintegrating seemed much louder than it had during the day. Invisible mosquitoes attacked. We cleaved to the middle of the river to the extent we could find it, and Chmielinski devised a system of flashlight signals that we would use if we became separated.\n\nI heard the slapping of paddles and, almost too late, saw a shadow twenty yards behind me and gaining. I shouted. No answer.\n\n\"Go!\" Chmielinski yelled.\n\nWe outpaddled the shadow, but when we stopped, an hour later, my chest was heaving and my wrists felt as if someone had cracked them over his knee.\n\nWhen my breathing slowed I smelled something awful, heard a low thrumming, and noticed that the water dripping off my paddle and across my thighs left an oily film. Then we rounded a bend in the river and I was blinded by the industrial lights of the port of Pucallpa.\n\nThere is one good thing I can say about Pucallpa: There are very few mosquitoes. They cannot survive the foul air. Most jungle towns stink, but into the usual mix of excrement, urine, dead dogs, pigs, rotting fruit, fish, kerosene, and diesel exhaust Pucallpa weaves the emissions of a lumber mill, an oil refinery, and boomtown avarice.\n\nAs recently as 1960 Pucallpa was a sleepy jungle town of thatch huts and a few thousand people. Today it is not only the legislated administrative capital of the department of Ucayali, created in 1982, but also the de facto capital of the Peruvian Amazon. Pucallpa, linked to Lima by road, has wrested that title from Iquitos, eight hundred miles downriver, even though its hundred fifty thousand inhabitants make it twice Pucallpa's size. Until the 1970s the road washed out in rainy season, and the jungle was connected to Lima only by foot through the Andes, by small plane, or by boat down the Amazon and through the Panama Canal, a journey of seven thousand miles. Now surfaced in the washout areas, the road permits the steady trucking of the huge machinery necessary to tame the jungle, and the quick export of the natural resources harvested there\u2014from oil and timber to rare birds and animal skins.\n\nIndians, mainly Shipibo, were a common sight in Pucallpa, though as in Cuzco their role seemed limited to selling trinkets in the streets. In the middle of the city, in an area of perhaps one square mile, were a few paved roads, several expensive air-conditioned hotels, pizza parlors, a movie theater that showed _Blue Thunder_ during our visit, and sturdy modern banks managed by young men from Lima who knew the daily dollar exchange rate by heart. Most of the buildings were one-story, bunkerlike exercises in steel and cement. Farther out, on the east end of town, near the river, the pavement ended and the road turned to rutted dirt and slipped past the candlelit shacks of the poor, who are the bulk of Pucallpa's permanent population.\n\nCuzco has its Inca walls and Spanish churches, Lima its chipped colonial architecture, Arequipa its volcanoes and quiet isolation. Pucallpa has no such distinction. It has grown too quickly, and has no real connection to the land around it beyond simple greed. It represents the apotheosis of the modern law of the jungle\u2014open season for anything one can get one's hands on, or one's machines under.\n\nAt any rate, that's how I saw Pucallpa. As in Cuzco, however, my discontent was to a degree a result of fatigue. I was still fifteen pounds underweight, beat up, and foggy headed, and my wrists and forearms creaked painfully. While Chmielinski worked Pucallpa's arcane public telephone system in an ultimately futile attempt to hustle more funding from the United States, I slept long hours in our cheap hostel, trying to regain my strength.\n\nAfter three days I had recovered sufficiently to spend time in a cafe next door run by a transvestite from Lima named Roberto. He had a knack for the restaurant business\u2014his food would not kill you, which in Pucallpa was an achievement\u2014but what he really wanted to do was sing.\n\n\"Peelings, Se\u00f1or Cho,\" he said. \"You will be hearing my peelings?\" And as Barry Manilow bleated through the loudspeakers _(\"Feeeeliiings..._ \") Roberto lip-synched the lyrics\u2014incongruously, for he was wearing a sequined dress\u2014while I sipped coffee and nodded feebly at his tortured, and torturing, efforts.\n\nEverything about Pucallpa struck me as false, and in that light my own motives for being in the Amazon seemed less than worthy. The notion of traveling the Amazon source to sea under my own power loomed as a colossal stunt. Paddling the kayak was so demanding that I wasn't really _seeing_ anything on the river. I was ready to quit.\n\nThree things changed my mind.\n\nFirst, Chmielinski. He was an iron man. He did not need me on the river. But when I suggested that I was a hindrance, which I most clearly was, and that it was only proper that I stop kayaking, he was indignant. This, he said, was out of the question. He would continue regardless, but would prefer if I went with him. He said this so sincerely I believed him.\n\nSecond, Bzdak and Durrant. They had waited nearly a week in Atalaya for a Johnson, and had arrived in Pucallpa a few days ahead of us. I was overjoyed to see them, and not only because they had all our food and medical supplies. They were family. We were in this together.\n\nAnd, finally, I came face to rude face with my options. For the trip from Pucallpa to Iquitos Bzdak and Durrant had booked passage on the _Jhuliana_ , one of the elegant, turn-of-the-century passenger ships Werner Herzog flung about the Urubamba River in his film _Fitzcarraldo_. With her fine hardwood paneling, gleaming brightwork, and well-scrubbed cabins, the _Jhuliana_ stood out in Pucallpa's suppurating port like a diamond.\n\nThat was how I felt on the lower deck, anyway. The upper deck was more like Pucallpa. The odor drifting from shore stung my nostrils. On the stern of a dilapidated launch moored upstream of the _Jhuliana_ a man unzipped and pissed right into a group of swimming children. One of the kids, covered from the neck down in river muck, waddled to shore. As he did, a vulture, the closest of the perhaps two hundred I could see at that moment, looked up briefly from the dog carcass into which it had buried its beak, considered the child, and returned to its prize.\n\nIn the Amazon you expect parrots, macaws, parakeets, toucans, but the vulture is the bird of the Amazonian future. It is the one indigenous species that thrives in man's slobby wake.\n\nThat scene was enough for me. I suspected that by motorized boat, even as fine a ship as the _Jhuliana_ , the trip to the Atlantic would be a pogo-stick hop from vulture nest to vulture nest, Pucallpa to Pucallpa. I owed myself the chance to see the places in between, the real Amazon.\n\nThat night Chmielinski and I packed our kayaks, and in the morning we set off for Iquitos, eight hundred miles downriver.\n\n# 14 \u2022 The Lower Ucayali\n\n_Beep-beep-beep godDAMN!_ At exactly 4 a.m., according to the whining Japanese alarm clock Chmielinski had bought in Pucallpa, I bolted awake to find a dark, fist-sized blob squatting atop my mosquito netting. It was almost on my face, its underside thrown into shadow by the half-moon.\n\nI jabbed at it.\n\n_\"Cricri,\"_ it said, for that is what a Spanish-speaking frog says. (A Spanish-speaking dog says _guau_ and a cat _miau.)_ It didn't move until I punched its soft belly, launching it into the shadows.\n\nThen I shut off the alarm and crawled out of my tent. A knee-high mist had settled onto the sand, and a faint odor of dirty armpits drifted down from the mud skin early floodwaters had deposited on the grass shelf above the beach.\n\nWe had left Pucallpa the day before. On the occasion of our departure I had resolved to maintain a positive attitude toward our endeavor. The Chmielinski Method, as I thought of it. Attention to order and faithful execution of duty would get us to the sea. And so, as cook of the day, I set forthrightly into the matutinal routine one of us would, we hoped, execute daily for the next three thousand miles. I dunked myself in the Ucayali, boiled drinking water, woke Chmielinski, boiled coffee, boiled breakfast, packed lunch, boiled more water, watched the sun sneak up over the grass, packed my gear. At 5:35 the air temperature was about 85 degrees and rising. Cursing the mosquitoes and chasing Chmielinski, I dragged my kayak to the river and put in.\n\nTwo miles downstream, in the morning light, the river and the horizon blended into a solid silver-blue canvas, and I felt as if I were paddling inside a cloud. I would not say that I was joyous at that moment, for the blue sky signaled a long, hot day, but neither was I tormented. I had something new working in my favor on this leg of the trip\u2014my kayak.\n\nChmielinski had sold the white-water boats in Pucallpa, and we had continued our journey in the sixteen-foot Aquaterra \"Chinook\" sea kayaks Sergio Leon had stored there for us. The new boats were a deliverance. The white-water kayaks had been highly maneuverable, but now we were navigating a river that day by day became more oceanlike. The obstacles we would face included tropical storms, hard winds, rolling waves, and extreme distances. The sea kayaks, longer and wider than the white-water boats, were sturdy and fast. They held a straight line in all but the strongest currents, and they were equipped with pedal-operated rudders, which greatly reduced the strain on my aching wrists and forearms.\n\nAnd this was _my_ boat. Unlike the white-water kayak, no one else had used it. I took a captain's pride in my new craft. On its tail Chmielinski had painted \"S.S. Elyse,\" after my girlfriend back home (his boat was the \"S.S. Joanna\"). The good ship _Elyse_ was about as comfortable as a thing can be if you have to sit in it twelve hours a day. Its broad, open cockpit allowed me to bend my knees, and I had glued foam-rubber padding to the plastic seat. It had deck straps fore and aft and storage pockets in the cockpit. As we left the beach that morning I had, within arm's reach, my Swiss Army knife, a water bottle, a pineapple, a dozen bananas, two papayas, sunscreen, lip balm, T-shirt, rain gear, baseball hat, spare sunglasses, mosquito repellent, an emergency medical kit, and my waterproof briefcase with pens and notebooks. For the first time in a long time I felt comfortable, and in control.\n\nIn the swift new boats we traveled the one hundred twenty miles from Pucallpa to Contamana in two days. _Conta_ , in the Chama language, is \"palm tree,\" and _mana_ is \"hill.\" There were no palm trees in Contamana, or, as far as I could tell, any Indians, but there was a hill, a five-hundred-foot sandstone bluff that is the last significant rising in the land all the way to the sea.\n\nContamana was about the size of Atalaya, but by Amazon standards much wealthier. It had timber nearby, gold in the surrounding creeks, a healthy rice industry\u2014growers and brokers had packed the town for selling season\u2014and a state-owned PetroPeru refinery. (It is said that eleven thousand PetroPeru employees earn as much as 175,000 schoolteachers.)\n\nAlong the waterfront soft electric lights lit a neat wooden promenade, and beneath the lights smiling men in clean shirts walked arm in arm with pretty women in long cotton dresses. Duckwalks lined the graded, well-drained dirt streets, and behind them stood sturdy wooden houses. Every fluorescent bulb in the ice-cream parlor worked. Smooth new felt covered the pool hall's three tables.\n\nAnd Contamana was connected with the beyond: It had a satellite dish, a television store, and a steel-and-glass church. In this last we made camp (rice brokers had filled the lone hotel), though only with reluctance did the Italian priest allow a Pole to sleep in his vestibule.\n\nWe walked to a waterfront restaurant and ordered fried chicken, hearts-of-palm salad, and rice. A man named Raoul joined us there. A mutual acquaintance from Pucallpa, a pilot, had radioed Raoul and asked him to keep an eye out for us. Raoul was wide and dark, with a serious stomach, thick black hair, and a goatee. Though fifty-six, he looked much younger. An engineer, he had come to Contamana from Lima ten years before to work on a potable-water project, but funding had disappeared. He had stayed in Contamana to build irrigation systems and broker rice. Now he was waiting to see what would happen under \"Alan.\"\n\nThat was how most Peruvians referred to their new president, Alan Garcia. The accent falls on the second syllable, so the name ends with a rising, optimistic tone: a-LAN. Ninety-two percent of the electorate had turned out for the vote, which Garcia had won handily, receiving more votes than the next eight candidates combined.\n\nFor Peru, after twelve years of military rule and six years under a conservative president, Fernando Bela\u00fande Terry, Garcia's election represented a peaceful revolution. He was young\u2014only a few years before the election he had been singing for his rent in the cafes of Paris\u2014and left of center. In his inaugural address he had announced a cap on the interest payments for Peru's staggering $14 billion national debt, a bold and unprecedented move that rocked the international financial community and established Peru as a leader in modern South America. (Soon thereafter, both Brazil and Ecuador went into complete default.) Peruvians, long accustomed to mockery from the outside world, were proud of Alan, Raoul especially so. He was a member of Garcia's political party, the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana, which in its sixty-one-year existence had never won a presidential election.\n\n\"But I am bothered by our debt,\" Raoul said. \"We should pay, I know, but we cannot pay if we have nothing to pay with. The answer is for you Americans to buy the things we manufacture, instead of stealing our oil and wood.\"\n\n\"Peruvian products are poorly made,\" Chmielinski said. \"There is no market for them. They break.\"\n\nRaoul sighed. \"You are right about that.\"\n\n\"And if you get a lot of American money down here,\" I said, \"Alan will not be president for long.\"\n\n\"You are right about that, too,\" Raoul said. \"We will be like Guatemala, or El Salvador.\"\n\nWe had finished our dinners. We each ordered another.\n\n\"There is a joke we tell,\" Raoul said as he filled our glasses with beer. \"You Americans have a machine. You push a black button, you get coffee. You push a white button, you get milk. You pull a handle, you get apple pie. In Peru, we pull on a black udder, we get coffee. We pull on a white udder, we get milk. We pull the tail, we get cowshit. We sell you the coffee and the milk and we eat the shit.\"\n\nIn the morning Raoul brought us fresh bread from the bakery and found a crew of boys to haul our boats down to the river. As we pushed off from the dock, he leaned close. \"There is something I have wanted to ask,\" he whispered. He looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. \"What do you do for women? I have been married for twenty-five years, and if I did not have my little honey at night...\"\n\n\"After twelve hours on the river,\" Chmielinski said, \"we could have the most beautiful girls in Contamana and we would only fall asleep.\"\n\nThis was true.\n\nTwo hours later the sky suddenly turned gray, then black, a strong wind blew up, and I heard a rattling sound to my left and saw a field of wild cane flatten along the bank. Seconds later the river erupted in a white, pocked froth and choppy two-foot waves. My kayak bucked wildly and I couldn't see ten feet. The squall passed in minutes, but in its wake, soaked and shivering with cold and fright, I found myself longing for clean, safe Contamana.\n\nBut Contamana proved to be an exception. Although I had often envisioned the Amazon as dark and gooey, on the river, at least, the light is immense and the sun shines, if anything, too long. And there are no mountains in the distance, no hills, no skyline\u2014nothing to suggest the possibility of escape. It is flat, forgotten, suffocating country, mucky floodplain with long stretches of mud and sand and toppled trees. And so in the forlorn little river towns there is darkness of another sort, a darkness of the spirit, a giving up, a sense of utter defeat at the hands of the government, the weather, the insects, the river itself.\n\nWe paddled late into the night, until we arrived at Orellana, a town about the size of Contamana but not nearly as wealthy. Raoul had given us his card and the name of a friend. The friend wasn't home, but his sister, her arm wrapped in a sling, let us sleep on the back porch of her creaky one-room shack. The porch hung right over the Ucayali, on four skinny stilts, and through the one-inch gaps between the floorboards we could see the river streaming past fifteen feet below.\n\nAs we erected our tents two dozen black-toothed men and slack-jawed youths climbed onto the fragile porch.\n\n\"You will see!\" one of the men yelled. \"The rain is coming!\"\n\nAnother said, \"When that first wave hits you, you will fall right out of those silly canoes! The river will eat you!\"\n\nWithout pausing in his work, Chmielinski asked, \"What do experts such as yourselves recommend we do?\"\n\n\"Jump out of your boats!\" a third man yelled. \"That is what this asshole did last week!\" He pointed to the first man. \"He fell out. Now he is afraid of the river!\"\n\nThe other men laughed, nervously, then fell silent and watched us erect our tents and sponge out our kayaks. No one offered to help. No one asked questions. I had the uneasy feeling that our ambition angered them.\n\nChmielinski quizzed them. No one could identify the town's namesake, Francisco de Orellana, no one knew where the river ended, no one could tell us the distance to the next town, although this last question did at least generate a discussion. \"One day,\" a man said. \"Four hours,\" another said. \"One day and a half.\" \"Half an hour.\" \"Ten hours.\" \"Twelve hours.\" \"Two days.\"\n\nSuch maddening confusion wasn't entirely ignorance. Linear distance means nothing on the river. Travel is measured in time and the number of river bends, or _vueltas_ , between one point and another. A lot depends on how well a man paddles, or the strength of his boat's motor, or on where his destination happens to be situated at that time. According to those men, only a few years ago, Orellana had stood on the opposite bank and there had been islands in the river.\n\nThe men hung around until we zipped our tents closed and blew out our candles. They returned at dawn. The one who had fallen out of his boat told us to leave the main trunk of the Ucayali and follow a long canal, the Puinahua, that he described as a shortcut to Iquitos. The other men corroborated this, and we made the colossal mistake of trusting them.\n\nWe spent four days lost in the Puinahua Canal, and at towns even more desperate than miserable Orellana. At Victoria (thatch huts, one-room schoolhouse, thin frightened men, suspicious women who herded their wormy, scabby-headed children away as we paddled up) we weren't allowed out of our boats. The teacher was gone, and his nervous assistant said, \"There are gringo terrorists around here,\" ran into the schoolhouse, and slammed the door.\n\nIn Juancito, a group of men as silent and spooky as vultures shadowed us as we dragged our boats to a falling-down cook shack that had not fallen quite as far as the other dozen or so shacks that made up the village. A crude hand-painted sign declared this the \"Hotel Sheraton.\" An enormous woman was cutting waxed paper into napkins. She tugged at her underwear and screamed at the men to leave. No one moved. She served us plates of stale rice and fish fried in rancid oil. Halfway through the meal a storm descended and the men ran away. We were so anxious to leave Juancito that we did the same, hauling our boats down to the canal as fast as we could and paddling right into the middle of the black tempest.\n\nIn the deluge I quickly lost sight of Chmielinski and either bank, but he had taught me a few things after my previous encounter with river rain. I drew my spray skirt around me, tightened my windbreaker, and pointed the boat's nose into the hooking waves. I was warm and dry and far happier than I had been in the Hotel Sheraton.\n\nThe storm lasted about twenty minutes, but waves continued to slap the noses of our kayaks for the next few hours, which noticeably reduced our speed. We met a riverboat stuck on a sandbar in the middle of the canal. It had been there two days, its beefy captain, six crewmen, and their wives and children running through the cases of soft drinks, crackers, beer, canned fish, and fruit they had intended to trade along the canal. The captain leaned over the rail and handed us each an Inca Cola.\n\n\"Where are we?\" Chmielinski asked.\n\n\"You are lost!\" the captain said. \"So are we.\" He did not know when the water would rise to lift his boat off the bar.\n\nWe paddled on. The only other person we saw that afternoon was a man in a suit beating upstream on a motor-driven canoe and broadcasting to the apparently uninhabited banks through a handheld, amplified megaphone. I heard only, \"Tonight's movie, the fabulous Tarzan,\" before Chmielinski turned to intercept the man, who quickly put down his megaphone and accelerated away from us.\n\nThat night we camped in mud and the next day arrived at Breta\u00f1a, which in addition to the usual dozen shacks had a bodega. The owner, Emilio Rios Lozano, let us pitch our tents on the wood floor. He had covered the walls with pictures of blond-haired women in various stages of undress.\n\nHere, too, sullen, meek men shuffled into the bodega, lined up against one wall, and stood and stared as Lozano opened two liters of warm beer for us. He had served nine years in the Peruvian navy and seen California, sort of. His boat had sat in port three weeks, but he had not been permitted ashore. In a fit of pique he had quit the navy and settled in Breta\u00f1a. Now he was too in debt to leave. \"Fuck the navy!\" he said.\n\nThe silent men stared and swatted mechanically at mosquitoes. Lozano exhibited more flair. When he had a point to make, which was every few seconds, he suspended his monologue and studied the feeding insect until all other eyes were on it. Then he dispatched it with a furious wallop, examined the corpse, and returned to his subject.\n\n\"What was I saying? Yes\u2014why do we not have soldiers here? They have soldiers in the mountains, soldiers on the coast, soldiers on the border with Ecuador.\" _Slap_. \"No soldiers down here.\"\n\nWith emphatic gestures he divided my tent top into Peru's mountains, coast, and Ecuadorian border. There were soldiers all over it. The Amazon basin was somewhere down the side of the tent, soldierless and forgotten.\n\n_Slap_.\n\n\"Why do you need soldiers here?\" Chmielinski asked Lozano.\n\n\"You could be bandits.\"\n\n\"But we are not bandits.\"\n\n\"But you could be.\"\n\nThe other men nodded in agreement and continued to swat.\n\n\"And the floods,\" Lozano said. \"They fuck up everything. They come too early, they come too late, we can grow nothing but yucca. _Yucca_. Here in the great jungle. I _puke_ on yucca.\"\n\nBut the floods that destroy these people also sustain them, enriching the notoriously poor jungle soil with Andean silt. Of course, when the floods come too early or too late, which is often enough, the corn and rice and plantain crops either drown or wither.\n\nLozano's wife brought us a plate of fried fish heads and hissed at her husband. I had trouble with the meal\u2014the fish seemed to be staring back at me. I recognized the look. It was the same one the men were wearing.\n\nLozano pulled three more liters of beer from the shelf. His wife hissed again and disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the shop.\n\n\"At least I have my women,\" he said.\n\n\"Your women?\"\n\n\"Nine. I have nine women. And\" \u2014he fumbled with his fingers\u2014\"forty-seven children. No, forty-eight. One more last week.