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of his hand and the thickness of his middle finger. His fingers and thumb took a second to close around it, then locked and he began to sketch on the wall. His hand lacked its previous dexterity so he drew with sweeps of his arm.
    He had no idea what he was drawing. This was often the case when he began – it worked better if he did not think about the subject. On one notable occasion he had done the first sketch blindfolded, and the resulting painting had been one of his best. The chancellor had called it a masterpiece.
    It had also been a divination of the future, and Hightspall’s future was bleak enough already. If there was worse to come, he did not want to know about it in advance.
    As he worked, Rix tried to work on an escape plan. It would not be easy, for the enemy occupied the city and guarded all exits. They knew what he looked like and, being one of the biggest men in Caulderon, he had no hope of disguising himself. There were many tunnels and passages, of course, and some led out of the city, but the enemy were masters of the subterranean world and he had little hope of escaping them there. The tunnels would be patrolled by jackal shifters and other shifters. They could sniff him out a hundred yards away.
    That only left the lake. Having dwelt underground for well over a thousand years, the Cythonians could have little knowledge of boats, while Rix had been sailing since he could walk. And many forgotten drains led to the lake. Some had been exposed by the great tidal wave several days ago, burst open by the pressure of water. If he could get Glynnie and Benn onto a boat, they would have a hope.
    The worn length of bone charcoal snapped. He selected another from the ashes and sketched on.
    If he succeeded in escaping, where could he go? Not over the sea; Hightspall was almost ice-locked. For centuries the ice sheets had been spreading up from the southern pole to surround the land, as they had already enveloped the long, mountainous island called Suden.
    Southern Hightspall was mostly open farmland that offered few hiding places; his way must be to the rugged west or the mountainous north-east.
    He had lost everything, but the chancellor had also given him something – the Herovian heritage Rix had not known he had. He ran his fingers along the weathered words down Maloch’s blade –
Heroes must fight to preserve the race.
Who were the Herovians, anyway? They had come here two thousand years ago on the First Fleet, a persecuted minority following a path set down in their sacred book, the
Immortal Text
, searching for their Promised Realm.
    They had been led by Axil Grandys, the founder of Hightspall, and his allies who together made up the Five Herovians, or Five Heroes as they were to become known.
    “It’s beautiful,” sighed Glynnie. “Where is it?”
    Rix focused on his sketch, almost afraid to look. It showed a pretty glade by a winding stream, the water so clear that cobbles in the stream bed could clearly be seen. Wildflowers dotted the grass. Hoary old trees framed the glade and in the distance was a vista of snowy mountains.
    He let out his breath with a rush. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the place before.”
    Glynnie returned to the bench, put her arm around Benn and her eyes closed. For the first time since he had known her, she looked at peace. Rix laid down the charcoal, sat on a block of stone and compared his hands. His wrist still throbbed and his fingers tingled. When he opened and closed his hand it moved stiffly, though less stiffly than before.
    One of the ebbing wounds had closed; the other still oozed blood. Idly, Rix wiped it away with the paintbrush, then studied his blood in the bluish light of the glowstone. It looked richer than before, almost purple. He admired the colour for a moment, as artists are wont to do then, without thinking, stepped across to the sketch and began to paint.
    When the brush was empty he touched up his sketch with the charcoal, using his left