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them for a moment. Before they could recover they were being dragged into the vortex left in the lightning’s wake as air rushed to fill the vacuum.
    A vast thunderclap sounded. They were torn in opposite directions, contorted and tumbled. One of the lashings came loose and Jelindel was hanging by one arm. She was still tied to the deadmoon warrior, and her weight pulled him down. Hecried out to his companion who was desperately battling the buffeting air currents to get back to the rapidly descending pair.
    Then Jelindel was falling, her arm wrenched free of the remaining lashing. She fell and fell, through storm and wind and hail. And maybe she screamed, but her tiny voice could not be heard against the storm’s mighty fury.
    Still she fell, and it was like a dream where time stretched out forever. But one wakes from dreams, she mused, and still she fell.
    Then something slammed into her, expelling the breath from her body, and knocking her senseless.
    Voices rose and fell as waves of consciousness broke upon Jelindel. She became aware of lights and movement and the smell of cooking. Most of all she was aware of being warm .
    ‘She’s coming round,’ a flat almost metallic voice said.
    A dryer voice, more full of dark undercurrents, answered, ‘I see that, Kantor. Stimulate her.’
    A blunt stick shoved against her ribs. She heard a loud click and a strange energy smashed through her. She screamed, her back arching, mouth gaping. The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. The evil energy departed almost as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping, but very much awake.
    Even before Jelindel focused, she knew who stood before her. The Preceptor. Her family had been murdered by lindraks in the service of the King of Skelt and, possibly, at the behest of this man.
    ‘Good evening, Countess,’ said the Preceptor.
    Jelindel gazed at him, trying to regain her composure. By anyone’s estimation, she had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire.
    ‘Preceptor, you do me an unwanted honour,’ she said, thickly. Her throat was still constricted with remnants of the dark energy. ‘I renounced my title when I joined the Temple of Verity.’
    ‘Of course you did. But since the Temple shall soon be no more than an irritating memory, your renunciation might be considered annulled.’
    The Preceptor stared at her. He had a severe, angular face with thick dark brows that hunched together when he glared. Though he had become a King of Kings, and though his ambition knew no limit, he dressed simply in warrior’s garb. He appeared like a general who had but recently returned from the campaign trail to deal with unpleasant matters of state, and who hungered to return to the field. The only garment that belied the militaristic bearing was a scholar’s cloak. Jelindel knew that the man was a deadly but learned adversary.
    Standing next to the Preceptor and holding the blunt stick was a dwarf of a race Jelindel had never seen. She presumed this was Kantor. His throat appeared to have been ripped out and a metallic plate melded with the living skin. A row of lights and dials on the plate flickered whenever someone in the room spoke.
    Jelindel stared levelly at the two. ‘The Temple of Verity has stood for many centuries. I doubt that you or all your black arts will bring it to an end.’
    The Preceptor laughed. ‘We shall see,’ he said, lightly. His manner changed abruptly. He leaned forward, searching her face. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘where might I find the mailshirt?’
    The dragonlink mailshirt, an off-world artifact of immense and toxic power, had been hunted down and destroyed by Jelindel and her two companions. With the help of the honour-obsessed Daretor and the street-savvy Zimak, she had journeyed across thecontinent to find the missing dragonlinks and restore them to the mailshirt. With the final restoration, however, she discovered the diabolical nature of the mailshirt and managed to render it harmless,