\"\n\nHe said this so matter-of-factly I believed him.\n\nWe left Breta\u00f1a at dawn. Chmielinski propped a magazine on his deck, a four-month-old copy of the international _Time_ he had purchased in Pucallpa, and read while he paddled.\n\n\"What does this mean,\" he shouted to me, \" 'mob connections'?\" That was a story on Frank Sinatra. There was an interview with Paul McCartney, about John Lennon: \"What is 'maneuvering swine'?\"\n\nAs he read, his head down, his boat veered back and forth and he paddled a third again my distance, which about evened us out. My wrists were healing, but I was not yet strong. At night my fingers swelled and my hands curled, and I had to sleep facedown, arms extended at my side.\n\nBut Chmielinski did not seem to mind my slow pace. I was thankful for that. Although the towns between Pucallpa and Iquitos were generally awful, the long empty stretches between were wonderful, and I wanted to take time to enjoy them. The green jungle wall was faceless, but not silent. We paddled along it as if eavesdropping. Birds chattered, howler-monkey troops roared loud as jet engines, dolphins breached and blew, and every once in a while a mulelike shrieking sliced the humid air. The day we left Breta\u00f1a I asked a man in a dugout canoe about the shrieks. He said they were made by a _ronsoso_ , which he described as a wild pig. (I asked him to pronounce the name three times, thinking he may have meant a _ronsoco_ , or capybara, which is the world's largest rodent and is sometimes referred to as a water pig.)\n\nEvery few miles the bush broke and opened onto a fine white beach. Racks made from driftwood and twine rose from the sand like skeletons, the wood gnarled and bleached like bone, and across them hung layers of fish caked in salt, drying to a marblelike consistency. Plastic sheets stretched from the racks to the sand, and beneath these fishermen hid to keep from baking as dry and hard as their catch. That afternoon, when the sun grew so hot that touching bare skin to the kayak blistered my arms, we stopped and crawled into one of the plastic tents and sat with a quiet man named Rogelio.\n\nHe had beached his _lancha_. The fishing was poor that day, he said, and he had chosen instead to read a _fotograf\u00eda_ , a sort of comic book with white bubbles of dialogue superimposed on black-and-white photos, often of men and women in passionate embrace. We broke out crackers and canned fish from the kayaks and read with Rogelio.\n\n\"What is this word for?\" I asked, pointing to a panel.\n\nRogelio said, \"It is where a woman keeps her melons.\"\n\n\"And this?\"\n\n\"When you want a woman so bad you are like a dog.\"\n\n\"This?\"\n\n\"A man hurts you so you hurt him worse.\"\n\nRogelio said he had been camped on the beach, alone, for a week, and that he would store half his catch and sell the rest in Pucallpa, where he lived. He was in no hurry to return. This was his secret place, and he had food and the pretty beach and a dozen _fotograf\u00edas_.\n\nWhen the sun was lower we readied our boats for the water. Like most river men, Rogelio found our _canoas_ strange but _muy lindo\u2014_ very pretty. He administered the universal test\u2014a rap on the hull\u2014and nodded approval.\n\nWe reached the end of the sad Puinahua Canal near dusk on our fourth day and spent the early evening pursuing the lights of Requena. Glowing on the horizon, they promised a meal, a shower, a bed, but after we grounded our boats in a swamp and storm clouds blacked out the stars, we resigned ourselves to a miserable night sleeping sitting up in the rain, expecting _all the things in which we do not believe_.\n\nThen we heard a motor, Chmielinski yelled, and a flashlight beamed in the dark. A fishing boat was stuck in the muck. We sank to our hips in swamp goo, helped the captain break it loose, and followed him through a hidden channel into the city. But Requena stank of diesel and sewage, derelict hulls and mean-looking deckhands clogged the port, and even in the dead of night, as we sat in the captain's shack trying to sleep, the humidity was stifling. We vowed that from there on, we would make camp at the first dugout canoe we saw after five o'clock.\n\nAt 5:19 the next afternoon Chmielinski said, \"That one.\"\n\nAs we tied up on shore, intending to follow a path that led from a beached canoe to, we hoped, a dwelling, an old woman paddled up, shuffled on the floor of her canoe, and emerged with two papayas.\n\n\"A present,\" was her only explanation before she continued on her way.\n\nChmielinski climbed the muddy bank, disappeared into the bush, and found the hut we had expected.\n\n\"We heard you were coming,\" its owner, Antonio Severiano Luna, said when he came down to help drag my boat to his home. He was small, quiet, and old but ageless in the way the river men are if they have a lot of Indian blood. Their faces hardly wrinkle, and they go to their graves with heads of thick black hair.\n\n\"How did you know?\" I asked.\n\nHe shrugged. \"A friend of a friend of my brother saw you on the river two days ago.\"\n\nHe shoved my boat under his thatch-covered platform and we climbed the ladder. Chmielinski was already setting up the stove. I wedged pegs in between the floorboards and strung our tents. A young woman whom Antonio said was his daughter-in-law watched us, four wide-eyed children clinging to her skirt, and Antonio introduced a second woman, his wife, toothless, bent, and apparently quite a bit older than he.\n\nAntonio sat on the floor and watched Chmielinski cook a pot of chili. Cooking may have been Chmielinski's favorite activity. He made a show of it, passing around spoonfuls of food, asking questions, talking about Poland and the world beyond Peru. Usually he wound up with more food than he gave away, our boats, as we paddled away in the morning, laden with pineapples and papayas and bananas.\n\nI dug in my boat and found a bottle of wine Durrant and Bzdak had given me in Pucallpa. I poured two fingers in my plastic cup and passed it to Antonio. He threw it down like a shot of whiskey.\n\nHe said, \"Thank you.\"\n\nI poured another shot. He threw it down. We repeated this until the bottle was empty.\n\nThen the young woman took me aside. Her name was Eravita.\n\n\"We have a custom here,\" she said. \"When you sleep in a man's house, he may offer you his woman.\"\n\nI did not reply.\n\nShe said, \"What do you think about that?\"\n\nI thought that if I slept with her, her husband would kill me when he returned. I also thought that she had fine brown eyes.\n\n\"That is an interesting custom,\" I said.\n\n\"You would enjoy that, would you not?\"\n\nI gave in. \"I would.\"\n\n\"I will ask Antonio.\"\n\n\"Antonio?\"\n\n\"He owns the land.\"\n\n\"So...\"\n\n\"So you must sleep with his wife.\"\n\nThe old hag!\n\n\"Wait!\" I said. \"I am very tired. We have been on the river all day, and we have a long way to go tomorrow...\"\n\nHigh cackling laughter erupted from behind the curtain that shielded the cooking porch from the main room. Then Eravita burst out laughing, and Antonio. A joke on the gringo.\n\nRain poured down the thatch roof, rolled off, and splattered on the clay outside the house, but not a drop leaked through. Chmielinski and I ate and retired to our tents. The women and children crawled beneath the single mosquito net under which the family slept. I wrote in my diary. The rain stopped and slurping sounds drifted up from the river, punctuated by dolphin blasts. At night, I had noticed, these seemed to be followed by a low moan that sounded something like a man's voice.\n\nChmielinski blew out his candle and when I had filled my pages I blew out mine. Only then did Antonio stand up and cross the room and slide beneath the netting. I heard giggles and whispers and teasing.\n\n_We heard you were coming_. We were not sneaking through the jungle alone and unobserved. We were guests.\n\n# 15 \u2022 The Mara\u00f1\u00f3n\n\nTwelve days after leaving Pucallpa we followed the Ucayali into the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n, entering it from the right, or south. It is at this confluence that the river becomes, in scope if not in name, the Amazon. In fact, it is called both the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n and the Amazon for the next four hundred miles, until it crosses the Brazilian border (where Brazilians then call it the Solim\u00f5es). In any case, at the confluence it is almost two miles wide, or more than three times the width of the Ucayali. It took me thirty-five minutes to paddle to an exposed sandbar in the middle of the river. Chmielinski got there ten minutes ahead of me, and when I arrived he was running up and down the ivory-white sand, hefting his paddle like a spear and shouting \"The Amazon!\" for no one but me to hear.\n\nA small village, Puerto Franco, sits atop a low bluff of sandstone and clay a few miles below the Ucayali, on the left bank. A dozen bare-chested Indians awaited our landfall there. (Yaguas, I believe, though the differences between _mestizo_ and Indian, let alone Indian and Indian, blur so much from that point on down the river as to be meaningless.) A woman descended the bluff. Chmielinski gave her his paddle, and while she played with it in her wood canoe, breaking into an excited whooping, we climbed the bluff.\n\n\"Where have you come from?\" a squat, muscular man asked when we gained the top. He had broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a sharp, hairless face.\n\n\"From where the river starts,\" Chmielinski said (in Spanish, literally, \"from where the river is born\").\n\n\"Pucallpa?\"\n\n\"Farther.\"\n\nThe man conferred with his friends. \"Atalaya?\"\n\n\"Arequipa,\" Chmielinski said.\n\nNone of them knew where, or what, Arequipa was, and our conversation faltered. We studied the woman in the canoe, now deftly working the tricky plastic paddle. Behind her, the wind had whipped the tawny river into whitecaps, and I had to strain to see the far bank, a thin green line between water and sky. But for that verdant ribbon I might have been looking at an ocean. _El R\u00edo Mar_ , as the Amazon is also known: The River Sea.\n\n\"How long have you been on the river?\" the man asked.\n\n\"Three and a half months.\"\n\nHis jaw dropped, revealing a mouth full of fine teeth, and he and his friends jumped up and down and whooped as the woman in the canoe had. At first I thought they were mocking us, but then they clapped our shoulders happily. They lived here, the river came, the river went. That it started so far away, and that we might one day see the place where it ended, delighted them.\n\nWe climbed back into our kayaks. As we departed we passed two women poised at the end of the village, silhouetted on the bluff. Three feet in front of them a chunk of earth the size of a small house broke away and fell into the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n. Their huts stood a few feet from the lip of the bluff, but the women reacted to the disappearance of their front yards with only a glance.\n\nThe river came, the river went, it took their homes with it. Soon the huts would follow that clot of sand and clay. Not long after that, the rest of the village would fall, too, and the families would move on and start again. And Peru would not know where Puerto Franco had gone.\n\nIn the roadless bush the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n is a kind of country highway packed with river craft, only some of which might properly be called boats. On the Ucayali we had seen perhaps one boat a day, other than our own, but on the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n we never saw fewer than three at once, most of them driven by seven-horsepower outboards onomatopoetically called _peque-peques_ , with five-foot-long drive-shafts that doubled as rudders. Only the motors on these craft might be considered standard issue. The hulks were wild amalgams of uneven planks, the cabins patchworks of plastic, cardboard, and sheet metal. Often the cabin roofs were thatch, and threatened with ignition by the smoking motors below. Always, in each hull, at least one shirtless man bailed away in a bobbing motion, his dark face bathed in sweat, his water pail rising from the hull and spilling over the side in a rhythm so steady he seemed to be linked to the motor itself.\n\nPassengers, and their pigs and chickens and twine-wrapped crates, were stuffed into the holds of these precarious water taxis well beyond overload, buried in darkness even at noon, as if bound in prison ships. Trapped and helpless, they screamed when the wind picked up and a storm descended and the boats rocked. In those moments I gave thanks that I was in the kayak depending solely on myself, and I worried about Bzdak and Durrant. Though the _Jhuliana_ had appeared sturdy on the banks of the Ucayali, she would be dwarfed by the mighty Mara\u00f1\u00f3n. But as we paddled among the river traffic there was no word of her.\n\nRafts also navigated the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n, floating along at the river's dawdling pace, perhaps one knot. Families drifted slowly to Iquitos with the fruits of a season's labors, one raft carrying a ton of oranges, another a pyramid of coconuts, another bananas ripening too fast for market.\n\nThat afternoon we tied up to a raft that struck me as the most ingenious piece of marine engineering I had yet seen. The floor consisted of two dozen fifteen-foot _topa_ logs lashed together with liana vines _(topa_ is a strong, light, buoyant wood akin to balsa), with a thatch-roofed, bamboo cage on top. The cage held\u2014this amazed me\u2014six cows.\n\nTwo huge oars, each about twenty feet long, were fastened fore and aft, and a mahogany blade about two feet square had been lashed to the water end of each oar. The oars were used not for power but to steer the raft away from whirlpools and back eddies. Three young men slumped next to the cage, glazing in the sun.\n\nWe ran our boats up onto the raft and woke the men, who were from a village far up the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n. Given the one-knot current, they had been afloat...\n\n\"Three weeks,\" the tallest of them said. Like his shipmates, he wore only a pair of tight cotton shorts. In fact, the raft appeared to hold little else but the men, their shorts, and the cows, which they would sell by the pound in Iquitos.\n\n\"Surely they have lost weight,\" Chmielinski said.\n\n\"Yes,\" the man said. \"But what can you do?\" They would sell the raft as well. _Topa_ fetched a good price.\n\n\"How old are the cows?\" I asked.\n\n\"Three years.\"\n\n\"How much will you get for them?\"\n\nHe estimated a price in _soles_. At the current rate of exchange, it came to about a hundred and fifty dollars apiece.\n\nThree men, three years raising the cattle, three weeks on the river watching the cattle waste away.\n\nChmielinski said, \"That is a lot of work for not much money.\"\n\nThe man shrugged and said again, \"What can you do?\"\n\nIquitos sits on the left bank of the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n, on the outside curve of the wide, gradual right turn the river makes before it finally sets its course directly for the Atlantic, twenty-three hundred miles due east. The visitor arriving in Iquitos by boat, even if that boat is a kayak, climbs a rickety wooden stairway from the river and alights on a fading but gracious promenade that runs north along the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n for about a mile, or a third the city's length. Looking down into the river from the promenade one sees ocean-going freighters moored to floating concrete docks that rise and fall with the river, which will come up as much as thirty feet during the rainy season. Herons and egrets feed in the marsh below, and, to the east, waves break on the eleven-mile-long island, Padre, that divides the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n in two.\n\nOne senses immediately that Iquitos is at heart a river town. Indeed, it is surrounded on three sides by rivers\u2014the Nanay to the north, the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n to the east, the Itaya to the south\u2014and to the west, the only road leading out of town ends abruptly in dense jungle after about twenty miles. Consequently, Iquitos is isolated in a way that Pucallpa is not, and has retained a certain grace. The pace is slow (it is too hot to move quickly, and in any case there is nowhere to go) and the fundamental rhythm is not that of the automobile. In fact, the preferred mode of intraurban transport is the motorbike. It is not unusual to see five or six abreast on the city's half dozen main streets, with three people on one machine\u2014daughter at the helm, mother in the stern, grim-faced granny wedged snugly between them, the entire trio outfitted in dresses and heels and hurtling along the waterfront in the humid dusk.\n\nIquitos is not large as cities go, and it is not old. Though it was founded in the mid-1800s, it did not really grow until the rubber boom at the turn of the century. Still, its core has a colonial, vaguely Mediterranean tone (including a cast-iron building designed by Alexandre Gustave Eiffel and shipped from Europe in pieces); until the advent of air travel, Iquitos was closer to Europe than to Lima.\n\nSituated in strategic proximity to two great jungle highways\u2014the Napo River fifty-five miles east and the upper Mara\u00f1\u00f3n ninety miles south\u2014Iquitos became the trade capital of the Peruvian jungle. Virtually isolated from outside authority, it developed a scandalous reputation, one not wholly undeserved. There was an oil rush of sorts in the 1970s, but mostly the oil companies came up dry, and turned their attentions farther into the jungle interior. Currently, the zeitgeist is heavily influenced by the cocaine and smuggling industries. One can walk into almost any bar and find the sort of soiled expatriate or local reprobate who enables the travel writer to turn a profit on a cocktail. (I had lunch one day with a Se\u00f1or Merekike, who played the drunken cook in the film _Fitzcarraldo_. In real life, Merekike\u2014\"I slept in Mrs. Herzog's bed!\"\u2014is a drunken cook.) For all its reputation, however, and unlike Pucallpa, Iquitos does not seem wicked. If anything, it has simply refused to be influenced by any rhythms but its own, which are as unpredictable as the river itself.\n\nThe day after Chmielinski and I arrived, the city's municipal workers went on strike. They demonstrated in the central plaza, the civil guard was called out, and the air quickly filled with tear gas and voices shouting through bullhorns. According to the next day's papers, two people were wounded by gunfire. By the time the first shot was fired, however, I had already escaped around a corner, and the reports sounded flat and harmless.\n\nBut I ran anyway, ten blocks east, until I reached the riverfront promenade, which I then followed north, hoping to find the port captain's office. Chmielinski had decided that we could no longer travel the river safely without maps or charts. I walked for about half an hour. The bruised colonial facades gave way to low shacks of wood and plaster, and the streets were thick with people whose faces were surprisingly (to me) cosmopolitan\u2014black, brown, red, yellow. I stopped and had a fine lunch prepared by a Chinese man whose grandfather had come to Iquitos during the rubber boom.\n\nFive blocks farther on I found the port compound, but the guard said I was out of luck. No maps.\n\nI stood outside the chain-link fence and watched a pockmarked naval officer instruct a squad of recruits in the art of saluting the colors. When he had finished his instructions he raised the Peruvian flag. It was upside down, and within seconds the wind had wrapped it around the pole.\n\nA rotund, calmly sweating man had stopped next to me to watch this display. He was smoking a cigarette and he wore a starched white shirt, pressed cotton pants, and polished shoes.\n\n\"Poor Peru,\" he said in Spanish. He nodded toward the flag. \"We defeat ourselves.\"\n\n\"Peru cannot find herself,\" I said.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\nI told him about the problems we were having on the river, the trouble finding our way, the villages that disappeared.\n\n\"You need a map,\" he said.\n\n\"Where do we get one?\"\n\n\"You don't. There are no maps.\"\n\n\"What do the big boats use? Or the navy?\"\n\n\"Luck. Prayer. Smell. But they would never try anything as ridiculous as your trip. Why do you do this thing?\"\n\nI didn't have a good answer. To stand in Iquitos and say I was looking for adventure seemed trite. Off the top of my head I said I was writing a travel story for a magazine, and mentioned one for which I often worked. His eyes widened. He said he was a professional guide and had once spent three weeks with a writer from that very magazine. I did not believe him until he told me the writer's name, which I recognized.\n\n\"Maybe I can help you, too,\" he said. He led me down the street and into a bar and said, \"Wait here.\" He disappeared in the direction of the port compound.\n\nThe bar was little more than a shack, but it had cold beer and a videocassette player. Six blank-faced peasant men dressed in ragged denims and sandals sat before the screen, intent on the one man who seemed to have the potential to unseat Tarzan as Cinema King of the Jungle\u2014Indiana Jones. There was no sound, but they did not react when I joined them. My friend returned while Harrison Ford was suspended above a snake pit.\n\n\"Come,\" he said.\n\nIt was dark now. Stumbling, I followed him down the street, through a door, and into a courtyard. Three old women sat in wicker chairs, fanning themselves. They smiled. We walked past them into a room. The man closed and bolted the door, pulled the curtains, and lit a candle, which he placed on the floor. The room had no furniture.\n\nHe pulled something that looked like a scroll from beneath his jacket and rolled it partially open on the floor.\n\nThe scroll was actually a spool of butcher paper about two feet wide. On it someone had drawn, in pencil, a river chart, at a scale of about 1:100,000. It included towns, islands, and channels, and a trail of arrows showed at precisely which point between the banks the current ran swiftest. The chart began at Iquitos.\n\n\"How far does it go?\" I asked.\n\n\"To Manaus,\" the man said. \"It is new. This is the only copy. The river changes course so much that any chart more than a month old is out of date. Every few weeks the navy sends out a boat with a chart-making team. A friend of mine works on the boat. During the last trip he traced this from the original. Do you want it?\"\n\nIf the chart was even half as accurate as it appeared to be, it was, at least to us, invaluable.\n\n\"How much?\" I asked.\n\n\"Twenty dollars.\"\n\nI opened my wallet and began counting out _soles_.\n\n\"Dollars,\" he said. \"American.\"\n\nI fished out my emergency stash, a U.S. twenty hidden in my shoe, and gave it to him.\n\n\"Good,\" he said. \"Be careful. The navy considers this chart classified information. If they find you with it, there will be trouble.\"\n\nI tucked the chart under my shirt. It bulged.\n\n\"One more thing,\" the man said. \"If you know anyone who needs my assistance, please send them to me. But do not tell them about the chart.\" He gave me his card, which I tucked in my shirt pocket unread, and opened the door. I left.\n\nIn the dark street every popping motorbike engine sounded like a gunshot, and the half-hour walk back to our hostel seemed interminable.\n\nDurrant and Bzdak had arrived in Iquitos five days before us, their voyage on the _Jhuliana_ punctuated by a twenty-four-hour poker game and loud disco music. They had a bundle of mail for me, my first communication from the States in two and a half months, since Cuzco. I sat in a soda fountain with them and drank milk shakes. While they watched television (Tarzan, of course, though this time a color, late-fifties version I didn't recognize), I read my mail. An uncle had died, a favorite aunt had cancer, my girlfriend loved me but was getting lonely, my dog no longer responded to the mention of my name.