Nightchild

All The Unknown could do now was pray his wife and son were still alive and under Tomas' welcoming roof.

He wanted to saddle his horse and ride to Korina now but knew he couldn't. If he wanted to save his family and friends, he had to get Denser to Lyanna. Hirad was central to that. The big warrior rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head, cursing himself for his actions.

It wasn't until the man walked into the camp that he realised the

watch he had been taking had been nothing more than an excuse to sit in the cold and damp, and disappear inside his own mind.

'Nursing a problem, Unknown?'

'You could say,' replied The Unknown after looking up to see Darrick walk in, leather cape around his shoulders, sword scab-barded at his waist, dark rings about his eyes. He must have ridden most of the night. 'Sit down. I'll put some water on for coffee.' But that wasn't why Darrick was there.

'I don't think we've got time for that,' he said.

'No,' said The Unknown. He looked hard into the woods but could see nothing but the shadows of trees moving in the wind as the sun gradually pierced the clouds that threatened more rain. 'Bring many with you?'

'A couple of hundred.'

'You were quiet,' The Unknown smiled.

Darrick nodded and almost chuckled. 'Well, we didn't ride right in, if that's what you mean.'

'Two hundred, eh?' The Unknown glanced again at his sword lying in the mud of the wood. 'That's probably enough.'

T thought so.' Darrick walked around in front of The Unknown and stood across the fire from him. T thought you deserved ovet whelming odds to help you make up your mind.'

The Unknown looked up into the General's eyes and saw the guilt painted there like the mark of plague on the front door of a stricken house.

'So what do you want?'

'To stop The Raven getting killed needlessly.'

'Really?' The Unknown raised his eyebrows.

'Yes, really.' Darrick scratched at his forehead with a leather-gloved hand. 'Look, you're in the middle of something bad and I don't think you fully understand how Dordover sees the stakes.'

The Unknown felt a flash of anger. 'Let me assure you, we know exactly how Dordover sees everything. That's why we're with him, trying to get to his daughter before anyone else.' He jerked a thumb at Denser.

'It's not that simple.'

'So Ilkar keeps saying. Only, it is that simple. Denser asked for our help. We're The Raven, so we helped him. He's one of us and he

says he can save her and Balaia with her and that's enough for us.' There was silence. The Unknown could see Darrick understood but couldn't do anything about it. His loyalty was to Lystern and, through them, Dordover. 'So where are you planning to take us?'

'Arlen.'

'Well that's fortunate. We were headed that way ourselves.'

T know. But you aren't doing anything when we get there.'

'Prisoners?'.

'Something like that.' Darrick looked away.

'Funny how things change, isn't it?' said The Unknown.

'Not really,' said Darrick. 'Now, are you going to wake them or must I?'

The Unknown smiled again. 'I'll do it. You know how fractious mages are if woken suddenly. Have you already got Hirad?' He saw no reason to hide the barbarian's absence. Darrick wasn't a fool.

But Darrick just bit his lip and gazed down at the ground. 'No,' he said. 'I'm afraid we were too late.'

'Good old Hirad,' said The Unknown. Hope flickered again but Darrick extinguished it.

'Unknown, you don't understand. We tracked him all right but we were there second.' He wiped his gloved hand through his matted curls. 'Gods, how do I say this? The wolves were already closing in when the scouts arrived. I'm sorry.'

Arlen eschewed his horse in favour of marching through his town accompanied by twenty of his guard in a very obvious show of strength. There were faster routes to the Lakehome Inn but Arlen wanted as many people as possible, friends and enemies, to see his intent.

So, with the sun trying to warm a cloudy day and dry the streets that had been swept once again by unseasonably heavy rain, Jasto Arlen strode from the gates of Arlen Castle. Walking quickly up the wide, stone-chipped avenue between his private gardens and the barracks, he turned right on to Market Approach, a meandering street that linked the town to the north trails. Market Approach was peppered by cross-streets the whole of its length, while to the east, increasingly sumptuous merchant and shippers' houses culminated in the magnificent Park of the Martyrs' Souls. To the west, south of

the barracks, the silk and fine goods market and the playhouse fronted a less affluent quarter including Aden's castle workers' cottages and tenements, the stables and the plain but most important Temple of the Sea.

Arlen headed straight down Market Approach, a slightly sloped, cobbled street that opened out into Centenary Square, which housed the main market, selling everything from food to weapons to fine carved furnishings, and ringed all round with eating houses, inns and even the odd gallery. This early, the square was only just beginning to fill but word would spread quickly and Arlen felt his anger rising further. His was a well-formed, prosperous town built on hard work and a tight business ethic. No one would be allowed to change that.

Waving at his townspeople and trading greetings with anyone he knew, Arlen turned right out of the square to walk through poorer tenement streets into the long-nicknamed Ice Quarter where the trawler men had traditionally lived and cold-stored late-landed fish before selling catches in the dockfront fish market each mid-morning. Arlen walked past the iron foundry and fish market on his way to the dockside, taking in the empty harbour that housed the fishing fleet and the first of the deepwater berths, before turning left and walking past an attractive, sleek elven vessel, obviously just tied up, and stopping finally at the doors to the Lakehome Inn.

Looking along the dock past die timber yard and on to the Salt Quarter, Arlen could see a few people about, including some of the Black Wings lounging around jetty-posts. They, like his townspeople and visitors, straightened quicldy, and before his sergeant-at-arms had finished hammering on the inn's door to demand attention, a crowd was beginning to gather, a hubbub of noise filling the air and taking men and women from their work as curiosity got the better of them.

Locks were slid back and the left-hand of a pair of painted black wooden doors squeaked open. One of the innkeeper's sons, a scrawny lad in his early teens, peered out, his freckled face blanching under his shock of tangled orange hair.

'Don't worry, Petren,' said Arlen. 'Just wake your father. I need to talk to one of your guests. Now.'

The frightened boy said nothing in reply, just bobbed his head

and turned back into the gloom. Presently, they could hear his voice echoing through the inn, reedy and high, unbroken.

'Father. Pa! The Earl's at the door, the Earl's at the door.'

Arlen allowed himself a brief smile, catching the eye of his sergeant-at-arms.

'At least he knew who I was,' said Arlen.

'Yes sir.'

During the short wait, the crowd swelled and amongst them, Arlen counted over a dozen of the Black Wings. Right now, the atmosphere was calm and curious but it wouldn't take much to turn it ugly. He leaned towards the sergeant-at-arms and ordered him to place men near the Black Wings.

'My Lord?' It was the innkeeper, Denat.

'Sorry to wake you,' said Arlen.

'Not at all, my Lord. I've been up cooking breakfasts a while now.'

'Busy time for you?'

'I'm full,' confirmed Denat.

'Hmm.' Arlen nodded. 'Unfortunately, I fear you are about to lose much of your current custom.'

'Pardon, my Lord?' Denat frowned and fidgeted at the door. He was a heavier set but balding version of his son.