The thief arrives at canyon wide

  Bear everything to get inside.

  The thief known as Gastan Perinnet Charlet considered the way forward.

  He stood upon a ridge, heavily wooded with eucalyptus trees, rays of fire from the dying sun like spears at his back. Before his calculating gaze lay the farthest edge of the Kingdom of Daroria, dropping away into an immense canyon which split the land from north to south, its ruddy, sheer cliffs fading downwards into impenetrable purple twilight.

  The Unforgivable Chasm.

  Legends told that it was so named because the first King of Daroria – one of the first Human sorcerers – had split the continent in two in a furious, cataclysmic dispute over territory.

  Thus were the two great nations created: Daroria and Siriaza.

  Gastan snorted to himself. It was a fine and dramatic story, good for entertaining children perhaps, though like most stories, certainly exaggerated. He didn’t believe for a moment that any individual sorcerer had ever commanded such monstrous power. It had taken ten of them and a massive army to contain a horde of Dragons, after all. And even before they had managed to blow up their own School, they had been set upon by vengeful common folk and eventually wiped out.

  Ridiculous.

  What was not in doubt, however, was that a bridge had been constructed over the gorge – animosities be damned – and a city grew upon it like mushrooms on a fallen log. Control over the bridge for many years had been uncertain, violent and volatile, and the bridge had been destroyed several times in its turbulent past until, finally, it was seized by a wealthy Darorian family: the Redwicks. A treaty was formed – that no nation or other group would gain ownership of Bridgetown or the Chasm other than the Redwicks, and no other bridge or crossing could be built, in exchange for them keeping the peace and collecting due taxes on behalf of both nations, and allowing non-discriminatory movement of all races of people across the border.

  Thus, trade was finally allowed to prosper, and Siriaza grew extremely wealthy as a result. Daroria, however, sank gradually into decay as most of the wealth accumulated in the coastal cities, fostered by extreme class prejudices, the catastrophic destruction of its eminent School of Magical Studies shattering all of its political influence, and most of its resources frittered away into fighting yet more endless wars to control the Middle Isle.

  The Kingdom of Daroria, it seemed, had always felt an absurd need to fight over something, like a vicious dog grasping at anything within reach and refusing to let go.

  But with this new plague of demon-wraiths infesting the Royal City of Crystaltina, it was finally beaten. Word had gotten around that Queen Minoa had thrown away her crown and bowed to the Twin Emperors.

  Gastan didn’t much care who sat on what throne, or what colour cloaks the soldiers wore. History was fascinating, but he owed allegiance to no one unless it served his own purpose. The only voice he had ever trusted was the sweet, gentle jingling of his pockets.

  And the wraiths? Well. Those were easy enough to avoid. His pursuers were a little more troublesome. However…

  Stroking his curl of moustache, the thief grinned down at the city, its fine, towering mansions glowing gold in the last of the light. The first lanterns were being lit across the bridge, and the torches of the Redwick Guard patrols flickered along The Line.

  His pockets were soon to be striking up a glorious melody indeed, thanks to his current extraordinary haul, and when they were Gastan would slip quietly over the bridge and disappear into the vast Sirinese Empire. Neither Freeroamers or Bladeshifters would ever see him again.

  Well. Until the next time he grew bored…

  Putting his hands on his hips, he pursed his lips. There was a complication to his plan, however.

  Bridgetown extended outwards from the bridge itself onto the plateau on either side of the chasm. These two outer districts to east and west were surrounded by semi-circular curtain walls with high, sturdy watchtowers at each corner, all the way to the chasm edge. Whilst the inner gates at the bridge were gilded, ornate and mostly a display of wealth – the exterior gates were huge iron portcullises flanked by tower guardhouses.

  The silvertine smith that Gastan was heading for was situated just before the golden gates inside the outer district on the Darorian side. Once he had divested himself of his goods and collected his payment, the toll to cross the bridge should not present a problem.

  The outer gates, however…

  The queue of travellers stretched across the plateau, about two miles long, all the way to the ridge.

  The Line had all but ground to a halt.

  Gastan had enquired of a Sirinese merchant about the holdup, and was told that everyone heading east into the city was being stripped and searched for any sign of a black infection called trigonis.

  The merchant assured him that the guards weren’t taking bribes; not for this.

  The search was mandatory.

  Gastan cursed himself at the realisation.

  Understandably, since the fall of Crystaltina, the Twin Emperors had grown more than a little concerned about the demon-wraith plague and seemingly had no intention of allowing it to spread into the Empire. The Redwick family had capitulated to their demand for inspection, no doubt leery about their own city becoming overrun.

  The only ones exempt from the search were outgoing travellers heading west, and airborne Angel refugees, as the guards had no means of detaining them. Those were being approached and searched in a more discreet and delicate manner from within the Empire.