\n\nWhen we returned to our hostel Durrant filled my medical kit with malaria tablets, sterile wipes and dressings, packets of rehydration powder, mosquito repellent, antivenin, syringes, and splints. In addition, she had found in Iquitos _sangre de grado_ , literally \"blood of the dragon.\" It is a kind of resin that when applied to wounds forms an elastic skin. She also outfitted us with a cedar oil said to be excellent for massaging sore joints and muscles (and was to prove particularly effective in combination with a half liter or so of _pisco_ ). She and Bzdak had sewn up sheets for us to use as bedding in the tropical nights.\n\nI was alone in the hostel courtyard the next morning, packing these supplies into my kayak, when a man approached me. He looked Peruvian (short and dark), but he also looked like something of a pimp\u2014he wore reflecting aviator sunglasses and an expensive watch with a band that was too thick for his thin wrists. As most people did, he inquired about my kayak. After I had explained the rudder and the storage system, he asked, \"Are you having trouble with your visa?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, but it was a lie. All four of our Brazilian visas had long since expired, and we were having difficulty renewing them. In addition, the Brazilian consul, whose diplomatic passport had apparently been rejected once in Miami, was getting his revenge at my expense. I had visited his office three times and been told each time to return the next day. But I considered this no one's business but ours.\n\n\"Is Piotr Chmielinski here?\" the man asked. I was surprised to hear him pronounce the tricky Polish name flawlessly.\n\n\"No,\" I said again. This time it was the truth. In fact, Chmielinski was at that moment running between Peruvian and Brazilian offices trying to negotiate our visas.\n\nThe man left, but he returned later that afternoon, while Chmielinski and I were making the last repairs on our boats. The two men spoke in Polish, Chmielinski wearing what I now recognized as his don't-get-in-my-face face.\n\nThe man walked over to me and examined the gear laid out around my kayak.\n\n\"American tent,\" he said in Spanish. \"No good. A toy. I have a strong Polish tent.\" He looked at Chmielinski as if for approval, but received only a hard stare.\n\n\"Strong like these kayaks,\" the man continued. \"Good Polish craftsmanship.\"\n\nChmielinski said, \"The kayaks are American.\"\n\n\"That cannot be true,\" the man said.\n\n\"It is true,\" Chmielinski said. \"The best you can get.\"\n\nThe man started to reply, thought better of it, and turned on his heel to leave. At the courtyard gate he said, \"I am in the next building if you need me.\"\n\nChmielinski said nothing after the man left. We worked in silence until I finished gluing new foam rubber to the seat of my boat. Then I coaxed an explanation from him. He said the man was based in Peru as part of an unofficial wing of the Polish consulate. When Chmielinski's Polish expedition had first come to Peru, the man had shepherded them through the country. \"Then we learned that he is spying on us everywhere. Asking questions, scaring our Peruvian friends. We break with him. And then after Solidarity we had the big demonstration in Lima. Now he is always watching.\"\n\nHe would not tell me more.\n\nWe left Iquitos four days before Christmas, having arranged to meet Bzdak and Durrant at the Brazilian border. It is Polish custom to keep a Christmas tree through the end of February, and to that end Chmielinski had glued a couple of three-inch, wire-trunk trees to the noses of our boats. \"Joe, maybe one day you will find a present under that!\"\n\nWe dragged the kayaks to the promenade and down the wooden steps, waded knee-deep into the marsh, and shoved off for Brazil, three hundred and thirty miles east.\n\nA strong current sucked us along the waterfront, through a fleet of peeling-paint riverboats, waterlogged _peque-peques_ , and rusting ghost freighters. Then we were beyond the city's northern edge, past swamps and rice fields where sad-faced men standing knee-deep in the river watched us as if they had nothing better to do. The city ended abruptly, jamming up against the bush, which rose in giant broccolilike spears. Over the next ten miles the odd cattle ranch sprawled amid the spears like a neon-green carpet, but otherwise the wide, flat Mara\u00f1\u00f3n felt deserted. The bush thickened to a band of black satin, and once, the dim honk and boom of trumpet and drum jumped from it and someone shouted, but we could not see him. After the crowded streets of Iquitos the river seemed a lonely place.\n\nLate the next day we passed, to our left, the mouth of the Napo River. A Spaniard, Francisco de Orellana, sailed down the Napo from Ecuador in 1542 on what would become the first recorded navigation of the Amazon from the Andes to the Atlantic. His looting and killing set the tone for the subsequent conquest of the basin, and his scrivener, Friar Carvajal, inadvertently named the great river through his fanciful account of a conflict with women warriors who sounded suspiciously like the Amazons of Greek myth. They were \"very white and tall, and have hair very long and braided and wound about the head, and they are very robust and go about naked, but with their privy parts covered, with their bows and arrows in their hands, doing as much fighting as ten Indian men.\"\n\nWe made camp near the Napo, at the _caser\u00edo_ , or river hamlet, of Se\u00f1or Fausto Ramirez, his wife, and their thirteen children. In our honor the Ramirez family hung a transistor radio directly above our tents. Like most Peruvian radios this one had three volume levels\u2014loud, louder, and _amigos norteamericanos_.\n\nBefore we retired, we were also treated to a dog fight. As the family gathered around, a black dog and white dog converged in a bloody dynamo in front of the _caser\u00edo_ , a spectacle that ended with the black sinking its fangs into the white's throat. The white went down with a spooky death rattle.\n\nNo one had said a word during the fight, and when it was over they left in silence, all but Fausto's shy wife, who until then had answered our many questions\u2014What is your name? What will the weather be tomorrow? How many children do you have?\u2014with either _\"Si, se\u00f1or\"_ or _\"No, se\u00f1or.\"_\n\nNow she murmured that the white dog had been hers.\n\n\"What did you call it?\" Chmielinski asked.\n\nShe mumbled something in a small voice. We moved closer, and she repeated it: \"Gringo.\"\n\nBy the evening of our third day out of Iquitos we were still a hundred and seventy miles short of the border and in trouble. Chmielinski's Peruvian visa, which he had been unable to extend, would expire at midnight the next night. If we did not reach the border by then, he risked jail.\n\nKnowing this, we had paddled long, hard hours, and I was grumpy and exhausted from the work of it. I was not at all happy at dusk that third day, when, as the three-quarter moon rose to a chorus of frogs, Chmielinski announced that we would paddle through the night. We found a beach and stopped to rest and eat. Silent and petulant, I let Chmielinski do all the cooking.\n\nAn hour later we returned to the river. Night had fallen and the moon lit the jungle canopy, but down at water level bush and river had melted into one black, silent belt.\n\nAfter paddling in near silence for two hours we took a floating break. I fell asleep. I awoke to Chmielinski whistling \"Silent Night\" and towing my kayak.\n\n\"I can paddle myself,\" I said, and did just that, but at a slow, sulking pace. I wanted to find a beach, bathe, stretch out in my tent, study the moon. I wanted peace and rest. Chmielinski's relentless good cheer only soured me further.\n\nI let him travel a few yards ahead of me and ran through some games devised long ago for this sort of situation. I tried to remember all the lyrics to a favorite record album, but when I got stuck on \"Grabbed my coat, put on my hat, made the bus in seconds flat\" I decided instead to rebuild my apartment board by board\u2014 _These French doors will certainly look nice_ \u2014thought about cars (I detest cars), calculated the monthly payments on a new Porsche. Then I contented myself with listening to the _slap... slap... slap_ of paddle on water.\n\nWhen I woke up Chmielinski was no longer in front of me.\n\nI saw a light to my left and one to my right. I paddled toward the left and yelled. No answer. I paddled right, but that light suddenly disappeared.\n\nI panicked.\n\nI tried to recall what the chart, which Chmielinski carried on his boat, had looked like when we had consulted it back at the beach. There was supposed to be an island coming up, with the main current bearing to the right of it. I aimed for what I guessed was the river's right bank and paddled hard until I heard music and yelling and suddenly realized how alone and vulnerable I was. I retreated to what I guessed was the middle of the river.\n\n\"Goddamnit, Piotr!\" I shouted, and caught myself.\n\nSomething flapped past my head.\n\nIn the moonlight I made out the silhouette of what appeared to be an island. I sighed with relief. Surely Chmielinski would be waiting there. But the harder I paddled, the farther away the island seemed to be, as if it were running from me. Then a cloud blotted out the moon and the island disappeared.\n\nIn the blackness I couldn't tell whether I was paddling upstream or down, and that paralyzed me. I was afraid to turn my head for fear of losing what little sense of direction I still had. I stopped paddling and drifted. I _do not belong here_ , I thought. _I belong at home, in a bar, walking my dog and teaching her my name. I belong somewhere with some LIGHT_. Instead I was stuck in the blackest part of the night in the blackest part of that black hemisphere, only a thin skin of cold plastic separating me from...\n\nMy kayak bumped something and stopped.\n\nI reached with my paddle and prodded whatever it was.\n\nSand.\n\nI stepped from my boat and sank to my shins, but two steps farther on it held me. When I looked into the night, however, the night looked back at me, a black plane dissolving into heartless silence. I couldn't tell where the sand began or ended.\n\nI dug in my boat and found my flashlight. The batteries were dead.\n\nGingerly, I paced off an area large enough to hold my tent and boat. I groped in my boat and found my tent and the candle that was stored in it and set up camp. I had been on the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n at least fifteen hours that day and should have collapsed in sleep, but I lay awake worrying that the river would flood, or a storm would hit, or that someone had followed me. I got up and tied my tent to my boat. I opened my pocket knife and lashed it to my wrist.\n\nThen I went out hard.\n\nI woke up with the sun broiling me to a sizzle. My head ached, my mouth was so dry I couldn't swallow, I couldn't move my right arm, and my hands were asleep and swollen into half-moons the circumference of my paddle shaft.\n\nI slithered out of the sweatbox tent and tried to get my bearings. I had camped on a finger of sand about ten yards by five, dead in the middle of the river, the banks more than a mile to either side. The sky held no clouds. It would be a long, hot, brutal day.\n\nA vulture circled, swooped low, appraised me, and landed at the tip of my island. I grabbed my paddle and chased after it, screaming, \"No way, asshole!\" It jumped in the air and circled slowly a few feet overhead.\n\nPanic boiled in my stomach. _This is the way a crazy man acts_ , I thought, and then, _Order. I need order_.\n\nI unpacked my boat, concentrating hard on every movement, as if that might block out my fear. My hands shook. I set everything out to dry, sponged out the boat, scrubbed the cockpit, checked the water bucket. Nearly full. I forced down a liter.\n\nI dove into the river, washed, dried naked in the sun. I inventoried my resources. The lunch bucket held two cans of cooked rice, three chocolate bars, and a can of sardines. Three _comidas pl\u00e1sticas_ were crammed into the kayak's nose. I opened a bag of sweet-and-sour pork, mashed it cold with a bag of rice, and made myself eat it.\n\nWe had traveled forty miles that first day out of Iquitos, sixty miles each of the next two days, and, I estimated, thirty miles the night before. That left a hundred and forty miles to the border. With luck, two days.\n\nI packed my boat and set off, but I found myself paddling tentatively, as if not fully committed to the task. The circulation had returned to my hands, but I couldn't raise my arms above my chest, and my wrists crackled. The sky, a hot, depressing blue, offered no hint of relief. I longed for the happy gray of clouds and rain.\n\nMy intuition said Chmielinski was all right, but I felt like a complete fool. I had set off to chronicle an expedition, and now I was alone on the river. Though I had imagined the journey playing out in dozens of different scenarios, this had never been one of them.\n\nI stopped paddling, drifted, dozed. I woke up when the boat rocked and almost tipped over. Four-foot waves were rolling to my bow and the sky had blackened to something close to night. Here was the storm I had longed for. It scared the bejesus out of me.\n\nI scrambled into my rain suit and secured the spray skirt around my waist and cockpit. Reeds fluttering on the horizon signaled a shallows, with luck a beach. I plowed toward them, punching head-on through the rollers, and hit sand as the sky let loose. I dragged my boat up on the beach, sat in it, and let the storm pound me.\n\nAfter it had passed I heard voices behind me and turned in my seat to find a leather-faced peasant and a small boy studying me as if I were choice driftwood.\n\n\"Where are his legs?\" the boy asked the man.\n\nThe man said, \"He doesn't have any.\"\n\n\"Hello,\" I said. I stayed in the boat and showed them the compass affixed to my deck.\n\n\"Always north,\" the man said. \"A miracle.\"\n\n\"How far to Brazil?\" I asked.\n\n\"Two hours,\" the boy said.\n\n\"Two days,\" the man said, \"but you must be very careful. Stay to the Peruvian side. The Colombians are all drug runners and hoodlums. They will shoot you.\"\n\nBefore I had come to Peru, of course, that was exactly what I had been told about Peruvians.\n\nBut after I thanked them and put back into the river, I could not deny that I was entering strange new country. The river itself had straightened out below Iquitos\u2014there were few of the Ucayali's maddening curves\u2014but it was chocked with islands so long it often took hours to paddle their length. I would forget that the land I saw was an island, until suddenly it fell away, and the true bank appeared a mile or two in the distance. In those moments, my known world abruptly redefined, I felt deceived.\n\nIn late afternoon the river narrowed into a long chute perhaps a mile wide, the current increased from one knot to about three, the islands disappeared, and I sped through a no-man's land. On my right, to the south, lay Peru, its bush thick and solid save for an occasional thatch hut and dugout canoe. On the north bank, however, most of the bush had disappeared. Colombia. A procession of sleek powerboats plied the bank, and I saw one sprawling ranch after another, their stately white houses and fat cattle a wealthy contrast to Peru's pitiful huts and ribby beasts. In front of each hacienda stood a large dock. If I were writing a novel and needed a setting for a drug baron's headquarters, I would think: This.\n\nSo I was surprised when the bullets flew from the Peruvian side.\n\nAt first I heard only the gun's report, to my right. On the bank, a few hundred yards from my boat, a half dozen figures were jumping up and down and waving their arms. _So long, bozos_. I was in no mood to perform for a bunch of trigger-happy Peruvians. I paddled south as hard and fast as I could.\n\nThis, of course, was not fast at all.\n\nA bullet hissed across my bow. They were not aiming for my cute little Christmas tree. Past them but still in range, I turned upstream and raised my arms.\n\n\"Don't shoot!\" I yelled.\n\nThey shot again.\n\nThey stopped shooting when I put my hands down and began to paddle toward them. When I landed I saw that they were sailors. Boys. The sergeant, who held the only rifle, could not have been nineteen years old.\n\n\"Merry Christmas,\" he said.\n\nHe led me to a watchtower. Inside sat a desk and a man, and on the man's shoulder a parrot that had shit down the back of his shirt. As I entered, the man swung around to face me. He wore officer's insignia, mirror sunglasses, a pencil mustache, and greased black hair combed straight back.\n\n\"Your friend left this for you,\" he said.\n\nHe gave me a paper bag with half a loaf of stale bread, a candle, a hand-drawn map, and a note: \"Joe\u2014Meet you at border\u2014Piotr.\"\n\nThere were other uniforms to appease. Civil guard, customs, port captain. One rickety shack corresponded to each. I knocked on the door that said _Guardia Civil_. No answer. A little girl was watching me.\n\n\"Where are they?\" I asked.\n\n\"Drunk,\" she said. \"Make more noise.\"\n\nI banged again, harder, until a young man opened the door and zipped his pants. Behind him, a half dozen bodies of both sexes lounged on cots, and empty beer bottles littered the floor.\n\n\"Kayak Two has arrived!\" he announced, and one by one the bodies rose and came to the door and shook my hand. Someone gave me a list of boats that had passed the checkpoint. The last name on the list, written in Chmielinski's hand, was _Kayaka Dos_.\n\nI put my initials next to it, the man gave me a papaya, and I left. I knocked once at customs and once at the port captain's office, received no response, and continued right on down to the bank and my boat. The boy who had shot at me did not ask to see my papers, but he did wish me luck.\n\n\"Why did you shoot?\" I asked as I untied _Kayaka Dos_.\n\n\"Look,\" he said, and pointed along the bank to a dock and, farther along, to two dugout canoes.\n\n\"What?\" I asked.\n\n\"No boats.\"\n\nSo that was it. Two canoes, but no real boats. The navy, the civil guard, the port captain. Here at the border, in the heart of cocaine country, none of them had boats.\n\nBut they had guns.\n\nNot until I was well into the middle of the river did I stop shaking.\n\nAt sunset I beached near a big, stinking mangrove log, jumped up and down on it to chase out the snakes (with no proof that the act was more than superstition), dragged my boat behind the log, and erected my tent. I did not build a fire. Later, after dark, I heard voices and a motor idling in the water, but they moved on. I heard shooting all through the night but dismissed this as the unfettered joy of Christmas. I dozed. Twice I woke to a loud scratching sound beneath my tent, but whatever it had been was gone in the morning.\n\nI felt strong and paddled all morning without a break. The river widened slightly. I passed wild, uninhabited islands and heard the wind-over-glacier roars of howler monkeys. I stuck to the Peruvian side until I miscalculated the current and got sucked around an island into what I had come to think of as the Godfather Zone, within shouting distance of one of the Colombian haciendas. I saw a dock with three powerboats and several men, and heard them laughing. I thought I saw one point at me.\n\nSuddenly a motor-powered wooden dory heading upstream veered away from the Colombian bank, directly for me. I froze. But it was a boatload of Indians, and they waved as they passed.\n\nAt the island's far end\u2014I could not reach it fast enough\u2014I cut back to the Peruvian side. My Peru! The wind picked up, the river grew choppy. Three men in a canoe drew alongside me. I was glad to see them. Chmielinski's crude map had been useless.\n\nThe man in front grabbed my bow.\n\n\"Ello meester,\" he said. \"My frin.\"\n\n\"Merry Christmas,\" I said in Spanish.\n\nHe said, also in Spanish, \"Do you have any brandy?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where are you from?\"\n\n\"The United States.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Brazil.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nAs I described my trip it sounded frivolous. I felt sure these peasants would see it only as a rich man's indulgence. When I said that I had been on the river four months, the man turned to his friends and gave a low whistle. He had not let go of my bow.\n\nHe said, \"You are CIA.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"DEA.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nI was surprised that he was so familiar with the acronyms of U.S. government agencies, but I should not have been. In 1982, under heavy pressure from the Reagan administration and with the assistance of U.S. advisers, the Bela\u00fande government had instituted several programs intended to curtail the coca industry. Drug barons and peasants had combined to oppose the programs, with predictable results\u2014in one incident, nineteen anti-coca workers were murdered in their sleep. That the government campaign ultimately proved as ineffectual as it was unpopular was, on the whole, a function of economics. In 1985, Peru had an international debt of $14 billion, legal exports of less than $3 billion, and coca exports of $800 million. A peasant could earn about four and a half dollars a day picking coca, or three to four times what he could make any other way, assuming he could find other work. A coca farmer made five times what he would growing the next-most-profitable crop, cacao. And these were the people at the bottom of the drug pyramid. Profits for the _narcotraficantes_ themselves were, of course, enormous.\n\n\"No DEA,\" I said. \"No CIA.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said. \"What do you think of Alan?\"\n\n\"He is intelligent and brave.\"\n\nThe man smiled. Suddenly he gripped my wrist, hard. My spine stiffened.\n\n\"Good luck,\" he said.\n\nThen he and his friends turned upstream and paddled away.\n\nFor the next several hours I cleaved to the Peruvian bank and saw no one until the middle of the afternoon, when the bush broke to reveal a cluster of huts. I asked a couple of kids the distance to Puerto Alegr\u00eda, the last military checkpoint before the border. I did not want to miss it. I had learned my lesson.\n\n\"This is Puerto Alegr\u00eda,\" one of them said.\n\n\"Joe!\"\n\nChmielinski ran down the bank and hauled my kayak back up before I could disembark. He handed me a cold bottle of beer, and, as sometimes happened when he was excited, he lost the careful discipline of his English.\n\n\"I know you are not feeling so happy that night,\" he said as he put my boat, and me, down. \"So I try to leave you alone. You are singing\"\u2014he hummed _Grabbed my coat, put on my hat_ \u2014\"and so I go little bit ahead. I fall asleep, I wake up. Where is that Joe? Nothing! I shine my flash\u2014you are gone! I see lights, I go to this place where the people have the skin falling up.\"\n\n\"A leper colony?\"\n\n\"Yah, you got it that. Leperds! I wait three hours. I paddle up-strim, downstrim, no Joe. I see a _canoa_ , I ask them they see you. This stupid guy grabs my boat. But very quiet-like I am holding _canoa_ away with my paddle. Then this stupid guy he says he wants a present. He wants _dinero_. I say no.\n\n\"Then I see other _canoa!_ Coming fast! I push first stupid guy away, but he will not let it that go, so I take paddle, and\"\u2014he made a motion like a man chopping wood\u2014\"I break it that stupid guy's hand! He is screaming!