‘Bad idea,’ Kurik said shortly. ‘Sorry Lord Vanion, but it really is. If we march on the Rendors in force, they’ll fight to the death to defend their holy man. All we’ll do is get a lot of men needlessly killed.’

‘Do you have an alternative?’

Kurik patted his crossbow. ‘Yes, My Lord,’ he said confidently. ‘Berit says that Ulesim’s making a speech to his people. A man who’s talking to a crowd usually stands up on something. If I can get to within two hundred paces of him –’ Kurik left it hanging.

‘Sparhawk,’ Vanion decided, ‘take your friends and protect Kurik. Try to slip through the city until you can get him and that crossbow close enough to this Ulesim to remove him. If those Rendorish fanatics fly all to pieces and don’t destroy the bridges, Wargun will be able to cross the river before the other mercenaries are ready for them. Mercenaries are the most practical soldiers in the world. They’re not very enthusiastic about hopeless battles.’

‘You think they’ll capitulate?’ Darellon asked.

‘It’s worth a try,’ Vanion said. ‘A peaceful solution of some kind here could save us a lot of men on both sides, and I think we’re going to need every man we can lay our hands on – even the Rendors – when we come up against Otha.’

Abriel suddenly laughed. ‘I wonder how God’s going to feel about having His Church defended by Eshandist heretics?’

‘God’s tolerant,’ Komier grinned. ‘He might even forgive them – a little.’

The four knights, Berit and Kurik crept through the streets of Chyrellos towards the west gate. A faint breeze had come up, and the fog was rapidly dissipating. They reached a large burned-out area near the west gate to find thousands of tightly-packed and heavily armed Rendors gathered in the thinning mist about a heaped-up pile of rubble. Atop the rubble stood a familiar figure.

‘That’s him, all right,’ Sparhawk whispered to his companions as they took refuge in the gutted remains of a house. ‘There he stands in all his glory – Ulesim, most-favoured-disciple-of-holy-Arasham.’

‘What was that?’ Kalten asked.

‘That’s what he called himself down in Rendor. It was a self-bestowed title. I guess he wanted to spare Arasham the effort of selecting somebody.’

Ulesim was in a state bordering on hysteria, and his speech had little in the way of coherence to recommend it. He held one bony arm aloft, and he was tightly clutching something. After about every fifteen words, he would shake the object in his hand vigorously and bellow, ‘RAMSHORN!’ His followers then would roar back, ‘RAMSHORN!’

‘What do you think, Kurik?’ Sparhawk whispered as they all looked over a half-collapsed wall.

‘I think he’s crazy.’

‘Of course he’s crazy, but is he in range?’

Kurik squinted across the top of the crowd at the ranting fanatic. ‘It’s a goodly way,’ he said dubiously.