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the A'ak blade by his side, but its urgent whispering made him more uneasy, not less. He resisted the longing to draw it.
    Suddenly, his steed stopped, unbidden, and Adalon nearly fell.
    Targesh and Simangee reined up behind him. 'What is it?' Simangee asked.
    Adalon pointed. Ahead, in the gloom, was a rope stretched across the track. It was tied to two tree trunks at convenient hock height.
    Cautiously, Adalon urged the great brass beast forward and the rope broke as if it were string. His senses singing, he edged the steed around a ragged depression in the ground ahead, covered with leaves, convinced it was a pit. He eased his sword from its scabbard and held it by his side while his tail twitched. The green smell of growth and moisture was heavy in the air. He turned his head from side to side, listening to the sounds of the night.
    A fireball erupted right in front of them, making Targesh roar with surprise. Adalon flung up an arm, hissing, as the column of flame leaped toward the treetops. He jerked back on the reins, but even as he did he realised the flames were cool, not scorching. He smiled grimly.
    'Adalon? Are you all right?' Simangee said.
    'Not a scorch mark,' he muttered. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake off the dazzle left by the fireball. 'It was meant to scare rather than hurt, I'd say.'
    'It might just have been sloppy spellcraft,' Simangee said.
    His throat dry, all his senses alert, Adalon stood in his stirrups. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a potion bottle tumbling toward him. He leaned to one side to avoid it, and it broke against the tree an armspan to his left. The trunk was immediately enveloped in a sticky mass of tendrils.
    'Oh, that's hardly fair,' a voice came from out of the darkness. 'I had it all worked out. The fireball was supposed to make your riding beast rear and throw you. Then the Strangler potion was going to wrap you up and I'd have a prisoner.'
    'Your Majesty?'
    'Yes? I mean, no, dash it. I'm not the King.' Adalon heard some hasty muttering. 'I'm the Spectre, an outlaw, bloodthirsty and cruel, and I want all your possessions.'
    Adalon tried to find the source of the voice. In the shadows, a large boulder stood between two trees. A dark shape loomed on top of it. 'You shouldn't be up there,' he said mildly. 'You're outlined against the night. I can see you quite easily, Your Majesty.'
    'What? Oh dear.'
    The shape wobbled, rose, then disappeared. Much scraping and a few muffled curses followed. Eventually, the squat figure of a young Plated One emerged from the shadows. He held a lantern. 'Here, good fellow,' he said, panting, 'it's best if you surrender. My justice is fair, but my rage is terrible.' A grin split his broad face. He turned and called over his shoulder. 'I like that! Sachi, did you get it down? "My justice is fair but my rage is terrible."'
    Another Plated One emerged from behind the boulder. She held a journal and was scribbling furiously in it with a writing stick. 'Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, Spectre.'
    Adalon sheathed his sword. 'Your Majesty. I am Adalon of the Eastern Peaks. These are my friends. The troops of Queen Tayesha are after you. We've come to take you to safety.'
    'Safety? But it's been so exciting! When Wargrach rode into Muhna we barely escaped and we've been on the run ever since. My loyal band and I have managed to evade the vicious Thraag invaders by living off the land and our wits. We've become legends through our fiendish traps and our will-o'-the-wisp adventures!'
    'So you are King Gormond?'
    The Plated One's face fell. 'You're clever, the way you managed to worm that out of me. I suppose I'll have to kill you now.' He turned. 'To my side, my brave ones.'
    With rather less enthusiasm than Adalon would have expected from brave ones, two more saur edged out from behind the boulder – another Plated One and a plump Crested One.
    Adalon dismounted and approached. 'Where are your guards, Your Majesty? Where are your warriors?'
    King