\n\n\"Here comes other _canoa_. I am pushing on my paddle, and I cut between them. First stupid guy is yelling, 'Grab heem! Grab that guy!' But I am right for front of other boat. He thinks I am going to hit heem, but\u2014ha!\u2014I use rudder. I turn like it that fast to the left. Now I am really pushing, so fast they know nothing. I have twenty-meter lead. I am running for next hour and they cannot follow. Ha!\n\n\"When I am safe, I am thinking again, where is that Joe? I think there is not much for you I can do. I leave the map and bread, and then I am going for it. That is the right expression?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe had, in all, paddled forty hours straight through, taking catnaps in the boat when he could no longer keep his eyes open, and in that time he had traveled about two hundred and thirty miles. He had arrived here at the border at eleven o'clock at night, one hour before his deadline. It had been a terrible pace. Clearly I had had the better end of the deal.\n\n\"Joe, you are not making it here tonight, I am hiring motor to find you. I am not going into that Brazil without you!\"\n\nPuerto Alegr\u00eda had barracks for five hundred men built on platforms and stilts and connected by duckwalks, the whole of it winding through the bush like a maze, but only twenty men were in residence, all of them anxious to leave. Most came from Lima and served this isolated jungle duty on one-month rotation. Still, it was Christmas, which meant hot soup and cold beer and snapshots and toasts.\n\nSuddenly, the skies opened up. When the storm ended the soldiers hauled our boats down to the river and waved us toward the border.\n\n\"Good luck in Brazil!\" the base commander shouted as we left. \"All they do is dance and fuck!\"\n\n# 16 \u2022 The Solim\u00f5es\n\nNight was falling, and paddling away from Puerto Alegr\u00eda we kept the black wall of a six-mile-long island, Rondina, to our left, blocking us from Leticia, Colombia's only port on the Amazon. By reputation, Leticia's sole industry is smuggling\u2014mainly Peruvian coca paste (in), and processed cocaine (out), but also jewelry, counterfeit money, rare-animal skins, and just about anything else easily transported by boat up or down the Amazon and through the hundreds of local inlets and streams that make detection or pursuit almost impossible.\n\nA mile beyond Rondina we corrected course for the flickering lights of Tabatinga, the Brazilian garrison town that abuts Leticia. An unanticipated reward awaited us. The Brazilian military runs Tabatinga's best hotel (one of three), and Bzdak and Durrant, who had arrived two days earlier on a riverboat from Iquitos, had befriended the general. He in turn had given them the run of the kitchen. At midnight, having taken my first hot shower in five months (as I stood too long under the nozzle, Chmielinski, waiting his turn outside, fumed, \"Joe, you are drowning?\"), I sat down to a Christmas dinner of Polish sausage, roast chicken, borscht, potato salad, fresh tomatoes, Brazilian wine, and shots of Polish vodka.\n\nIn the morning, the four of us walked through dusty Tabatinga, which looked about like any small jungle town, and crossed the border into Leticia, which did not. Smart boutiques sold French dresses and Italian shoes; other shops displayed Jack Daniels whiskey, Japanese cameras, and American chocolate bars\u2014\"Sneekers! The best!\" Chmielinski exclaimed, and bought two cases. Down on the waterfront, sleek fiberglass speedboats outnumbered the _peque-peques_ and Johnsons, and men in silk shirts, designer blue jeans, and strong cologne strolled the dirt road along the bank or paraded in four-wheel-drive Chevrolets and Jeeps. The rates at the city's one hotel, the Anaconda (built by an American adventurer suspected by the DEA to be a drug trafficker), were five times those in Tabatinga.\n\nWe stopped for beer in a waterfront shanty run by a young Brazilian, Jo\u00e3o, who had been raised in an orphanage in Manaus, nine hundred miles downriver. When he was thirteen he had heard his mother was in Tabatinga, and had come looking for her.\n\n\"All I found was this,\" he said in English, gesturing at the shanty's warped cardboard walls. \"I have to get out.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Too much _matando,_ \" he said, and made a shooting motion.\n\nThe next day, Chmielinski worked a lucrative black-market deal with the Brazilian general, who for a pittance in American cash forgot that we had stayed in his hotel. He also let Chmielinski use his telephone, through which we learned that the residents of Casper, Wyoming, the Poles' adopted hometown, were raising money for us to complete the expedition.\n\nWith that windfall looming, we decided to invest the bulk of our remaining funds in a small boat for Durrant and Bzdak, so they could accompany us downriver for a few days. They had seen little but towns and cities for the last month, and Bzdak wanted to photograph some wilder sections of river.\n\nBzdak hired a Johnson captained by a wily, mustachioed man named Felix. I say wily; not until we were twenty miles downriver did Felix admit that his fifteen-foot dory was, in fact, \"borrowed.\" Meanwhile, for a fraction of what Bzdak had paid him, Felix in turn had hired a mechanic and driver named Ram\u00f3n, a quiet boy who wore rags but could break down and reassemble the seven-horse outboard in an hour. Felix, for his part, was to spend most of the journey honing his own particular river skills, which ran to drinking, smoking, and sleeping.\n\nThe Johnson shot ahead of the kayaks, stopped, drifted. We caught up and passed it, it passed us and waited again. In this herky-jerky manner we proceeded two days into Brazil.\n\n\"You hire me,\" Felix said that second afternoon, \"but you ride in those things.\" He pointed to the kayaks and shook his head. \"While I drink beer.\" He rummaged on the boat's floor.\n\n\"Can I swim here, Felix?\" I asked. \"Is it safe?\"\n\nHe threw his cigarette in the river and peered over the side of the boat, looking for I don't know what\u2014the water was far too brown to see anything at all.\n\n\"Sure,\" he said, and opened a beer. \"You can swim here.\"\n\n\"Why don't you join me?\"\n\nHe took a long swallow and thought for a moment. \"No thanks,\" he said. \"Who knows what the hell is in there?\" He leaned back against the stern and took another swallow. \"Why make problems?\"\n\nDuring those two days the four of us regained much of the closeness we had felt on the raft. That second night, my birthday, we bought a ten-pound catfish from a fisherman (for about a dollar), made camp on a pretty beach, and cooked the fish for dinner. Later, Durrant and Bzdak gave me a machete and a beautifully worked leather scabbard they had purchased in Leticia. It was a gift as practical as it was handsome. After our harrowing Christmas, Chmielinski and I had decided we should carry some sort of weapons.\n\nThe next day we reached S\u00e3o Paulo de Oliven\u00e7a, a small town about a hundred and twenty miles from the border. Felix returned to Tabatinga, Durrant and Bzdak checked into S\u00e3o Paulo's two-dollar-a-night hotel to wait for a passenger ship, and we made a rough plan to meet two weeks downriver, in Coari.\n\nAt the dock that afternoon, before we left, Durrant took me aside. \"Don't let Piotr push you too hard,\" she said. \"He's setting a mean pace. I'm worried the two of you will burn out.\"\n\n\"You should tell him.\"\n\n\"He won't hear it. So take care of yourself, okay? And keep an eye on him. I think he's more tired than he lets on.\"\n\nI promised to do that, and Chmielinski and I resumed our routine. The following morning the alarm clock blasted me awake at three-thirty\u2014I had been dreaming that one of my brothers and I had been sentenced to prison\u2014and when I tried to make breakfast, I could not get the dirty stove to light. When it finally went off (I did not see the puddle of fuel collecting at its base), it went off like a fireball, followed by my curses, the squawking of terrified birds, and a wild-eyed Chmielinski bolting from his tent and screaming, \"Joe, don't kill yourself _now!_ \"\n\nAt the border Brazil shares with Colombia and Peru, the river becomes the Solim\u00f5es, and from there zigzags east some twelve hundred miles through the state of Amazonas. Brazilians consider Amazonas their Wild West. About the size of Alaska, with fewer people than Philadelphia, it contains some 20 percent of Brazil's land mass but less than 1 percent of its population; aside from the cities of Manaus and Tef\u00e9, and a few small towns like Tabatinga, S\u00e3o Paulo, and Coari, it is nearly uninhabited. Given that, the proximity of Iquitos (which has a duty-free port), the influence of Leticia, and the hefty taxes Brazil levies on foreign goods, a comfortable living can be made running contraband boat engines, transistor radios, hand tools, stereos, televisions, clothes, motorcycles, and crates of produce along the Solim\u00f5es. A smugglers' code governs life on the river.\n\nThat morning, seeking directions, Chmielinski overtook a dugout canoe. It raced for the bank and a man jumped out and shouldered a rifle. He relaxed when Chmielinski explained himself, but as we left, he yelled out, \"Be careful! The river is full of bandits!\"\n\nAfter that, when we met traffic I hung back in my kayak, secured my paddle, and put my hands under my deck. If Chmielinski felt at all threatened, he mentioned that I was armed and nodded in my direction\u2014a signal for me to squint into the bush as if sighting a target. Though nervous during these charades, at times I had to fight to keep from laughing out loud. I had not touched a gun since I was a kid.\n\nThe forest along the Solim\u00f5es may be the lushest on the Amazon. The trees tend to be tall, well over fifty feet, and the bush thicker than any I had seen in Peru. Our second day below S\u00e3o Paulo we paddled dawn to dusk without spotting a single hut. The river itself was perplexing. In the parlance of the Amazon, the Solim\u00f5es is a \"white\" river, thick with Andean silt, which gives it a coffee-and-cream color. The silty deposits have made the _v\u00e1rzea_ , as the Amazon floodplain is known, a jigsaw puzzle of natural levees and ditches (variously called _furos, paran\u00e1s_ , and _canals_ ). Navigation can be confusing, and there are few beaches on which to camp.\n\nThat night, New Year's Eve, we traveled until dark before picking up the lights of a cattle ranch, but the frightened owner would not let us stay. We pitched camp on the bank below the ranch, in a fetid puddle of mud and clay. The air reeked of manure and mud stuck like paint to anything it touched. Blackflies competed fiercely with mosquitoes for their pound of flesh.\n\nWe took what comfort we could from the routine of making camp. We erected tents, stretched a line between them, hung up life jackets and rainsuits to dry, drew water, brewed tea, sponged out our boats. Chmielinski cooked chili, and the two of us sat on a muddy log and ate it.\n\n\"In Poland this is the biggest day of the year,\" he said. \"In Krakow everyone is dancing. The relatives are together eating a big dinner. But never are they eating chili.\"\n\n\"Do you miss them?\"\n\n\"Yes. And they are missing me. Every year for six years they are leaving one plate empty on the table.\"\n\n\"For you.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Someday maybe it will not be empty.\"\n\n\"That is something I cannot think about. It will make me crazy.\"\n\n\"Have they ever been able to visit you?\"\n\n\"No, but they are remembering me.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they are.\"\n\n\"Happy New Year, Joe.\"\n\n\"Happy New Year, Piotr.\"\n\nAfter dinner we heard distant gunshots, and that night we slept with machetes at our sides, though I did not know what I would do if I had to use mine. Frogs croaked, nightbirds yawped, bats whirred (Durrant had given me a three-shot rabies prophylaxis against these), and though I dove into my tent as fast as I could, had the netting unzipped for perhaps fifteen seconds, an insect zoo managed to establish itself on the underside of my tent ceiling. By candlelight I saw two enormous red ants, a winged ant that looked like a termite, a squadron of gnats, two black moths, and three fat mosquitoes that became red Rorschach blots on page fifty-two of my third notebook. The disturbed survivors flitted and buzzed until I settled down to sleep.\n\nLate in the night a boat engine idled offshore, and a bright light ran over our camp. Voices argued loudly, but the boat sped away when Chmielinski ran down the bank.\n\nLater still, peering through his mosquito netting, Chmielinski spotted two shadows slouching through the mud right next to our camp. He grabbed his machete, sneaked silently from his tent, and pounced, simultaneously raising his machete and switching on his flashlight to blind our attackers, who proved to be\u2014\n\n\"\u2014the life jackets, Joe! They are blowing on the drying line, I am thinking they are trying to get us!\"\n\nBy eight the next morning a fierce headwind had whipped the river into chop and waves that reduced our speed by a third. Buried in the troughs, I lost sight of Chmielinski, though he paddled only a few feet in front of me. I could not time my stroke. At the moment I pushed hardest, expecting my paddle to bite water, it bit nothing but air. Then, accelerating, it struck the water awkwardly. Executing several thousand such strokes wore me out. When my paddle hit water the shock ran through wrist, up forearm, along shoulder, into neck, and erupted through lips in a frustrated oath.\n\nMeanwhile, five days and two hundred and fifty miles into Amazonas, the clay banks occasionally gave way to low sandstone bluffs, and here and there a sturdy plank-and-frame house sat defiantly on stilts, right over the water. At the mouth of the I\u00e7a River we passed a mile-long village, Santo Ant\u00f4nio. The main street ran between houses of brick and wood and ended at either edge of town. As we paddled by, I watched a Volkswagen bug drive slowly along the street, turn around, drive back, turn, and so on, like a plastic duck at a shooting gallery.\n\nPerhaps a dozen settlements dot the six hundred miles of river between S\u00e3o Paulo and Coari, most of them hidden up swamps and small tributaries, and all of them poor. Alan Holman, an Australian who made a solo kayak descent of the flatwater Amazon in 1982, measured these villages according to how many eggs he could purchase. A six-egg village was an oasis.\n\nAt the store in no-egg Porto Alfonso three men were leaning against empty shelves, drinking bottles of the raw cane spirit called _cacha\u00e7a_. One asked Chmielinski where we were going.\n\n\"Bel\u00e9m,\" Chmielinski said.\n\n\"Where do you sleep?\" another asked.\n\n\"In houses, or on a beach.\"\n\nThe third man did not look up from his bottle. \"Where are you sleeping tonight?\" he asked.\n\n\"Maybe Fonte Boa.\"\n\n\"You will not get there today.\"\n\n\"A beach, then.\"\n\n\"That could be dangerous.\"\n\n\"We have big guns,\" Chmielinski said, \"and we are twelve.\"\n\n\"Where are the rest?\"\n\n\"With the soldiers.\"\n\n\"Soldiers?\"\n\n\"In the airplane. The one that follows us.\"\n\nThe first man asked, \"How do they know where you are?\"\n\n\"Radio.\"\n\nAs we left the shack we met a distinguished-looking man (he wore shoes), a Colombian engineer surveying a nearby tributary for a dam. \"Three weeks, no eggs!\" he said in English. \"No food, nothing.\" He was living on instant rice.\n\nThe lepers who inhabited Ilha do Jardim\u2014Garden Island\u2014said that a drought had left them short of food, but they gave us six papayas and three bunches of bananas. The bananas were delicious (in the heat of the day they were often the only food I could keep down), but later, when I tried to eat one of the soft ripe papayas, I thought of those people, the skin dripping off their faces, and though I felt guilty for it threw the fruit in the river.\n\nWe paddled eight hours that fourth day below S\u00e3o Paulo, and our chart said we had covered seventy miles. We paddled twelve hours the next day\u2014forty miles. On the sixth day we pulled hard, the banks slid by, the chart said we had gone nowhere. My shoulders developed a sharp, white-hot pain and made popping noises. Our chocolate melted, our bread turned moldy, and we discovered that our _comida pl\u00e1stica_ , which I had selected hastily from the crate Bzdak and Durrant had hauled to S\u00e3o Paulo, consisted entirely of chili. After eating it twice a day for six days neither of us could stomach another spoonful.\n\nWe paddled long hours in silence, past islands of floating grass and the occasional snake chugging along with its head raised out of the water like a periscope. The wildlife was oblique\u2014a shaking in the bush at night, a tree limb bent by a hornet nest, squawking in a treetop, a dolphin breaching, the zigzagging triangle of a shark's fin. (Several shark species breed in the Atlantic but forage as far upriver as Iquitos.)\n\nEither it rained hard or the sun burned so intensely that in the middle of the day we dove in the river, hung on to the noses of our boats, and drifted downstream with the one-knot current. This was safer than one might think. According to a doctor Durrant had consulted in Iquitos, most Amazonian water snakes swim beneath the surface but are not poisonous, while land snakes, which sometimes are, travel on the surface and are easily spotted. Piranha are overrated\u2014we met no one on the river who had witnessed an attack, much less a death\u2014and the despicable _candirti_ , which I have described elsewhere, was thwarted simply by wearing a pair of shorts while swimming.\n\nSeveral fishermen insisted that a _piraruc\u00fa_ could eat a man. According to all available scientific evidence the species is incapable of such a feat, but having seen several of the monsters, I cannot blame the fishermen. The _piraruc\u00fa_ (or _paiche_ , as it is known in Peru) is one of the world's largest freshwater fish\u2014it can grow to ten feet and two hundred and fifty pounds\u2014and in addition to gills has a single lung that it must service every few minutes, breaking the water with a loud rolling display not unlike a great scaly red-and-green log. After witnessing this act at close range several times, and being startled half to death, I was willing to believe that such a fish would eat not only a man but a horse.\n\nOn our seventh day into Amazonas we stopped at the grassy head of hilly Acarara Island. A big-boned man named Luis paddled a canoe over from the mainland, and we asked permission to camp.\n\n\"But of course,\" he said. \"The land is yours.\"\n\nLike most of the peasants along the Solim\u00f5es, Luis was a _caboclo_ \u2014a person of European and Indian blood who leads a catch-as-catch-can existence dependent mainly on a sunny disposition and traditional forms of fishing, trading, and slash-and-burn agriculture. Minutes later another _caboclo_ , Mauricio, arrived on foot, at the head of a parade of goats, and also granted us permission to camp (though with somewhat more authority than Luis, as the land was actually his).\n\nThe _caboclos_ spoke Portuguese (sufficiently similar to Spanish that we could converse), and while I cooked and we watched a storm approach they taught me the words for knife, fire, rain, and thunder. The English equivalents pulverized them with laughter. _Rain_ was hilarious, _fire_ induced near-hysteria, and _thunder_ \u2014Luis could pronounce it only as \"sunder,\" and collapsed in a fit of snorts and giggles. Later, as he paddled away, his voice carried across the water and up to our bluff. \"Sunder!\" I heard, followed by his mulish laugh, and I in turn experimented with my new words\u2014 _faca, fogo, chuva, trov\u00e3o_ \u2014rolling them around on my tongue like exotic fruit.\n\nLate that night the storm hit with a fury. It would have blown me right off the island and into the river if Chmielinski had not planted my kayak next to my tent as a protective wall. Hearing the commotion, I stuck my head out, shone my flashlight, and spotted Chmielinski running around in the rain stark naked. When I called to him, he yelled back, \"I like this being wet!\"\n\nOur hosts the next evening, the _caboclo_ Francisco Gomez and his family, lived in a thatch-and-palmwood house set well back from the river. Several pocked tin pots hung beside the fire pit in back, next to five huts containing mosquito nets and nothing else. The house itself was a single room with a table along one wall and, against another, a wooden mantel that held two laminated pictures of a blue-eyed Virgin, a hammer, a wind-up cuckoo clock that did not work, and two bottles of antivenin. Below it were five machetes and three beaten cardboard suitcases. That appeared to be the sum of the family's possessions.\n\nWe put up our tents in the house, studying the chickens that ran beneath the floor, and Francisco introduced his tough old wife, Fatima, then a young woman with a baby, then another young woman, very pretty, who wore a short skirt, eye shadow, and a jaguar-tooth necklace. Fatima chased her from the room. Three boys came in, and two young men.\n\n\"Francisco,\" I asked, \"how many people live here?\"\n\nTwo more boys entered, a girl, a young mother with a baby.\n\nFrancisco thought for a moment. \"Thirteen.\"\n\nIn walked an older man, Ant\u00f3nio, who like Francisco appeared middle-aged. He had a small boy with him.\n\n\"I count seventeen,\" I said to Francisco.\n\nHe thought for a moment. \"Yes,\" he said. \"Seventeen.\"\n\n\"All live here, in this house?\"\n\n\"All live here.\"\n\n\"All one family?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Two families.\"\n\n\"Three,\" Ant\u00f3nio said. \"But I am not always here. I have children in other places.\"\n\n\"How many children?\" Chmielinski asked.\n\n\"Forty-four,\" Ant\u00f3nio said.\n\n_\"Forty-four?\"_\n\n\"Yes. I have forty-four children. With ten women.\" He nodded seriously, and I thought of Emilio Lozano, on the forlorn Puinahua Canal in Peru.\n\n\"Where are your children?\" Chmielinski asked.\n\n\"Everywhere!\" Ant\u00f3nio said. \"That is why I come to Francisco's home. Only two of them live here.\"\n\nAn hour later all seventeen inhabitants had crowded into the room. The women and children sat along the walls and the men huddled around Chmielinski, who spread open our chart on the table. The men exclaimed when Chmielinski showed them their house, marked by a square. The chart also indicated a canal near Francisco's home, but it was not clear whether the canal cut all the way across a bend in the river. If it did, we would save a day by following it. If the canal petered out too early, however, we would lose two days backtracking.\n\nDid any of the men know about the canal?\n\n\"Yes,\" Francisco said. He pointed knowingly to the chart. \"There it is.\"\n\nChmielinski sighed. \"But does it exist?\" he asked. \"Is it on the river?\"\n\nFrancisco shrugged. Ant\u00f3nio, however, said it was, and the other men nodded vigorously.\n\n\"Six hours from here,\" Ant\u00f3nio said.\n\n\"Four hours,\" one of the younger men said.\n\n\"One day,\" Francisco said.\n\nChmielinski knew that routine. He gave up and cooked our chili, cooked all we had left, and Fatima brought bowls and farinha, the lumpy powder made from toasted manioc that can be, as this was, nutty and delicious. She passed the bowls around and we distributed our chili and everyone sat on the floor and ate. She gave me a Portuguese lesson: knife, spoon, stove, rain, yesterday, today, tomorrow.\n\nI read my Portuguese Berlitz: \"Waiter, my fish is cold.\"\n\n\"Your fish is cold,\" Francisco said. \"But you have no fish.\"\n\n\"My fish never gets cold!\" Ant\u00f3nio said. The young men laughed.\n\nI read on. \"Are you alone tonight?\"\n\n\"Stupid question,\" Ant\u00f3nio said.