The cathedral still stood, but many of the grand old buildings were now in ruins, the victims of dirigible bombing in the days before the Black Army's conquest of the city. Ralanast's residents walked with a defeated air, heads down and shoulders hunched. Many were starving; the Halrana were far down the list of those their occupiers wanted fed first. Worst of all, any who resisted, who spoke out against the Black Army or those of their own people who'd gone over to the enemy's side, any who complained about the thieving of his goods, or the rape of his wife, simply disappeared.

Rogan had heard about the prison camp half a day's journey from Ralanast. It was a crafty insurance policy, for who would organise a resistance when they had loved ones in the camp?

As he walked the streets, exercising his injured leg and thinking about the future, Rogan looked at the boy Tapel walking by his side, and wondered what he should do.

A stone turned under Rogan's foot and he tripped, only saved by the walking stick in his hand.

"Are you all right?" Tapel asked quickly.

"I'm fine," Rogan said. What use could he be anyway?

The lad looked at him with worship in his eyes, and Rogan sighed. Tapel was young, perhaps only eleven or twelve, and the brave boy who'd found him alive on the battlefield outside Ralanast several weeks ago obviously looked up to him. He'd questioned Rogan endlessly about the bodies of the enemy Tapel had found littered in a circle around where Rogan had fallen. Had he really defeated that many men?

He was a bladesinger, Rogan had said. He was the blademaster. He was the man who instructed and led the bladesingers. "I was," he had said. Not: "I am".

Rogan leaned on his walking stick and looked around him, at the crumbling stone of a once-beautiful fountain. He was as broken as this city here, once strong and proud, now just a relic of the past.

He now knew all about the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. When he'd heard it was Miro, the son of the old High Lord, Serosa, who had led the Alturans to victory, he'd wept. Actually wept! He was so proud of the lad he'd once taught swordsmanship at the Pens, and who now commanded the allied forces, the last bastion against the evil of the Primate and his Black Army. Could the lad, now a grown man, have use for him now?