Across the Face of the World

1. Loulea

2. Midwinter's Day

3. Faltha and Bhrudwo

4. The Farmer

5. Under Watch Hill

6. Mjolkbridge

7. Windrise

8. The Valley of Respite

9. Breidhan Moor

10. The Fenni

11. Maelstrom

12. Roleystone Bridge

13. The Hermit Under the Hill

14. A Night on the Ice

15. The Southern Run

16. The Slopes of Steffi

17. The Blue Fire

18. Fields of Mourning

19. Phemanderac

20. The Acolyte

21. The Battle of Helig Holth

22. Storm in the Afternoon

23. The Gates of Instruere

Glossary

THE UNDYING MAN STUDIED the charts and documents laid out on the vast black marble table, searching patiently for the flaw in his long-laid plans. The Hall of Voices, buried deep in the Keep of Andratan, echoed to the sound of steel-shod boots as the gaunt, grey-cloaked figure turned from the table and strode its length, deep in thought. From long experience he knew that the flaw would be there. From longer experience still he knew that, however hard he looked, he would be fortunate indeed to find it.

No matter. His great advantage - his insurmountable advan¬tage - over his ignorant enemies was the knowledge he had amassed from the enduring centuries of his life. Their earthly lives were so brief! They died before realising more than a fraction of their potential, unable from their short-lived perspective to encompass the recurrent patterns of an Age, doomed to repeat the foolish mistakes of their predecessors, while he had distilled a bedrock of wisdom from two thousand years of unbroken success. This was how he knew that the flaw would be there.

It would manifest itself some time during his campaign - sooner rather than later, if he was lucky - and he would adapt to it. His wisdom would be suffi¬cient, and he would turn the flaw in his plan to his benefit. His enemies would be destroyed in the moment of their seeming victory. So it had always been.

Indeed, he had an inkling as to what the flaw might be. So helpful, the young Dhaurian had been, in the days it had taken him to die. Oh, he hadn't wanted to help, not at first, but the Undying Man was a man of leisure and had taken time over the long centuries to perfect the art of persuasion. At the end the young scholar had choked to death trying to deliver the informa¬tion he hoped would satisfy his inquisitor, unable to draw breath in his haste to speak, to say something that might ease the agony. What else could he expect, the fool, when he had the temerity to try to infiltrate the very Keep of Andratan? The Dhaurians had risked much to find out what was happening in Bhrudwo, and they had failed. If this was the best of them, they would continue to fail.

So there was a prophecy. Well, there always was. The Most High could be depended upon to broadcast his plans to his minions. How could the Great Fool be so out of touch with his followers? Did he not understand the power of the spoken word? Now they would be constrained to walk along the road that had been laid before them, losing the one advantage they had: the randomness generated by ignorant mortals which made one's own plans so hard to formulate. He, the legendary Destroyer feared by all Falthans, the immortal Undying Man, Lord of Andratan, was bound by no such path. Not even the Most High could predict what he would do.

And now the prophecy had fallen into his hand, as it was bound to do. There was no doubting its veracity. He had a well-tested feel for these things. Years he had spent, high in his Tower of Farsight, wrestling over the inspired words uttered by the fools pledged to serve the Most High, and they all carried the same aroma. He could smell them, these inspired words; their sharp tang offended him. Foolish restrictions designed to keep the sheep in their pens. But not him! The Undying Man had faced down the Most High himself and emerged victorious, with the secret of eternal life his and his alone. The words of the Most High on that ancient day still burned in his mind. This prophecy had the same sharp aroma as those words, like jujune with too much spice.

It was just like the Most High to raise someone to oppose him. Just like him, and doomed to fail. The Undying Man had spent two thousand years learning all about the human soul, and knew how vulnerable, this naive saviour would be to corruption. When he found this Right Hand - when, not if - he would not destroy him. No! The Destroyer epithet was not among his favourites. He did not destroy; he remade. That is what he would do with the Right Hand that was prophesied. He would find him, foster him, corrupt him, remake him. The prophecy said that Faltha would be ruled by the Right Hand, which suited the Undying Man perfectly. What a delightful irony there would be in presenting the Right Hand of the Most High as the saviour of Faltha, a saviour made in his own dark image.

Yes, perhaps the Right Hand was the flaw in his plan, the random element as yet unaccounted for. But, the Undying Man reflected as he gazed dispassionately at the stump where his own right hand used to be, the simple elegance was so compelling.

LOULEA

THE GREAT OAK STOOD autumn-tinged and alone under a troubled sky. Gnarled limbs spread arthritic fingers out over the sodden common, stretching towards snug, lamp-lit houses.

Passing squalls shook the browning leaves, soaking the rich bronze canopy. The stout oaken heart brushed away the autumn rains with little effort; there was undoubtedly much worse in store, even if the coming winter proved to be mild. This far north the snow could lie for weeks, even months at a time in the worst years, but the giant tree would survive. It always did.