\n\nAfter dinner Chmielinski continued to work with the map, but I was tired and said good night. I crawled into my tent and wrote in my notebook. I woke up with my nose on the page. When I rolled over on my back four tiny faces were staring down at me through the netting. I closed my eyes and sometime later woke to Ant\u00f3nio and Francisco arguing about, I think, a calf. Then the young men got into it, and the women, and the place was in an uproar. Finally, Chmielinski called out from his tent, in slow, precise Spanish, \"Excuse me. I know this is your house, but you have invited us to stay, and we have much work tomorrow. So please.\"\n\nThe Gomez family retired. I fell asleep. When I woke again, an hour before dawn, they were sitting along the walls.\n\nChmielinski and I spent all of the next day searching for the canal, and all of the next two days backtracking. Perhaps we had misunderstood the Gomezes, lost something in the cracks between Portuguese and Spanish. Perhaps the canal had simply dried up. Or perhaps in their generosity the Gomezes had given us completely false information, because it was what they had thought we wanted to hear.\n\nThe next night, our tenth on the Solim\u00f5es, we stayed with a thirty-two-year-old _caboclo_ named Eduardo. He had silver-blue eyes and strong square features, and he lived in a stilt house right on the river, at the mouth of a lake the color of his eyes. Six other houses along the water made up Cabo Azul, or Blue Cape. Eduardo's wife had gone away somewhere, and in both celebration and sorrow he was drinking rum.\n\nA monkey troop of young boys stuffed our boats into Eduardo's house and fetched water from the river while Eduardo cooked _bod\u00f3_ , a fish with a lobsterlike exoskeleton. The meat flopped out in a steaming hunk, redolent of peppers. When we finished, the boys washed the plates in the river. Then, as one, they demanded \"A song!\"\n\nEduardo pulled a guitar from beneath a pile of rags and badly but loudly played four-chord ballads of romance, drink, and fishing. We unloaded the kayaks and the boys turned them over and set to a fierce drumming, six to a boat, building a mellifluous, smoothly syncopated whole. Eduardo played until my fingers hurt for watching him, but the boys pleaded for more.\n\nAfter an hour or so I walked out to wash myself in the Solim\u00f5es, then strolled along the duckwalk that connected the six houses. The drumming and Eduardo's earnest crooning filled the cool night air. _This_ , I thought, _is Brazil_.\n\nI returned to the house. The boys made room at my kayak, and I pounded and banged in honky time and drank rum until dawn painted the river.\n\nLater, as we packed to leave, two men paddled up in a long canoe. One held a rifle, and in the floor of the canoe, bathed in blood, were a dead fifteen-foot caiman, green and scaly, and a shorter, baby caiman, also dead. I might have felt bad for the critters or happy for Cabo Azul, for this would be community meat, but as I stared at the lifeless eyes frozen open in horror I could think only, _That is the face of my hangover_.\n\nWe paddled right past Tef\u00e9, hidden a couple of miles up a tributary of the same name, and on to Coari, which after our twelve days on the Solim\u00f5es looked like Paris. The village sits on a black, silt-free lake that is cool and perfect for swimming, ringed with white sand and green jungle, and so big it would take an entire day to navigate the shore by motorboat, but so empty that you might see one fisherman, or a woman doing wash, or no one at all.\n\nThe port held two dozen small boats, and people on foot and bicycle crowded Coari's score of mud streets. Sensuous _forro_ music gushed from shops and homes, and the air was rich with the aromas of meat roasting in the town's _churrascaria_. We met Durrant and Bzdak at the clean, quiet, and nearly empty Palace Hotel, unpacked the boats, and then sat in the _churrascar\u00eda_ and ate barbecued chicken and drank vicious rum-and-lime _batidas_.\n\nCoari was a pleasant place in which to suffer a nervous breakdown. Despite Durrant's cautions, I had not noticed Chmielinski's exhaustion, had not understood that he reacted to stress much differently than I did. I flat-out collapsed, without grace. But the wearier Chmielinski grew, the harder he drove himself. He had slept little on the river, working late into the night on his maps or rigging some new apparatus for the kayaks, and during the days he delivered an endless stream of chatter\u2014on the twelve-day run from Tabatinga I had heard, in detail, the history of Poland since the Huns.\n\nNor did Chmielinski rest in Coari. Though isolated, the town had a radar dish and a public phone, and Chmielinski spent two long, fruitless days trying to contact the international wire services in Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo. He had gambled heavily on the Amazon expedition\u2014had quit his job, invested most of his savings, jeopardized his marriage, and obligated himself to half a dozen sponsors who had donated food, equipment, and money. Our journey, if completed and publicized, would both fulfill those obligations and promote the New York travel company Chmielinski had started with two Polish partners the year before.\n\nDurrant and Bzdak, too, were showing the strain of five months of river travel. They were locked into our kayaking schedule, forced to travel from port to port in suffocating, often hazardous riverboats, and had constantly to find ways to stretch our little money. Worst of all, Durrant said after the four of us had climbed to the hotel roof and sat beneath a black, overcast night sky, Chmielinski and I were excluding them, acting as if the expedition were only the two of us.\n\nShe was right. My excuse was that I was so worn out that whenever we met up with them I could do little but eat and sleep. I felt bad that they interpreted this as an attempt to exclude them. Though Durrant, Bzdak, and Chmielinski had been strangers to me when I had arrived in Peru, in the five months since then we had shared what was the most intense experience of my life, and, as far as I could tell, of theirs as well. Yet we had stuck together through it all, and until then I had not doubted that if the skyline of Bel\u00e9m ever rose up before us, we would see it together.\n\nAs best I could, I told them that.\n\nThe situation was harder for Chmielinski. He was our motor, but to operate at the pace he did, he needed Bzdak's undivided loyalty. That need, and the enormous mutual trust that went with it, had been demonstrated dramatically on the Apurimac. If Chmielinski now asked Bzdak to perform more mundane duties\u2014finding supplies, changing money, hustling shelter in advance of our arrivals\u2014that underlying need had not lessened.\n\nChmielinski couldn't run without Bzdak, but Bzdak had fallen in love. There was only one graceful solution: Chmielinski had to trust Durrant as he did Bzdak. Her work was impeccable, her courage demonstrated beyond doubt. She deserved that trust.\n\n\"Guys,\" Chmielinski said to them, \"I am sorry. Now is the hardest time. We cannot make it without you. We are in the kayaks, you are in the boats, but it is all the same. We are not here if you are not here.\"\n\nHe also had a card up his sleeve. He had phoned Casper, and learned that the \"Save the Amazon Expedition\" committee had raised enough funds for us to finish our trip. The money would be waiting in Manaus. Meanwhile, we would use what remained to hire a boat, and make the three-day run to Manaus as a team.\n\nWhen we heard that we exchanged hugs all around. Bzdak rummaged in the hotel kitchen, emerged with a transistor radio, and tuned it to a station in Tef\u00e9 broadcasting the infectious _forro_. And then, there on the darkened rooftop, in the middle of wild Amazonas, we danced.\n\nAt dawn Bzdak and Durrant went to the port to hire a boat and buy supplies. Having arranged to meet them downstream, and half-asleep, Chmielinski and I departed Coari. By midday, under a hot blue sky, I was still paddling dreamily along the gently rolling river. Then a soft wind picked up and waves began to build so slowly I barely noticed them. I stroked, crested each wave, and as it passed beneath me slapped the paddle down.\n\nAll at once I realized the waves were over my head.\n\nI looked up. The sky turned bright red, then purple, then so black the river, whipped into whitecaps, glowed against it.\n\nAn air horn honked to my right and I saw a cargo boat twenty feet abeam and lurching wildly. The _Coronel Brand\u00e3o_ , according to the lettering on its hull. A blue tarp hung amidships. A hand drew the tarp back. Bzdak thrust his head out and waved to me. As best I could I returned the gesture. He waved again.\n\nBut he wasn't waving\u2014he was signaling frantically for me to head for the bank, which, as I crested the next wave, I saw a mile to my left. He disappeared behind the tarp and the _Brand\u00e3o_ swung hard to port. Pitching in the waves, it broke for land.\n\nAt the top of the next wave I looked for Chmielinski, and spotted his long white kayak far away, near the left bank.\n\nMesmerized, I watched the storm finish its approach. To my left, treetops bent and flattened at the foot of the black sky, and seconds later the bank disappeared behind a frothy white wall. Then the storm hit me\u2014my face felt as if it were being stung by a swarm of bees\u2014and the wind gusted so hard I had to fight to hold on to my paddle. Everything went white around me, then gray. Blinking rapidly against the driven rain, I focused on the tip of my kayak. My little coat-hanger tree was now bent as severely as the trees on shore.\n\nThinking I would try to follow the _Brand\u00e3o_ , I turned left, broadside to the waves, and felt my boat begin to roll. My stomach tightened. Reflexively, I braced as Chmielinski had taught me, extending my paddle to my left, like a pontoon, and leaning away from the wave, down its face. When the wave had passed beneath me I righted myself in the trough and paddled toward shore, until the next wave forced me to brace again.\n\nBrace, paddle, brace, paddle. To say I proceeded in this manner for the next twenty minutes sounds as if I were in command. Actually, as I went up and over each wave I heard, as if it belonged to someone else, my own quavering voice shouting \"no... No... NO!\"\n\nA cargo boat suddenly appeared and was within five feet of running me down when I turned my stern to a wave and surfed its face. I was proud of that maneuver until the boat's wake caught me. Moving at right angles to the river waves, it tipped me sideways, and I surfed the next wave with my boat almost on its side and me hung far out to my right, bracing with my paddle.\n\nThough scared silly, I did manage over the next hour to pull within sight of the left bank, where I saw waves pounding the shore, long stretches of bank and trees collapsing into the river, and five or six big boats pitching about. One looked like the _Brand\u00e3o_. Trembling, I paddled back out, then turned my nose downstream and held on there for an hour or so, waves breaking over my bow, until the storm abated.\n\nAnother hour and I saw Chmielinski silhouetted against the skyline, waving his paddle in an arc.\n\n\"Hey!\" he yelled as I approached. \"Now you are a big kayaker!\"\n\nI wouldn't have said that, but I did feel as if I'd undergone a kind of baptism. I had new confidence in my ship. She'd held her own in the waves and the wind, and I had never felt, as I had with the white-water kayak, that I was fighting her. We were one tight little unit.\n\nChmielinski shouted, and pointed behind me. I turned to see not one but two spectacular rainbows lighting up the south bank of the Solim\u00f5es for miles.\n\nThe _Coronel Brand\u00e3o_ found us at sunset. Bzdak motioned us to follow, and after the boat was tied up to a sturdy tree on the right bank we went aboard. The captain, Edison, and his first mate, Miguel, were large, swarthy, middle-aged _caboclos_ , and, like most I'd met, confident and imperturbable\n\nA trio of young boys scrambled about the legs of these giants, mopping the _Brand\u00e3o's_ deck, cleaning the galley, greasing the engine. When they had finished, Edison fired up a generator that roared so loudly we could not hear one another even when we shouted. The generator's sole function was to power a television. Though we were too far from anywhere to pick up a signal, the boys sat before the set transfixed, as if desire alone could pull an image from the snow-white screen.\n\nThe crew's last member, and the _Brand\u00e3o's_ jewel, was Maria, a dark beauty who claimed to be eighteen but looked a mature fifteen. On her small shelf in the stern she kept a tidy collection of cheap jewelry, dolls, perfume bottles, deck shoes, and a pair of shiny cobalt-blue pumps, and beneath the shelf a hamper of skirts and blouses. I took her to be Edison's daughter, until that evening, when the charged grunts issuing from the stern quarters she shared with Edison suggested otherwise.\n\nNot dissimilar grunts rose from the _mosquiteiro_ Miguel shared with the three boys.\n\nThe three-day run to Manaus was a kind of holiday, although Chmielinski, adamant that he and I travel entirely under our own power, refused to let me set foot on the _Brand\u00e3o_ until she came to a dead stop. But at night we slept aboard. Freed of the burden of making camp, we put in long days on the water, from an hour before sunrise to an hour after sunset. My shoulders ached, and Durrant had to outfit me with elastic wrist braces, but we ate fresh fish every night and drank cold beer.\n\nThat third night, long after dark, we met the _Brand\u00e3o_ in the port of Manacapuru, the last town on the river before the metropolis of Manaus. Edison, by authority of his physical bulk, had simply bulled his way between two other boats, one of them empty, the other occupied by a frail old woman whose skin hung from her head in loose folds. Her boat had probably not been on the river in years\u2014the hull was so covered with muck I could not see wood\u2014and she stared at us for only a moment before she crawled into her hammock, shattered by the blast of the _Brand\u00e3o's_ generator. The boys had picked up a Manaus station and were immersed in _Os Flintstones_.\n\nThis being a Sunday night, Edison and Miguel dressed for church. They donned bright yachting caps, clean polo shirts with reptilian insignia _(\"Caiman!\"_ Maria squealed), bleached white trousers, and white tennis shoes. Maria dressed up, too, in a white cotton dress and her blue pumps, but Edison would not allow her to leave the boat. She stamped her feet and pouted, but in the end settled in with the boys and Fred and Wilma.\n\nWe four gringos followed Edison and Miguel through the old woman's boat, passing her hammock without a word, then descended a gangplank to the waterfront and climbed a set of stairs into town. Dozens of young couples were strolling Manacapuru's one small plaza. Illuminated by a single streetlamp, two ancient Chevrolets circled the plaza, chased by several new Volkswagen bugs (which are still manufactured in Brazil). The churchgoers went to seek their god. We four expeditioneers went in search of beer. We found a bar overlooking the river, but a band was playing loud disco music, and I returned alone to the _Brand\u00e3o_.\n\nMaria, still in her fancy clothes, stood atop the boat and stared up at the bar. The music rushed down as clearly as the stars shone overhead.\n\n\"You do not dance?\" she asked, though I did not understand her until she placed one hand over her stomach and the other in the air and executed a hip-wiggling circle.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"but I am too tired to stay in there.\"\n\nShe sighed. To be here in Manacapuru was for her quite an occasion, but however unwillingly, she had outgrown dancing and courting. Her mate was in church and she was at home where she belonged.\n\nI put up my tent in the boat. To my surprise and gratitude, the boys turned off the television and silenced the generator. Maria lit a candle. The four of us talked for a while. They did not attend school, and they could neither read nor write. They did, however, have an intimate knowledge of the television show _Dallas_ , which I had never seen. Unable to answer their questions about J.R., I felt as if I had broken an agreement I had not known I had made.\n\nI crawled into my tent. Music continued to pulse down from the bar. When they thought I had gone to sleep, Maria and the boys began to dance.\n\nThe next day we slid left off the Solim\u00f5es, north, into a canal we hoped would drop us into the Negro River a few miles downstream from Manaus. The _Brand\u00e3o_ took the lead, Chmielinski followed her, and I followed him.\n\nEntering the canal was like leaving a freeway for a narrow green alley. For weeks the jungle wall had seemed hard and solid, but now, not ten feet to either side, it looked porous and revealing. Here and there I spotted ratty huts, tilted and ajar, thatch full of holes, stilts splintered and collapsing, and once I saw a pair of glittering eyes and, as I drew closer, a dark, naked man frozen in place.\n\n_\"Bom dia,\"_ I said, but he did not respond.\n\nWhen I paddled still closer, he turned and fled.\n\nIn front of me, the canal appeared to end abruptly. A solid gray wall stretched across its mouth like a dam. When our little fleet left the canal and entered the broad, ink-black Negro River, however, the wall revealed itself to be the hull of a supertanker, the _Evros_ , anchored a thousand miles from the Atlantic. At six stories, it was the tallest man-made thing I had seen since Lima.\n\nA sleek powerboat glided past us. Three very fat but elegantly barbered men sat in the cockpit, holding drinks, and four young women in tiny bikinis were sunning themselves on the deck. One of the women blew Chmielinski a kiss. The man at the wheel scowled, the boat sped away, and soon it was nothing but a cloud of white foam swallowed by the skyline of Manaus.\n\n# 17 \u2022 The Amazon\n\nThe Manaus waterfront differs from other tropical waterfronts only in that it is bigger than most, a broader anarchy of mud and garbage, thicker rivulets of refuse flowing down the bank and over one's bare feet, a louder cacophony of unmuffled engines, more house-of-cards shacks serving bowls of starchy stew the ingredients of which you do not want to know.\n\nWe did not linger there. Dragging the kayaks, Chmielinski, Durrant, Bzdak, and I ascended the stairs into the city, absorbing the cool night air fragrant with the stuff of the next dawn's market, the cilantro and garlic and onions and lemons stacked in vague mounds next to other vague mounds which upon close inspection proved to be sleeping _caboclos_. Chmielinski rousted one of the men, who in turn rousted several others. We struck a deal, they hoisted our boats to their shoulders, and we followed them into the gray-black streets.\n\nHalf an hour later, standing in the handsome lobby of the Hotel Tropical in downtown Manaus, we could as well have been on Rodeo Drive, or Fifth Avenue. Dripping river slime onto the rich red carpet, we contemplated what a room would cost for the night, then returned to the street and spoke with the _caboclos_. They took us to a hotel near the waterfront that did not have carpets anywhere.\n\nWhen we arrived we thanked the men for their wisdom and climbed to our room, hauling the kayaks behind us. I took a cold shower, soaping up several times over, and studied the infections in my crotch and arms and legs, the swollen arthritic middle finger of my left hand, and, in the mirror, the face burned to leather. I speculated about the lingering numbness in toes and heels.\n\nThen I put on the clean clothes stored so carefully in the nose of my boat and walked back to the Tropical. I sat at a table on the sidewalk out front and had a beer, and another. At the next table a woman with coal-black skin, dressed head to toe in a body-hugging leopard-skin leotard, her eyes wide and bloodshot, flung a slurred oath at a groomed, silver-haired man in a white linen suit. He left. The fine-boned young woman began to cry, then approached me with an offer of \"something from Bolivia or Peru.\" I declined.\n\nI hailed a cab from the fleet of yellow Volkswagen bugs that are the city's ball bearings and proceeded northwest along the Negro River, trying to make sense of the architectural chaos, the skyscrapers and shacks, the suburban homes, the prefab warehouses, the Victorian mansions that early in the twentieth century were considered among the finest in the world. I tried to picture Manaus in 1910, at the height of the rubber boom, the third city in the Western Hemisphere to have electricity. Her population of ninety thousand spent $8 million a year on jewelry. They shipped their laundry to London, their children to school in France.\n\nIn 1912 rubber trees smuggled out of Brazil by an English botanist began to thrive in the Far East. Manaus died, then rose back up. Nineteen sixty-six: The Brazilian government declares the city a free port. Foreign manufacturers bring in component parts free of the stiff import taxes in effect throughout the rest of the country and assemble them at the hundreds of boxlike instant factories that soon ring the city. Sony, Sharp, Honda\u2014the principal exports of \"The Capital of the Jungle\" are stereos, televisions, motorcycles. From all over Brazil people fly into the jungle to shop. Manaus becomes a giant flea market. In ten years her population quadruples to eight hundred thousand.\n\nMy driver ignored the cab's meter and pulled a rate card from the glove box. With inflation running at 200 percent per annum, it was impractical to continue to adjust the meters. New rate cards were issued weekly.\n\nIn the morning I chose to live dangerously. I went shopping for a pair of shoes. The \"free zone\" was a mob scene of Manhattanesque proportions. In street after street, in stall after stall the size and shape of a one-car garage, people were jammed shoulder to shoulder, tearing at bins of cheap goods. Overwhelmed, afraid to dawdle and judge, I found myself sweating harder than I ever had on the river. I panicked and bought the first pair of shoes I saw, only to discover as I fled that they were not shoes at all but slippers, the sort of thing my grandfather wore padding around his house.\n\nDistracted, shoved into another stall, this one offering German tennis rackets, Chinese shoes, French shirts, American computers, Japanese motorcycles, and Italian espresso machines, I was confronted by a clerk who tried to sell me a plastic hat with a built-in solar-powered radio. At first it seemed the perfect thing for those long days in the kayak\u2014it would help my Portuguese\u2014but the only station I could find was playing Lionel Richie.\n\nBack in the street I was quickly trapped again, blocked by a crowd watching a television on which Moses was speaking to a wig-haired American Indian maiden wearing a fringed buckskin dress. She had long black hair and blue eyes. Pointing at Moses, someone in the crowd shouted \"Ronald Reagan,\" but the man on the screen was Charlton Heston, and he was playing not Moses but an Indian fighter. The Indian maiden in his arms was an American housewife, Donna Reed. War raged around them. A blond Indian on horseback plugged Moses with an arrow. The man standing next to me yelled the Portuguese equivalent of \"Fucking Indian.\"\n\nThe jungle life.\n\nI bought the shoes (the slippers) because I had been asked to speak at a radio station, the most popular in Manaus. To reach the station, situated on the top floor of the city's tallest building, I first passed the famous opera house, built in 1896. With its golden dome, its Florentine facade of Italian stone, and, inside, its plush overstuffed chairs, velvet opera boxes, ornate balconies, florid murals, and gilded columns, it is a fitting testament to the city's halcyon days. It looks, as the writer Catherine Caufield so aptly described it, \"like an oversized Italian biscuit tin.\"\n\nThe radio station, by contrast, looked as if it had been built in a hurry\u2014bare walls, uncarpeted floors, cracked glass windows. Twenty stories below, Manaus was drenched in a smoggy yellow haze. The engineer who led me to the broadcast booth was a very pretty young woman wearing what seemed to be the uniform of the pretty young women of Manaus, a tight neck-to-ankle body stocking. She blew the disc jockey a kiss and closed the door behind me. The disc jockey was on the far side of middle age, big-bellied and bald save for long gray sideburns. Most of the records stacked in front of him were American (Willie Nelson, the Beach Boys, Michael Jackson), but the one on top was Brazilian. When it began to play I recognized the tune as \"Sunny,\" a pop hit in the United States twenty years ago. This version was called \"Sonia,\" and the lyrics were Portuguese. The disc jockey translated:\n\nSonia, I would like to have anal intercourse with you.\n\nSonia, I would be very happy if you masturbated me.\n\nSonia, please place your tongue upon my rectum.\n\nAnd so on. He said \"Sonia\" was the most-requested song in Manaus, and offered it as evidence that a \"new\" Brazil was emerging with the recent ending of military government.\n\nI spoke with the disc jockey until a different tightly clothed young woman entered the booth. She leaned over and stuck her tongue in his ear. Time to leave.\n\nAs I did the pretty young engineer asked me who I was. A _rock musician on a concert tour_ , I wanted to say, _and I love you_. Instead, I tried to explain, in my idiot Portuguese, that I was paddling a kayak down the Amazon. She looked disappointed, and, rejected, I suffered a moment of painful epiphany. For weeks, for months, I had reveled in the role of the sophisticate. I had brought news of the modern world to wide-eyed primitives. But there in Manaus, standing in that high-rise, dressed in my grubby khaki pants and those _goddamned granddaddy shoes_ , I understood that I belonged on the river, something with which Manaus had very little to do.\n\nThe Amazon proper begins about five miles below Manaus, at the confluence of the Negro and Solim\u00f5es rivers. In volume the Negro is not only the Amazon's largest tributary but the sixth-largest river in the world, with a discharge four times that of the Mississippi. Where it collides with the Solim\u00f5es the water boils with whirlpools and reflected waves. The silt-rich Solim\u00f5es is tawny, the Negro coal black; the two rivers roll along side by side for almost six miles before their waters mix.\n\nThis spectacle, known as \"The Meeting of the Waters,\" may well be the most impressive natural display in the Amazon basin. Yet recently, on its left bank, the Brazilian government began construction of a cement plant. The project typifies what is happening to the Amazon. Like the Solim\u00f5es, the Amazon courses through a floodplain, or _v\u00e1rzea_ , but the growth along the banks of the Amazon is grassier, lower, and less dense. To a limited degree this is natural; to a larger degree it is the work of man. Between Manaus and the sea, a distance of over a thousand miles, there is no virgin jungle along the water. Every foot of riverbank foliage has been cut down or burned at least once.\n\nThe bush that one does see along the Amazon is what biologists call \"modified\" growth. Some 25 percent of the entire Amazon basin now consists of such modified forest, with the destruction heaviest along the rivers. \"Destruction\" is the right word\u2014modified forest harbors but a fraction of the species found in primary forest. In the Amazon, the dimensions of this loss are staggering. Though man has identified some 1.5 million species on the entire planet, there may be three times that many undiscovered in the Amazon basin alone.\n\nThis destruction has many roots, but in recent years the main one has been cattle ranching, which is now the most important agricultural activity in the basin. Converting rain forest to pastureland is deceptively pernicious. The forest's fertility is in its canopy and its floodwaters, not its soil, which tends to be poor. Once denuded of forest cover, the soil quickly bakes hard. Virtually every cattle ranch established in the basin prior to 1978 had been abandoned by 1983. In the eastern half of the state of Par\u00e1, which begins about three hundred miles downriver from Manaus, thousands of acres that were once rich rain forest are now uninhabitable desert.\n\nIt is difficult to determine how much of the Amazonian rain forest has already been destroyed, but it is generally believed that 15 to 20 percent has disappeared in the last twenty years alone. And there seems to be agreement on another point: The rate at which the forest is being destroyed is increasing exponentially. Philip Fearnside, an American-born ecologist who since the early 1970s has studied the Amazon basin from a station near Manaus, has predicted that if the destruction continues to increase at its present rate the rain forest will be gone by the turn of the century.\n\nAs Chmielinski and I worked our way down from Manaus, we witnessed a disconcerting irony. In the heart of a basin estimated to contain some five thousand species of fish (there are less than two hundred species in all of North America), it was often difficult to find fish to eat. Beef was more readily available. This might seem a blessing for the heavily exploited local fisheries, but consider the _tambaqui_ , whose sweet flesh comprised nearly half the fish sold in Manaus and its environs in the 1970s.\n\nLike much of the rest of the Amazon basin's commercial catch, the _tambaqui_ survives not on insects and worms but on the fruits and seeds of the forest itself. According to the Amazonian biologist Michael Goulding, one of the _tambaqui's_ primary food sources is the Spruce rubber tree, which produces seed capsules that mature at the onset of flood season. About a month later, on hot days, the capsules begin to burst open, ejaculating their seed for distances of up to twenty yards. The seed lands in the flooding river, where much of it is gobbled up by the voracious _tambaqui_. The explosions continue for two to three months, during which time a thirty-five-pound _tambaqui_ may carry up to a pound and a half of seed in its stomach.\n\nBut as the rain forest disappears, torn down for pasture that bakes to death in a few short years, the Spruce rubber tree goes with it. As goes the Spruce, so goes the _tambaqui_. So it is not all that farfetched to stare at a plate of tough Amazonian beef and see dead fish, and, in turn, a diminished chance of the forest regenerating itself: In the Amazon, it is fish, not birds, that are the primary disperses of plant seed.\n\nAs I paddled out of Manaus that first day, singing deliriously into a cyclopean sun, the destruction of the rain forest was for me a horror more conceptual than real. The bush looked different from what I had become accustomed to\u2014there was less of it, and it was lower\u2014but the idea of land quickly became an abstraction. I could barely see the banks. Where we crossed the Meeting of the Waters and turned east into the Amazon, our kayaks rocking on the chop like hobby horses, the river was five miles wide and the waves were head high, which meant I spent most of my time buried in troughs.\n\nSuddenly, I was overcome by chills and vomiting. In a doctor's office in Manaus I had seen a map of the Amazon basin. Along the river it was peppered with dozens of colored pushpins denoting outbreaks of disease. There in the kayak, puking over the side, I envisioned the pins as so many bumpers on a pinball machine, Chmielinski and I bouncing among them.\n\nThe range of disease along the Amazon proper, always extraordinary, has grown dramatically as the rain forest has been cut down. Host insects once content to ply their business in the canopy have come in closer contact with human prey, and standing water trapped behind large new dams provides fertile breeding grounds. Malaria is epidemic. The next-most-common affliction, leishmaniasis, can kill, but it is more widely feared for the leprosylike disfigurement its worst form can cause\u2014victims eventually lose nose and ears. \"Leish\" can be controlled with antimony, but it can't be cured. The first Brazilian case of dengue fever was discovered in 1982; the virus has since moved into urban areas, as has yellow fever, which once was contracted only deep in the forest. (Tef\u00e9 had suffered a violent outbreak the year before.) Oropouche fever, virtually unheard of before 1980, infected more than a quarter million people between 1980 and 1984. Something called Mayaro fever, only recently discovered, has torn through Indian populations with terrible force, killing almost 60 percent of those who contract it. Over the last decade there has been a huge increase in infectious hepatitis, one form of which often leads to cirrhosis of the liver among children and adolescents.\n\nBotflies bury larvae in the skin that erupt months later as inch-long maggots. Mosquito-injected worms work their way into the eyes, causing blindness. Chagas disease, spread by beetles, causes a victim's internal organs to atrophy so slowly that he can live twenty years without knowing he is infected; then suddenly he drops dead. As for the usual suspects, the intestinal worms, the doctor in Manaus had said, \"Don't concern yourself with avoiding them. You cannot. They are everywhere.\"\n\nOn our second day out of Manaus we arrived after dark in Itacoatiara, a brooding shantytown huddled around a jute mill. While I slumped in my kayak Chmielinski persuaded a bald, walleyed man with boot-black skin to let us sleep on his wooden fishing boat, one of perhaps a hundred nuzzling the port. As Chmielinski pitched our tents the man hurried into town and returned with a pot of scrambled eggs, onions, and bread. He and Chmielinski worried over me and urged me to eat, but I couldn't hold food. I fell asleep on the galley table.\n\nIn the morning, to save time, Chmielinski packed my kayak and put me on the river while he scoured Itacoatiara for supplies. I paddled my boat into one of the floating grass islands that clog the river below Manaus, hoping it would pull me along faster than I could drift against the headwind.\n\nAfter I had settled in and propped my feet up on my deck, I looked back toward Itacoatiara and picked up the steady white flashing of Chmielinski's paddle. White dots rose and fell quickly\u2014he was racing to catch me. He drew within shouting distance, forty yards to my port side, still without seeing me. When I started to yell I vomited. I retched uncontrollably for three or four minutes. By the time I regained my voice Chmielinski had sped past me and was nearly out of sight.\n\nIt was hopeless to think I could catch him. I spotted a fishing boat and paddled out of the grass island as quickly as I could and hailed it. The driver looked at me, gunned his motor, and raced away.\n\n\"STOP, YOU SON OF A BITCH!\" I screamed, but that had absolutely no effect on anything save my already burning throat. I watched Chmielinski's flashing blades shrink.\n\nI did not know what to do. Desperate, I tried telepathy.\n\nI formed one thought and concentrated on it as hard as I could: _Piotr, this is Joe. If you cannot see me in front of you, I must be behind you. Piotr, this is Joe. If you cannot see me in front of you, I must be behind you. Piotr, this is Joe. If you cannot see me in front of you, I must be..._\n\nAfter two or three minutes of this I saw the white flashing of his blades slow down, then stop.\n\n_Piotr, this is Joe. If you cannot see me in front of you, I must be behind you...._\n\nThen a yellow line appeared beneath the place where I had last seen his blades. He had turned his boat broadside. The line disappeared; he had turned around to face me. The flashing began again, slowly. By and by, the blades grew.\n\nThe next two days passed in a roller coaster of chills and sweat and blinding headache. Chmielinski paddled beside me and spoke to me all day long. I heard his voice, but few words. I do know that he asked me if I wanted to stop and that I said no. By now I was obsessed by the idea of paddling to the Atlantic. In that way the fever helped me\u2014I was too far gone to think.\n\nEach day, all day long, either the sun flashed off the river and seared the eyes and skin, or cold, slashing rainstorms flew across the sun and blocked out the light. The river-sea straightened its course and lumbered east unimpeded by islands or curves, as if in its lust for the Atlantic it had wiped all obstacles from its path. With nearly a thousand miles of straight fetch the wind roared up the river and raked it into a choppy mess. We had nowhere to hide. Our world was nothing but water and sky and the thin band of green that bonded the two.\n\nThe third afternoon below Manaus I watched the waves toss, willy-nilly, a passenger ship the size of an ocean liner. By then the river was thick with such boats, and each one, it seemed, had a dark urge to run us down. The big boats would veer sharply toward us, their props throwing four- and five-foot waves, their passengers leaning over the rail and shouting at us. As the ships blew by and we desperately surfed their wakes, their Portuguese names appeared like Blakean visions: _Under the Shield of the Lord, Faith in God, Ship of the Angels_.\n\nFor hours on end it seemed the wind would never cease or the sun set. The sound of my paddle hitting water hypnotized me. Once, awakened by a sharp pain behind my left ear, I slapped at it and came away with a dead bee. My ear hurt like hell, but I was relieved to have been attacked by a single bee. Killer bees travel in swarms.\n\nSometime late in the day I found myself chattering wildly at Chmielinski, who was chattering wildly right back at me. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out where I was, having blocked out the _slap... slap... slap_ of paddle on water as if some other being were making that sound. Then I was forced once again to confront the endless brown flood before me. I picked out a landmark, a far-off hut, but we seemed to paddle for hours without drawing any closer to it.\n\nThe sun had set when we landed in Urucurituba. The dot on the map suggested a sizeable town; in reality, Urucurituba was a wretched hole that merited its dot only because there were no other candidates for miles. A ragged crowd gathered at the foot of the mud bank\u2014stooped old men, three young toughs in pointy leather boots, a dozen children with bloated stomachs. Chmielinski climbed the bank to search for lodging. No one spoke as he muscled through the crowd, but when he disappeared the three hoods slid down the bank and stood over me. One of them flicked a cigarette on the nose of my kayak. The other two laughed.\n\nI did not know how to react. Finally, I offered the smoker my paddle, and said, \"Why don't you try the boat?\"\n\nA hard rain began to fall. It was dark and cold. He rubbed his boot in the muck. The people on the bank watched, waiting for a reaction. Then a deep voice boomed, \"Bring those boats up here!\"\n\nThe owner of the voice was tall and broad, his thick gray hair cut short and combed straight back. The hoods did not hesitate. They hauled the boats one after the other up the slippery bank and along the town's one muddy street into a cement shell that might once have been a house.\n\nThe shell belonged to the gray-haired man. As he watched us unpack he said it was a good thing we'd brought our own food, because there was none in the town. Then he returned to Urucurituba's one bar.\n\nThe clouds lifted and the half-moon revealed Urucurituba to be poor even by the Amazon's meager standards. No cars, no mill, no harbor. Canoes and launches were simply tied up along the bank, there to be pounded to splinters in a storm.\n\nRain continued to fall, but the big-bellied children stood outside the shell most of the night, staring at us through its cracks. At dawn, before anyone was awake, we slipped down the streets and put our boats on the river.\n\n_Slap... slap... slap:_ The next day was another with the world askew. I forgot that I was on the Amazon. I lost myself in dreams. When I came around late in the afternoon, Chmielinski informed me that we were well short of the ninety miles we had planned to paddle. So, beneath a moon waxing full, we continued into the night, hoping the current would increase and drag us into Parintins, some three hundred miles from Manaus. We had told Durrant and Bzdak we would try to meet them there.\n\nInstead, we got lost in a swamp and washed up on a clean, mosquito-free beach tended by a chorus of gently croaking frogs. We unpacked the boats and scrubbed them out. Chmielinski brewed tea. I sat against a log and tried to write in my notebook.\n\n\"Joe, what are you thinking about today?\" Chmielinski asked when he brought the tea.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"I can't remember.\" I couldn't recall a damn thing about the day\u2014my notebook page was blank.\n\nHe returned to the stove to cook dinner. I put down the notebook, fetched a bucket of water, and listened to the frogs.\n\n\"Cars,\" I said when I brought him the water. \"Cars and motorcycles.\"\n\nHe stirred the cookpot. Tonight we would eat the last of the _comida pl\u00e1stica_ we had carried all the way from Arequipa. He poured chicken cacciatore into our little bowls.\n\n\"What were you thinking about, Piotr?\"\n\n\"That big hole on the Apurimac. The one where Zbyszek pulled Jack out. Do you remember this?\"\n\nIt seemed long ago, another river altogether. How far we had come since then: the lower Apurimac, the Ene, the Tambo, the Ucayali, the Mara\u00f1\u00f3n, the Solim\u00f5es. Three thousand miles of river. Though I had paddled every foot of it, it didn't seem quite real.\n\nAnd though it had been three months since we had navigated the Acobamba Abyss, I had a recurring nightmare about it. A green monster surrounded me, threw me head over heels, and would not release me. The curious part was that I did not get wet, but neither did I escape. Not, that is, until I woke up in a cold sweat, not an easy feat in the tropics.\n\n\"We are lucky to make it through that place,\" Chmielinski said. \"I think it is lucky even that we are here now.\"\n\n\"I suppose you're right,\" I said, but I didn't feel it.\n\nThe next afternoon, as we drew near to Parintins, the banks narrowed and the constricted river rebelled with such strength that it ripped the rudder off my kayak. The boat developed a head of its own, bucking like a spooked horse. I was not surprised to see that Parintins had a seawall, a protected harbor, and a cement ramp that descended from the wall like a castle drawbridge.\n\nDespite that ominous entrance, the town appeared to be pleasantly and agreeably unspectacular, with the easy feeling of rumpled harmony that comes with age; the Parintins church, an immense red-brick affair built in the eighteenth century, is the oldest in the state of Amazonas. A graceful, tree-lined promenade runs along the river, and leafy palms ring the plaza. On the street surrounding the plaza I counted seven mules, three of them pulling carts; nine rickety three-speed bicycles; four Volkswagen bugs; and one dusty Mercedes-Benz sedan. That, in a nutshell, seemed to sum up not only Parintins but the Amazon itself.\n\nThe only hotel was a cool, cinder-block affair built around a garden. We found Bzdak and Durrant waiting for us, and with them a new addition to our troupe\u2014Jacek Bogucki, who had left Poland with Chmielinski and Bzdak in 1979. Bogucki and his Peruvian wife, Teresa, now lived in Casper, Wyoming. He had brought Polish sausages, chocolate, a motion-picture camera, and what was left of the bank loan he had taken out to purchase his plane ticket.\n\nHe had also brought the money the people of Casper had raised for us and which they had requested we invest in a support boat, so that we would all reach the sea together. There were hundreds of cargo boats in port in Parintins, all but one of them wood, and by the time Chmielinski and I arrived, Durrant, Bzdak, and Bogucki had hired the eighteen-meter _Roberto II_.\n\nThe captain was a tall, wide, placid sixty-year-old _caboclo_ named Deomedio, who, depending on the light, could have passed for Indian, Portuguese, or Asian. Bzdak had quickly dubbed him \"Capitan-Almirante,\" the Captain-Admiral of our fleet. Until I shook hands with him, Capitan had never met a North American. In fact, he had made the sixteen-hundred-mile round trip from Parintins to Bel\u00e9m only once, in 1951. His first and only mate, Afrain, a shy, skinny fifteen-year-old and the youngest of Capitan's twenty-one grandchildren, had never been more than ten miles from Parintins.\n\nWe would have left port that day, but a dream had revealed to Capitan a leak in the _Roberto II_. He hauled the boat out and spent the day repairing the leak, which as it turned out was right under the wheel.\n\nWhile Capitan worked on the boat, Chmielinski discussed the voyage with him. Capitan said he knew the river as far as Santar\u00e9m but from there would have to rely on his nose and eyes.\n\n\"This will help,\" Chmielinski said, and handed him a river chart he had purchased in Manaus.\n\nCapitan studied the chart, nodding his head and grunting, then returned it.\n\n\"I cannot read that,\" he said.\n\n\"Why not?\" Chmielinski asked.\n\n\"I cannot read,\" Capitan said. \"But it does not matter. A pilot who needs such a thing does not belong on the Amazon.\"\n\nThat night the members of the Amazon Source-to-Sea Expedition were honored guests at a dance kicking off the _carnaval_ season. It was held at Club Knapp, a patio and bar overlooking the river. The quartet (saxophone, conga, bass, drums) specialized in _forro_ , which in Parintins is danced with the torso held rigid, the hips gyrating wildly, and the partners clinched so tightly they seem, as Durrant described it, \"as if they are attached at the groin.\" Each chorus is quicker and more frenzied than the last, and a single dance can last up to an hour.\n\nTo the crowd's delight, Durrant was the best _forroist_ among us. Bzdak made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in grace. The dapper Chmielinski was the favorite of the Parintins women, but raised on waltzes and minuets, he found the _forro_ on the lewd side. \"What is this they are doing?\" he asked me during a break, and made a grinding motion with his hips.\n\nI tried my best. My fever had passed; I was ready for anything. Isabella, a buxom, dark-skinned woman a head taller than I, wanted to trade dance lessons for English lessons. She hoped to move to Manaus and become a guide for American tourists: \"The Spanish talkers gots more pipples, but da Englitch talkers gots more monies!\"\n\nThe first few dances went all right, but during one particularly long round I found myself suffocating in Isabella's considerable cleavage. This distracted me from our delicate thigh-beneath-groin connection, which, given the high speed at which the _forro_ is danced, all at once caused me great pain.\n\nI escorted Isabella off the dance floor slowly. We sat at a table and ordered beer. She smiled and said, \"The pipples of de Amazonas eats menly fitches en maniocs. In Chenuar da ribber he floods and da island she sinks. I like da Ford Escort wit da stick ships.\"\n\nI excused myself and wandered out to the river. Chmielinski was sitting on a bench, studying the water. For the sixth time on our journey the moon was coming full. It cast a rippling bronze path across the river, a path that dissolved into darkness\u2014even by the moon's strong light the far bank was invisible. In bronze and black the Amazon looked as beautiful as she did powerful, but Chmielinski seemed sad, an emotion rare for him. I asked if everything was okay.\n\n\"It is a nice town here,\" he said, \"but it does not feel right.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Even one day off the water and I am not comfortable. _That_ is my home.\" He pointed to the river. \"I feel like now I know this Amazon. I do not want to be away from it.\"\n\nTo my surprise, I found myself agreeing with him.\n\nIn the morning Capitan invested the whole of our first payment to him in a shiny new Formica-topped table for the ship's galley. When the table was in place, Chmielinski and I climbed into our kayaks, Durrant and her two Polish escorts boarded the _Roberto II_ , Afrain undid the mooring lines, and the Capitan-Almirante guided his fleet out of the harbor and into the Amazon. Then he sniffed the wind and set course for the Atlantic, still some eight hundred miles to the east.\n\nWhile the _Roberto II_ hugged the right bank, Chmielinski and I paddled into the middle of the Amazon, where the current ran swiftest. Though the sky was clear, I had to squint to see the thin green strips of land two miles to either side of us. Then the sky fogged over and settled on the river, and I could not see land at all.\n\nWe met no one on the river until late that afternoon, when, pitching on the oceanlike swells, the _Roberto II_ lurched into our gray cocoon. As she took form in the mist voices broke the daylong silence and arms waved from atop her high white hull. When she pulled abeam a can of cold beer dropped in my lap.\n\nThen Afrain shouted\u2014he had spotted a bushmaster snake, or _surucuc\u00fa_ as they are called, wriggling toward my bow. Afrain jumped onto my boat and slid my kayak paddle under the critter and lifted it from the water. It was about two feet long, small as bushmasters go. Bogucki, a pack rat by reputation, dumped the contents from a jar of mayonnaise and filled the jar partially with _cacha\u00e7a_ , figuring the alcohol would both drown the snake and preserve it. Afrain grabbed the bushmaster behind the head and dropped it into the jar, which Bogucki quickly capped.\n\nCapitan recoiled from this effort. \"That is grotesque,\" he said. \"In Brazil we do not eat snakes with mayonnaise.\"\n\nThe sunset, an hour later, was one of those Amazonian spectacles that I had been taking too much for granted. Turning to scan the horizon behind me, I saw the yellow ball of the sun, small and distant in the equatorial sky, sneak from beneath a bank of purple clouds. It lit up the now-placid river like a silver sheet, flashed crimson against the black front of a northerly storm, and glazed the marshy _v\u00e1rzea_ a deep mustard green. A light wind rose and died, stirring the river into wavelets that chinked the silver with painterly brown splotches.\n\nIn front of me, to the southeast, the moon rose full and yellow, then as she climbed above the blanket of humidity turned a fierce white. Our last full moon, if all went according to plan. We hoped to reach the sea in less than a month. In memory, at least, my first full moon south of the equator, the one that had risen over the frozen _puna_ the night we had descended from the source of the Amazon, was twice the size of this tropical one. But I had been lonely then, and short of hope.\n\nNow I paddled in the moonlight bone tired, but also peaceful and happy. For the first time in the six long months since I had arrived in Peru I found myself daring to believe that we would actually make it all the way to the Atlantic.\n\nThe _Roberto II_ hummed along beside me, her powerful diesel low and barely audible. On the bow, silhouetted by the moon, Bzdak sat with his arms around Durrant. In hiring Capitan and the _Roberto II_ we had drained some of the adventure from our trip\u2014no longer would Chmielinski and I bang on strange doors seeking shelter\u2014but that was a small loss compared to the enormous gain of traveling with such boon companions as the photographer and the good doctor.\n\nCapitan led us into a black-water lagoon set below a high, gladed bluff. The lagoon was alive with the sounds of insects and nightbirds and splashing fish, and ringed with thick bush. Intending to tie up my boat, I stood in my cockpit and leaned into a ceiba tree. I heard a branch snap and felt it droop over my right arm. When I finished securing the kayak I reached with my left hand to remove the branch and found a pair of tiny eyes rising up to meet mine. I jerked involuntarily and flung the snake far into the night. Then I fell out of my kayak, into the shallow lagoon, which only scared me more.\n\nCapitan witnessed this fiasco from start to finish. \"Yo,\" he shouted to me as I climbed out of the water, \"do you want some mayonnaise?\"\n\n# 18 \u2022 The Par\u00e1\n\nThirty miles below Parintins the Amazon entered the state of Par\u00e1 and day by day grew more oceanic. Although a procession of freighters plied the river between Manaus and Bel\u00e9m, we seldom saw more than a silhouette on the horizon, suspended in a seamless gray wall of river and cool rainy-season sky. The birdlife was pelagic\u2014terns and gulls\u2014and, though still nearly eight hundred miles from the Atlantic, we noticed an eerie tidal change of some ten feet a day. Eerie because the tide had no current. The river rose and fell like a bathtub filling with water. Or, as I began to think of it, like a snake slowly filling and emptying its air sacs.\n\nIn navigating the two hundred and twenty miles from Parintins to Santar\u00e9m, Chmielinski and I traveled with the _Roberto II_ as we had with the _Coronel Brand\u00e3o_ from Coari to Manaus. We hit the water before dawn, coffee thermos strapped to my boat, and paddled alone through the day except in a storm, when Capitan would crisscross the river to find us and ride alongside until the bad weather passed. This was far more dangerous for him than for us. Our little boats handled the storms well, but the shallow-keeled _Roberto II_ pitched wildly in the waves, and more than once seemed close to capsizing.\n\nAt night, after Capitan had moored the _Roberto II_ in a lagoon or creek and we had washed ourselves and settled down for a meal, he held court around his shiny new galley table, speaking slowly but constantly in even-toned Portuguese. He did not mind if we only half understood his stories, for they delighted him no end. He told the same ones every night. His favorites were Portuguese jokes: \" _Caboclo_ finishes his dinner and says 'Thank you.' Portuguese finishes his dinner and says, 'I want more.' \" He also told scarifying tales, and seemed all the more satisfied when we did not believe them. Like the one about the anaconda that only the month before had risen up and squeezed the life out of a boat the size of the _Roberto II_ itself.\n\nWhile we set up tents and hammocks after dinner Capitan would sip from a glass of wine and talk with Afrain, instructing him in the river's ways. Afrain listened, nodded, said little. Capitan never raised his voice with Afrain. One day, however, while Afrain kneeled on the afterdeck scrubbing a batch of exceptionally dirty dishes, the river reached up and hauled two burnt pots overboard.\n\nWhen Afrain informed his grandfather of this, Capitan said nothing, but a while later, as the _Roberto II_ passed a row of wretched huts along the south bank, Capitan swung the boat's nose to shore and pointed. \"Work hard,\" he said quietly to Afrain, \"or you will end up in one of those.\"\n\nAfrain did not attend school, but he had a searching intelligence. He was amused to find that my Berlitz lacked the Portuguese words for sex, penis, vagina, and breast, and taught me several ways to refer to each. He also had what may have been, after a gut understanding of the river's moods, the talent most critical to a budding _caboclo_ river captain: the ability to repair anything on his boat with little more than spit, sweat, and a meager tool kit, in Afrain's case two screwdrivers and a spanner wrench.\n\nOn Afrain's sixteenth birthday Durrant gave him a thing akin to jewelry\u2014her multi-bladed Swiss Army knife. Afrain sharpened the blades and oiled the knife and hung it from a string, which he tied around his neck. The knife remained either there or in his hand for the remainder of our voyage.\n\nAdmiring this gift, Capitan said, \"It is my birthday in four days.\"\n\nBzdak said, \"Prove it,\" but Bogucki gave him his spare sunglasses, and I donated my San Francisco Giants baseball hat. That the hat had traveled all the way from the source of the Amazon meant as much to Capitan as the idea of baseball, which is to say nothing at all. But hat and glasses somehow invested him with great power when dealing with the river locals, and from that moment neither one left his head when the sun was in the sky.\n\nIn return Capitan tried to give Bzdak his watch. By then, however, we all knew about the watch.\n\n\"What time is it, Capitan-Almirante?\" Bzdak would ask each night at dinner. Solemnly, Capitan would consult the broad silver orb on his wrist and wait for silence before reporting what he had found there. These reports, though accurate according to his watch, were seldom within two hours of the actual time. When Bzdak would point this out, which he never failed to do, Capitan would only shrug and say, \"Portuguese watch.\"\n\nThen he would carefully wind the watch, as if to confirm that in this part of the universe, our notions of time did not apply.\n\nWhen Chmielinski woke me before dawn on our fourth day out of Parintins I could hear rain beating on the roof of the _Roberto II_. Serious rain. Eye-stinging, monster-wave rain. The previous afternoon something had snapped in my back. As I rolled over to take the cup of coffee Chmielinski offered, a bolt of pain tore through my left side. I did not want to get in the kayak.\n\nProcrastinating, I asked, \"What kind of day is it?\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful day.\"\n\n\"That is Polish bullshit.\"\n\n\"There you go. Start the day talking about my nationality.\" Immediately he climbed into his kayak and left the _Roberto II_ without me. I got going as quickly as I could, but he would not let me catch him. During the entire day we did not speak. Finally, at sunset, he slowed down, and I drew alongside. We paddled in silence for several minutes, until he asked, \"Why did you say that?\"\n\n\"Say what?\" The incident had not stuck with me.\n\n\" 'Polish bullshit,' \" he said, imitating my own wise-guy tone perfectly.\n\n\"I'm sorry. I thought you were joking with me about the beautiful day. It was raining.\"\n\n\"I was not joking. All day I am _furious_. Maybe I am too sensitive. But that is the way I am.\"\n\nI apologized again and promised to exercise more care in my choice of language. I felt terrible about my gaffe, and I was also worried. Chmielinski and I had disagreed about things before, but most of those disputes had concerned strategy\u2014how far to try to paddle on a particular day, how much food to carry. They had never been personal. Despite the long months we had spent together, we had never really argued about anything. Usually I simply deferred to his judgment.\n\nI suspected that his reaction was symptomatic of a much deeper problem. He, Bzdak, Durrant, and I had been traveling together for six months, and though we were still at least three weeks short of our goal, each of us, in his own way, was cringing in anticipation of the psychological jolt our arrival at the Atlantic was sure to deliver. The river had demanded so much from us, every day, that we could no longer quite imagine the world outside it.\n\nThat question loomed largest for Chmielinski. He carried the expedition's heaviest emotional burden, and not only as leader. He was also our publicist, a talent he had demonstrated dramatically in Manaus. We had entered the city penniless, caked in mud, and with barely a pair of shoes among the four of us. Over the next few days, in a country whose language he could hardly speak, Chmielinski had mounted a whirlwind public-relations campaign, playing the national tourist board against the state tourist board against the city media against the local politicians. We had left Manaus not only as the toast of the city but with guarantees of free hotels and meals in Santar\u00e9m, Bel\u00e9m, and Rio de Janeiro and a free ride home. Given our fiscal condition, which despite the help from Casper continued to be shaky, that assistance was substantial. But the effort had drained Chmielinski.\n\nAt the same time, he still had to keep his rendezvous with his wife, Joanna. It had been six months since he had last been able to telephone Poland. As far as he knew, Joanna was due in the United States within a matter of weeks. He had not only to meet her there but to find a way to support them both. Joanna had earned master of science degrees in both pharmacology and clinical chemistry, but it would be months, at least, before she could expect to find work in the States.\n\nAs we drew closer to the Atlantic Chmielinski drove himself harder and pushed the rest of us to keep pace. We did not always react well. Now that we were traveling together, there was less room in which to release the expedition's mounting internal pressures.\n\nI probably had the easiest time of it. If Chmielinski and I had not learned by then to forgive each other's transgressions, we would long since have parted. So we dismissed this latest outburst as a mere contretemps. For Durrant and Bzdak, however, life within the confines of the expedition had become increasingly difficult. For them, too, our incipient finish was unsettling. Bzdak had no choice but to return to Casper after we reached the sea. He had a job there, and, like Chmielinski, he was in the last year of his residency requirement for U.S. citizenship. It had been risky to depart the United States for the Amazon, but moving to London would be a step almost as bold as leaving Poland.\n\nDurrant's situation was no easier. What kind of life could she expect in Casper? Getting licensed to practice medicine in the United States would require another year of medical school, and with a recent drop in world oil prices, Casper, an oil town, was suffering an economic depression. In all probability, she would have to return to London.\n\nThe next day we crossed the sharp line, almost as spectacular as that at Manaus, where the translucent blue Tapaj\u00f3s collides with the silty brown Amazon. No sooner had we glided into Santar\u00e9m and checked into our hotel room (Capitan and Afrain, unwilling to leave the _Roberto II_ , chose to sleep aboard) than Chmielinski began to pepper Bzdak with demands for photographs to distribute to the local papers, instructions for purchasing maps and supplies, and requests for food.\n\nThis was not unusual, except that his tone had a curt edge. When he announced a plan to send Bzdak ahead to Bel\u00e9m to do advance work, rather than all of us arriving there together as we had planned, the usually unflappable Bzdak exploded. His anger shocked Chmielinski, who, in turn, was indignant. Durrant tried to keep out of the confrontation, but in the end she, too, lashed out at Chmielinski, telling him that his hunger for publicity threatened to ruin us.\n\nI was left out of this, our worst crisis since Luisiana. While they argued around me I sat and worked on my notes. I felt guilty about that, for I was only then beginning to understand what the expedition's end would mean for them.\n\nWe left Santar\u00e9m the next day under a hot blue sky. Chmielinski and I paddled far ahead of the _Roberto II_ , cruised north along the Tapaj\u00f3s, bounced across the _encontro das \u00e1guas_ and into the Amazon, and took aim on Bel\u00e9m, five hundred miles downstream.\n\n\"It is that woman,\" Chmielinski said. \"We have never had this kind of problem on an expedition. A woman has never come between Zbyszek and me in that way.\"\n\nI tried to explain what I saw as the root of the conflict, the strain each of us was under. Chmielinski listened and did not disagree, but that night and all of the next day he refused to speak to either Durrant or Bzdak. Bogucki told me he had never seen such hard feelings between his countrymen. Bzdak was quiet, his expression vacant, and Durrant spent long hours sitting alone atop the _Roberto II_.\n\nThe next night, as if something had snapped inside him, Chmielinski was wracked with chills, fever, violent shakes, and bouts of severe vomiting that left him too weak to climb out of his tent. In the morning he looked pallid and confused. Durrant's preliminary diagnosis was malaria, although she could not be certain until the symptoms had established a pattern.\n\nChmielinski insisted on trying to kayak. After we put our boats in the water I paddled next to him, keeping close watch. His eyes were bloodshot, he could not sit up straight, and his boat veered erratically. Twenty minutes later I convinced him to return to the _Roberto II_. Capitan moored in a lagoon and we put Chmielinski in a hammock, where he quickly fell asleep.\n\nWhen he woke up after lunch he again insisted on kayaking, an exercise that yielded the results it had earlier. He went back to sleep. If he had malaria, or any of the half dozen other afflictions that matched his symptoms, we had to get him to a medical facility soon.\n\nIt was too late in the day to begin a return to Santar\u00e9m, however, and as the light of dusk is the photographer's favorite, I agreed to accompany Bzdak on a kayak exploration of the lagoon. He had hoped to shoot jungle plants, but we found only marsh grass, low shrubs, and the occasional lonesome ceiba tree. A herd of water buffalo stood belly deep at the far end of the lagoon. Behind them, six emaciated white zebu cattle were squeezed onto a receding rise, slowly starving to death as the flooding river drowned their grazing land.\n\nWe paddled up to a ten-foot-square shack planted on thin stilts in the middle of the lagoon. Four toothless adults and eight bony children spilled out of it, their clothing gone to rags, their expressions listless. They said they had neither fruit nor fish to sell, and that the animals and the land that surrounded them belonged to a man in Santar\u00e9m.\n\nWhen we returned to the _Roberto II_ Chmielinski was still asleep. Capitan was worried. He did not know the Amazon below Santar\u00e9m, and he had come to rely on Chmielinski to help him decipher the river. Capitan, too, was in pain. It took Bzdak and me a couple of hours and a bottle of wine to convince him to submit to an examination by Durrant, but when he did, the reason for his reticence was clear\u2014he did not want a woman poking around his infected, painfully swollen testicles.\n\nAfter Durrant had supplied Capitan with a course of antibiotics she turned her attentions to me. I had new lesions on my legs, ankles, and jaw, and behind my right ear. Durrant suspected botfly larvae. She lanced the boils and cleansed them. Then I put up my tent and went to sleep.\n\nIn the dead of night I awoke to the sensation of the _Roberto II_ rocking in an unfamiliar way. I climbed onto the deck. The air was thick with the sound of chirping crickets and the smell of musk, and I saw shadows rubbing up against the hull\u2014the water buffalo had surrounded us. There was nothing aquatic about their rocking. It was an alien rhythm, thumping and irregular, and each knock seemed to shake the equanimity from my soul. The peace I had felt that first night out of Parintins was being overwhelmed by dissension and disease. In that sad lagoon the Atlantic seemed as far away, as unreal, as it had on the desolate _puna_ five months before.\n\nDawn brought a good sign: Though not yet himself, Chmielinski felt stronger, and before the sun had risen he summoned us to the galley table and spread out charts bought in Santar\u00e9m. We faced a critical decision. At the mouth of the Amazon an island larger than Switzerland divides the river. Some seven-eighths of the river's volume flows north around the island, called Maraj\u00f3. Many hydrographers say that only this course can be considered the Amazon, and that the system flowing to the south is another river altogether, the Par\u00e1.\n\nHowever, it can be said\u2014 _is_ said, particularly by Brazilian hydrographers\u2014that because some Amazon water flows to the south of Maraj\u00f3, through the Gurup\u00e1 Canal, and joins the Tocantins and several lesser rivers to form the Par\u00e1, that this, too, is the Amazon.\n\nAt stake is the question of supremacy. Measured by the northern route, the Amazon is the planet's second-longest river, seventy miles shorter than the Nile. Measured by the southern route, it is fifty miles longer than the Nile (and, as Brazilians are quick to point out, in either case carries some ten times the Nile's volume of water).\n\nWhich route should we follow? Given the maze of canals and tidal currents in the Gurup\u00e1 Canal, the northern route might deliver us to the sea as much as two weeks earlier than the southern. We discussed the question for an hour or so, but in the end decided as I suspected we knew all along we would. We had started from the river's farthest source; it was only right that we also follow her longest course to the sea.\n\nAlthough I believed this decision was the right one, I was not overjoyed at the prospect of spending an extra two or three weeks on the river. My muscles were strong now, but my joints ached. The popping sound my shoulders made with each stroke worried me despite Durrant's assurance that I was causing no permanent damage.\n\nMaraj\u00f3 Bay worried me, too. According to what little information we managed to glean from fishermen, we could expect severe storms, breaking waves, and gale-force winds blowing straight from the Atlantic into the bay's broad, unprotected mouth.\n\nBut the next day, when we slid south, then northeast into the Gurup\u00e1 Canal, we were rewarded in ways that I had not anticipated. The Gurup\u00e1 is actually the first in a webwork of canals weaving through a type of floodplain we had not yet encountered, an estuarine _v\u00e1rzea_ governed by tidal currents rather than rainfall. Unlike the main trunk of the river, which floods five months out of the year, the estuarine _v\u00e1rzea_ floods twice a day, backing up and releasing in response to ocean tides three hundred miles east. Instead of running through well-defined banks, the river floods into the forest. The vegetation, denser than any we had seen in the eight hundred miles of river below the Solim\u00f5es and dominated by palm trees (at least a dozen species grow along the canals), looked like a herd of giant houseplants set free. Sounds that we had not heard in too long\u2014howler-monkey roars, parrot screeches\u2014ricocheted through the bush like greetings from old friends.\n\nChmielinski's health seemed to improve with the scenery. Shortly before we entered the Gurup\u00e1 he broke his silence with Bzdak. The exchange was in Polish, but Bogucki told me later that Chmielinski had simply requested that Bzdak take a series of photos in the canals. That had been enough. Bzdak was soon scrambling about the _Roberto II_ , shooting film at a rapid clip.\n\nMeanwhile Chmielinski kayaked into a side canal and returned with his deck festooned with orchids, trumpet vines, and irises. These he presented to Durrant, along with a shy apology. That night the flowers sat brightly on the galley table in a plastic vase.\n\nAs we pushed deeper into the humid estuary, we passed a handful of small logging towns all of a pattern: one tiny, gas-powered, belt-saw lumber mill flanked by ten or twenty austere shanties. Food was scarce. In the shanty towns we found farinha, or, more often, nothing. We ate the last of our oatmeal, our last rusty can of Peruvian sardines.\n\nThree days into the estuary and a few miles short of the Par\u00e1 we met a parade of dugout canoes and funky motor-driven heaps that were not so much boats as collages of twine, rotting plywood, pieces of tin, and scraps of leather and cloth. Always a man at the tiller and a man bailing, and between them a dozen worried black heads or a load of palm wood or a heap of red clay. The names painted ornately on these leaky hulks were the wildest of boasts: _Queen of Bel\u00e9m, Grace of God, Princess of the Sea_ , the word _Princesa_ all but obliterated by soot from her farting engine.\n\nThe dugout canoes now bore crude triangular sails for negotiating gusty Maraj\u00f3 Bay. Chmielinski stopped to ask one intrepid navigator how his dugout, which had neither keel nor centerboard, remained upright in the bay's notorious winds.\n\nThe man shrugged. \"Canoe blows over, I fall out, wind stops. I climb back in.\"\n\nThis was new country for Capitan, and he was baffled not only by the tides and the canals but by the fact that Chmielinski always knew in advance that we were approaching a town. However, once Capitan had determined that what he saw on the charts corresponded to what he later saw on land, he undertook a vigorous program to master map reading, (His unfamiliarity with nautical charts was easily explained: The ten Chmielinski had purchased in Santar\u00e9m would have cost Capitan a month's earnings.) He tacked the charts above the wheel and often spent an hour at a time gazing at them.\n\nOne day I gave him my compass. He held it in his palm and turned slowly in a circle, his eyes fixed on the dial. When he finished his experiment he nodded solemnly and said, \"It works.\" Then, after my too-brief lesson in the instrument's use, he tacked it up next to the charts. I never did see him employ the compass, but several times I noticed him staring at it intently, as if wondering what strange demon drove it.\n\nWe had hoped to run the estuary's spiderweb of canals in three days, pick up the Par\u00e1 River, follow it into Maraj\u00f3 Bay, and then paddle down the bay to Bel\u00e9m. But we had not figured on the tide, which now that we were within two hundred miles of the Atlantic ran three to four knots at its peak. From one canal to the next the currents never flowed in the same direction. We would navigate one canal and find the tide running with us, turn into a second and find the tide against us, turn into a third and meet water standing dead still. Though we had planned to travel fifty miles a day, we were lucky to make twenty. Ten days after leaving Santar\u00e9m we were out of food, tempers were short, and it seemed we might never reach the sea. In Breves, the largest town in the canals, we could rustle up only one scrawny chicken.\n\nWe had worse luck when we left the canals and entered the five-mile-wide Par\u00e1 River. That first night we stopped at Curralinho. Aside from its smart red-brick church it was a dingy town, with dozens of dilapidated thatch huts, a loud, joyless bar, a garbage-choked port, and, other than a hearts-of-palm cannery, no food anywhere.\n\nBut we arrived on the first weekend of _carnaval_ , and that night all of us but Capitan walked into town and tried not to think about our stomachs. A trash fire burned in the middle of the flat clay plaza. A wiry, shirtless black man beat fiercely on a big drum. His pants were ripped off at the thigh and his right foot was bare, but his prosthetic left leg bore a spanking new orange sock and a neon-blue tennis shoe, the only shoe I had seen since we had cruised into the Gurup\u00e1.\n\nSeveral lesser percussionists, playing tambourines and congas, surrounded the drummer. The troupe's personnel changed constantly. Someone arrived with the family drum, sat in for an hour, left. Two lithe young women danced in skirts torn to mid-thigh, shaking, as Durrant described it, \"things where other people don't have things.\"\n\nThe pounding drums, the sweaty, kinetic women: Distracted, I forgot my hunger. Which, days later, and on a full belly, I decided had been precisely the idea.\n\nFrom Curralinho we traveled forty miles along the left bank of the east-running Par\u00e1, arriving after two days at the point where the broad Tocantins River enters the Par\u00e1 from the south. There, the river widens abruptly to about ten miles and a little further on is known as Maraj\u00f3 Bay. We temporarily parted with the _Roberto II_ , which could not handle the bay's swells and sudden storms. Capitan would work his way back upstream, descend through a system of canals on the right bank, and rendezvous with us in the port of Abaetetuba, tucked safely behind an island.\n\nLate that afternoon, with storm clouds hovering in the east, Chmielinski and I sprinted across Maraj\u00f3 Bay. Luck was with us. The bay threw high rolling waves but no breakers and the skies darkened but did not storm. Yet when we reached Abaetetuba my jaws ached\u2014my teeth had been clenched during the entire crossing.\n\nThe _Roberto II_ met us as planned and moored for the night in Abaetetuba. Shortly after dark, drumbeats drifted down from town. _Carnaval_ was the year's high point for Afrain. He grabbed his whistle and hurried to the plaza but returned an hour later profoundly disappointed. _Carnaval_ in Abaetetuba meant a solitary drummer, drunks passed out in the street, and a handful of dazed locals walking in circles. Most of the townspeople were gathered in a bar, watching a television broadcast of festivities in Rio de Janeiro.\n\nThat night the lights of Bel\u00e9m reflected off the dark sky, as did those of a passing jet, something I had not seen since Lima. While we slept, Durrant's windbreaker was stolen from the _Roberto II's_ clothesline. It was our first theft in Brazil.\n\nThe next day Chmielinski and I paddled twenty miles along the right side of the bay and, just as a storm hit, ducked into a canal, the Furo do Arrozal. (Rather than risk the bay, Capitan had motored up the Tocantins and then east through a system of small rivers, arranging to meet us in Bel\u00e9m.)\n\nHad I not known from our maps that we were within fifteen miles of the largest and, I presumed, most civilized city on the Amazon, I would not have had the slightest clue, based on what I saw in the Furo do Arrozal. The faces that now and then peered from behind a palm or mangrove were desperate and frightened\u2014a consequence, I decided, of the estuarine rain forest, which was damp, dark, and suffocating. The only light drifted down from the thin opening in the canopy directly above the canals, and even at midday no direct sun reached the forest floor. The few people I saw appeared torpid and inert, save four men cutting chunks of clay from a bank exposed at low tide. Alerted by the slapping of our paddles, they turned to look at us. Their backs were broad and muscular, but their eyes were flat and dead. They stared but did not speak.\n\nWe turned into the Furo do Cavado, a canal so narrow we had to kayak in single file. The shacks were little more than rotting trash piles, the people few and spiritless. No birds sang, no fish jumped. From time to time herds of two-inch opaque-yellow salamanderlike creatures would burst from the shadows in a ghostly cloud, inflate themselves as they leaped, float for a few seconds when they hit the water, then sink from sight. Those ten miles struck me as the most primitive of our entire journey. The only suggestion that we were in the twentieth century was a rusting yellow Volkswagen bug propped on a small, decaying pier. But the car had no tires, no doors, and no engine.\n\nThe canal twisted, turned, and shrank until it was but a paddle-length wide, while growing ever darker and spookier. We rounded a bend and then\u2014boom\u2014the skyscrapers of Bel\u00e9m rose up before us, two miles and centuries across the choppy Canal da Das Oncas.\n\n# 19 \u2022 The Atlantic\n\n_February 16_\n\nBel\u00e9m, Portuguese for Bethlehem: Unbelieving, we slouch toward our goal of six months, four thousand miles, three million paddle strokes. \"Where are you going?\" I have been asked hundreds of times by people who will never see what I am seeing now. My reply has been unvarying: _\"A Bel\u00e9m!\"_ Dulled with use, the words have lost all meaning.\n\nThe _Roberto II_ awaits us in port. While Capitan fills his hold with onions (he will sell them on his return voyage, in the produce-starved hamlets between here and Parintins), we take Afrain into town and buy him dinner and a pair of rakish sunglasses. He is stupefied by the city's size, as am I\u2014its population of a million and a half is probably ten times the number of people living along the entire two thousand miles of river between here and the Peruvian border. (With the exception of Manaus, which, in fact, is on the Negro.)\n\nAfter dinner we return to the _Roberto II_ with a bottle of ersatz Brazilian champagne. Under the influence of this and, I will realize days later, the onions now stored in the ship's hold, Capitan breaks into tears. At first we fear that we have somehow offended him, although we have paid him considerably more than contracted for (and he has delivered considerably more than promised). As it turns out, he is upset only that he cannot accompany us to the sea, still seventy hard miles north and east. But the _Roberto II_ , so mighty in tiny Parintins, is dwarfed by even the smallest fishing boats in Bel\u00e9m, all of which sport high, defiant, wave-cutting bows.\n\nWe finish the champagne and exchange hugs and farewells. Then the good ship _Roberto II_ sets course for the west, where she belongs. I will miss her crew, and remember them fondly.\n\nWe climb back into the city. Bogucki has already left on a jet bound for freezing Wyoming and his worried wife. As if born to them, Durrant and Bzdak have settled into the five-star hotel rooms arranged for us by Embratur, the Brazilian office of tourism.\n\nChmielinski and I, however, have work ahead of us. After embarrassing myself in the hotel sauna\u2014for no reason I can explain other than homesickness, a Frank Sinatra song piped over the loudspeaker reduced me to tears\u2014I climb to my room nervously clutching a cold bottle of beer. I am not looking forward to the last leg of our journey, the passage through Maraj\u00f3 Bay into the Atlantic. I have no confidence in my ability to handle the open sea, a fear reinforced by the size of the boats in port here.\n\nBut there is no question of quitting now. Tomorrow, as I have for months, I will simply plow along behind my good friend Piotr Chmielinski.\n\n_February_ 17\n\nAt first light we descend to the port. Surrounded by shouting fishermen and the smell of fresh coffee, we slip our little plastic boats into the flat gray Das Oncas and paddle north.\n\nBzdak and Durrant escort us through the morning in a small power launch provided by the Brazilian navy, Bzdak snapping the last of the seven thousand slides he has taken on this journey. Once, turning at his shout, I lose my sunglasses, which slip into the deep without a sound. Over the last week the river has snatched my knife, my thermos, a hat, two pens, and the silly slippers. It is as if she wants to purify me, wants to send me to the sea stripped of all but thought and memory and the bonds of friendship.\n\n\"When we first come west,\" Bzdak tells me, \"we learn that every river must take something. Better some thing than some body.\"\n\nSoon, after wishing us luck and promising champagne and _muita festa_ in three days, half our team turns back for Bel\u00e9m. Chmielinski and I turn into Maraj\u00f3 Bay, and east.\n\nThe water is flat and the horizon clear. To take advantage of the strong outgoing tide we paddle far into the bay, until land drops away on all sides.\n\nHere the bay, the river\u2014in my mind they are the same\u2014is over fifteen miles wide. In one way the Amazon basin recalls the high Andes: Its immensity encourages contraction. So often my universe has been defined entirely by the Polish fellow who is stopping to share coffee with me as I write these notes. Back at Atalaya, when we were first setting out in two kayaks, I had feared the intimacy the river would force upon us. Since then Chmielinski has seen me at my worst, sick and afraid and despairing, and has not abandoned me. I hope I have been half as good a companion. It is true that our days pass with long silences, but it is the silence of brothers. (He is one of nine children, I one of six.)\n\nAfter all this time Chmielinski's enthusiasm remains undimmed. When we resume our paddling he launches into one of his Polish marches, straining his lungs. By now I know the words and sing along, though I have no idea what the words mean, and no inclination to ask.\n\nThe paddling is easier than anticipated, the bay rocking us on gentle swells, the sky a thin gray, and by dusk we have covered almost forty miles. My confidence soars, giving rise to a guarded optimism\u2014soon I will step from my little boat for the last time. I will be in California for the start of baseball season. I will sleep in one place for more than two nights in a row. I will kiss the woman I love.\n\nWe decide to attempt a landfall at the small port of Vigia. A band of grizzled roughnecks, all Popeye forearms and missing teeth, stares down at us from the seawall. Assessing that gallery of tough faces, I am pleased to discover that I am not intimidated. I think: I am as much the riverman as any one of them. Then I employ one of Chmielinski's tricks. I take five hard strokes and drive my kayak far up into the sand at the wall's base. It is a cocky display, one that identifies me as either one tough _homem_ or a complete idiot. In either case, not to be messed with.\n\nMy hairy-chested bravado is unnecessary. These rogues are fishermen, brothers of the sea. When Chmielinski explains our mission they shoulder our boats and we march in a long line to Vigia's one hotel, where we are feted with beans and fried fish and cold beer.\n\nOut of the kayak, endlessly rocking. As I drift off to sleep on a cool patio near the kitchen my body vibrates with the rhythm of ocean swells.\n\n_February 18_\n\nWhatever hubris possessed me yesterday Maraj\u00f3 Bay beats out of me today. In mid-morning the skies darken and a storm descends, throwing breakers that rise up and curl and crack over our heads. Though we travel parallel with, and a mile off, the bay's right-hand shore, it would be pointless to run there for shelter\u2014the waves are rolling right into a mangrove swamp and would crush us against the exposed roots of the foul-smelling trees.\n\nSo, following Chmielinski's example, I turn the nose of my boat into the waves and hang on until mid-afternoon, when the storm finally abates and the sea calms.\n\nAfter holding in the waves for half the day, paddling hard but standing still, we are drained of energy. Yet the shoreline is a tangle of thick bush and there is nowhere to put in and pitch camp. We continue to paddle.\n\nTwo hours later reeds fluttering on the horizon signal a shallow island. We drag our boats through knee-deep mud and up into a sandy clearing. Two dark, bony men huddle around a bed of coals. A pig nuzzles a discarded meat tin, and a scabby dog and two cats, the first I have seen in Brazil, negotiate over a fish head. One of the men rolls a cigarette and lights it off the embers. Studying us from the corners of his eyes, he says that we are welcome to make camp on his sleeping platform. This consists of twelve warped planks and four stilts held together, as near as I can determine in the fading light, solely by _a gra\u00e7a de Deus_.\n\nThe air reeks of pig, everything is damp, and six neighbors who seem to have materialized from the sand itself sit on their haunches and stare at us, nodding in mute incomprehension as Chmielinski tries to explain our purpose. One, a pregnant girl, has a head swollen like a hydrocephalic's.\n\nWhy am I disappointed with this reception? After four thousand one hundred and fifty miles I should know that to come from the source of the Amazon is to come from Mars. I should expect no more than the pig that burrows under the platform while we sleep, rooting and snorting the night through.\n\nHe is gone in the morning\u2014the clearing has flooded. We paddle away from the platform without waking the owner, curled up in a corner on a piece of cardboard.\n\n_February 19_\n\nToday Maraj\u00f3 is altogether different from yesterday, undulating easily, like a calm gray lake. We run with the outgoing tide. Shortly after noon, as the tide begins to turn against us, we are about a mile short of Taipu Point. Maraj\u00f3 Bay runs almost due northeast and, on its north bank, meets the Atlantic at Cape Maguari. On its south bank, it ends roughly at Dos Guar\u00e1s Island, thirty-five miles southeast of Cape Maguari and ten miles northeast of Taipu. If we paddle due north from Taipu, in thirteen miles we will intersect an imaginary line drawn between Maguari and Dos Guar\u00e1s.\n\nWe take shelter in a nearby lagoon and find a small gaff-rigged schooner anchored there. The _God Judges You_ is twenty-five feet of sturdy wooden boat, sail only, no engine save the muscle of a sleepy crew of three: the leathery captain, Juarez; the first mate, Edinor; and Manol\u2014 _\"Marinheiro!\"_ he says, and thumps his thin, hairless chest. They have been swinging to anchor for two days, waiting out the storm that hit yesterday. Though the storm has passed their _cacha\u00e7a_ supply has not, and so, for the time being, the fish of Maraj\u00f3 Bay are safe.\n\nThe lagoon is a fine place to stop for a drink. Palms and mangroves rise thick on all sides, and a row of aristocratic, long-legged ibis stand along an exposed sandbar. As the tide begins to turn in our favor I paddle toward them, but they explode into the gray sky like an orange cloud.\n\nThen we bid good-bye to the crew of the _God Judges You_ , Chmielinski sets course due north, and we paddle out of the lagoon in search of the Atlantic.\n\nA mist descends on Maraj\u00f3 Bay and slowly thickens to fog. The source of the Amazon, too, had been shrouded by fog, but in my memory it seems another world altogether. I have been a tropical man for so long now that I can hardly remember what it means to be cold. What had the Polish stranger and I said as we staggered across the continental divide? \"All downhill from here.\" For six months I have chased an idea that I now understand was only an excuse to move.\n\nThree hours later the bay begins to rock us with gentle waves that arrive in long, slow sets. Foot by foot, stroke by stroke, the turbid waters thin to a translucent green. A hundred yards ahead of us a shadow creaks in the fog. As we paddle closer the frayed canvas sails of an ancient cutter take shape in the still air. The _Jesus of Galilee:_ Rough jute rigging, splintered wood, absence of brass and plastic. A vessel not of this century.\n\nWe ship our paddles. Chmielinski shouts. No response. The fog grows thicker yet, sealing us in a gray envelope with the ghost cutter. We sit quietly and listen to the slap of rigging on wood, watch the old boat rock ever so easily, going nowhere.\n\nChmielinski leans over and scoops a handful of water to his lips.\n\n\"Salt,\" he says.\n\n# AFTERWORD\n\nEight years after we ran the Amazon, five years after this book was first published, I still get questions. Two, mainly. One is: What happened to everybody?\n\nWell, no, Kate and Zbyszek did not stay together. The differences\u2014geographic, cultural, emotional\u2014were simply too vast. After the expedition Kate lived in London for a year and worked for the national health service. Then, bored out of her mind, she lit out once again for South America. For the Bolivian Andes, to be precise, where she spent three years directing a health-education project for Aymara Indians. I visited her there in 1990. It turned out to be the end of her stay: That same week she came down with typhoid and her joints swelled up like balloons. She moved back to England.\n\nZbyszek, for his part, became an American citizen and married a fourth-generation Wyomingite. (I went to the wedding, at which Zbyszek delivered one of the great matrimonial vows: Trying to wrap his lips around \"With this ring, I thee wed, and bestow upon thee...\" he somehow came up with, \"With this ring, I be wed, and be still upon you!\") He has published two books of photography, and his photos often appear in major magazines. He and his wife, Lauren, now live near Chicago, where he is a staff photographer for a local newspaper. I talk to them about once a week, because Zbyszek and I have continued to travel and work together.\n\nI'm in close contact with Piotr, too. After we finished the Amazon he managed to smuggle his wife, Joanna, out of Poland and into the United States, where both now have citizenship. They live outside Washington, D.C.; Piotr owns an environmental engineering firm, HP Environmental, that is, by all accounts, one of the best in the country. Let me put it this way: When the federal government suspected that the air and water in the White House were contaminated, Piotr was the man they called in to investigate. He and Joanna have a three-year-old son, Maximilian, who, the story has it, was born running.\n\nJerome Truran took that last shot at an international title, didn't win but did well, retired, and married a Canadian, Morna Fraser, herself once ranked among the world's top ten female kayakers. They have settled in Vancouver, British Columbia, and one way or another I see them about once a year. They live quietly and happily, and they still spend a lot of time on the water. In 1991, they were the lead kayakers on a National Geographic expedition that ran Peru's Colca Canyon. It was an expedition that, in its way, said something about the bonds of friendship formed during the running of the Amazon\u2014once again, Piotr was the leader, Zbyszek the photographer, and I the author, this time of an article that appeared in _National Geographic_ in January 1993.\n\nI have no contact with the other principal characters in this book. From what I hear, Jack Jourgensen had a bitter split with Fran\u00e7ois Odendaal and later fell on hard times. As for Odendaal, I have neither seen nor spoken with him since the day he fled the Amazon. I do know that at about the same time that he was in London telling the Royal Geographical Society that he led the first source-to-sea navigation of the Amazon I was ducking bullets along the Peruvian border, still thirty-five hundred miles short of the Atlantic. Tim Biggs meanwhile, is in South Africa, raising a family. Sergio Leon is back in Costa Rica. I shared good times with Sergio, and I hope our paths cross again.\n\nMe, I married the girl I left behind, Elyse Axell, and we have a two-year-old daughter, Clare. Running the Amazon was frightening, but I didn't know real fear until I had a child. After Clare was born, we lived for a while in Ecuador, where I was on assignment for _The New Yorker_ and researching my next book, _Savages_. We have since returned to California, and I have taken up adventure gardening\u2014I grow these _killer_ tomatoes.\n\nThe second question is: Would you do it again?\n\nLet me be absolutely clear about this: I think so. Maybe. Who knows?\n\nWithout a doubt, running the Amazon was the looniest thing I've ever done. That I survived was a matter of luck as much as anything else. I felt relieved when we finished and was happy to get home. I own a house and a car. I like books, movies, good food, cold beer. In short, I enjoy the distractions of modern life, and I'm thankful to be in a culture that readily provides them. But the Amazon taught me something about the true cost of such comfort: Basically, it's insulation. Direct experience is our best teacher, but it is exactly what we are most bent on obliterating, because it is so often painful. We grow more comfortable at the price of knowing the world, and therefore ourselves.\n\nSo all I can say is this: For a while, at least, the Amazon sucked me out of my cocoon, and my life has been the better for it. To anyone seriously considering a flying leap into the void, I say: Go.\n\nOakland, California  \nOctober 26, 1994 \n\n# ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nJoe Kane lives in Oakland, California,  \nwith his wife, Elyse, and their daughters,  \nClare and Sophie. He is the author of  \n _Savages_ , about the Huaorani people  \nof the Ecuadorian Amazon, and has  \ncontributed to _The New Yorker, National  \nGeographic_, and other publications.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}