  Gastan was definitely not infected with that dreadful black disease, of that he was certain. But…

  He glanced at his bundled cargo, rubbing his chin.

  Back in the Valewood Forest, he had discarded the corpse of a rather lovely woman, precisely because she had shown signs of this black infection. Merely touching her, even wrapped in a blanket as she was, had made his skin crawl. Dumping her unceremoniously in the ferns had left him feeling sad and highly disturbed; the lady had not deserved such a fate.

  But the man was another matter. Gastan couldn’t be sure. He had checked as carefully as he dared, but had not noticed any blackness on the parts of the man’s skin that he had been able to see, but it was difficult to be certain as most of his body was encased in extraordinary silvertine armour that seemed to be impossible to remove. Gastan could not tell what might be hiding underneath it.

  Hmmm, the thief considered. If I cannot remove the armour, the guards will not be able to, either. And the Emperors are only looking for a black infection. The guards have no real cause to detain me, with a convincing enough cover story…

  Gastan had long since dismissed the notion of attempting to cremate the man himself, in order to release the armour. The thought was repulsive; he wasn’t in the business of body disposal – he liked to keep his hands clean. And in any case he couldn’t spare the time; his victims were hard on his heels and he wanted the goods turned over as quickly as possible.

  He had dealt with the silvertine smith before and found him to be a reliable, no-nonsense fellow who, like most of Bridgetown’s citizenry, asked no questions and received no answers. Granted, Gastan had never had to bargain for a body before, but if the smith didn’t want to deal with him, then Gastan would find someone who would.

  He didn’t foresee that being a difficulty.

  Getting through those gates was the main obstacle.

  Gastan’s smile returned, his eyes gleaming. But he was already beginning to formulate a plan.

  He made camp for the night upon the ridgetop, in a hollowed, boulder-walled clearing out of sight of the The Line, but with a fine view of the city lights below. Feeling cheerful and daring, he made a small fire and cooked himself a dinner of fried eggs, accompanied by fresh bread and cheese, which he had purchased at the previous outpost. Then he produced a canteen of wine and sipped at it, slouched on one elbow until he was filled with a mellow glow.

  His tired chestnut horse stood drooping at the edge of the clearing, tied to a tree. Gastan had unburdened, fed and watered her, and brushed her down. Her work was done, and he would trade her away the next day, faithful and speedy though she had been.

  His acquisitions were arranged around the campfire as though they were companions – and indeed they had been on this exciting journey – the Angelican dagger, the huge crossbow and the silver-clad man, all glimmering with an uncanny sheen in the firelight.

  This would be the last night he would gaze upon them.

  His eyes fell especially upon the man, whom he had propped up against a boulder. He found it strange that the body had not begun to decompose after two weeks of travel in the blazing sun, but chose not to dwell on it. Perhaps silvertine possessed some sort of preservative properties. All the better for him – he wouldn’t have been able to bear the stink, otherwise.

  The man’s head leaned to one side, resting upon the stone behind him, his brown eyes open, unseeing but bright as gemstones. Silvertine wings framed his face and glittered upon his breast beneath his tattered brown robes.

  Taking another swig of wine, Gastan stared at the man.

  Perhaps it was an effect of the wine, or the heat of the fire, or an overactive imagination, but in that moment it seemed as though the fellow was not dead at all, but alive and well, merely sitting there lost in thought, about to raise his head at any moment to make some jest…

  A strange feeling overcame Gastan. He felt as though… he knew this man, as though he was no stranger, but in fact an old friend whom he had forgotten about until just now. A friend that he had journeyed with over long, hot miles, and with whom he had shared many campfires; his accomplice on the run; a loyal companion who had bolstered his courage when his resolve began to waver; a silent wondrous soul who had never judged him, never doubted him, and always watched his back…

  Something hard lodged in his throat. And here Gastan was, lounging about in arrogance and greed, contemplating vile betrayal by throwing his best friend into a forge, burning him alive and melting his armour…

  Gastan pushed himself up, unsteadily, fighting back an unexpected flood of horror. What am I thinking?? he chided himself angrily. This man is not my friend; he… he is a corpse! I… I don’t even know his name!

  Forcing himself to turn away, he busied himself arranging his bedroll, then got up and kicked out the fire, stomping the embers into the dirt until they were fully extinguished. Then he wrapped himself in his green cloak and lay down with his back to the man, shoved his colourful feathered hat over his face and furiously tried to sleep.

  In the darkness, beyond the trail of smoke dissipating into the cooling night air, the silver-clad man remained still and silent, his eyes reflecting the starlight.

  The wheels of the old dray cart clattered on the dusty cobblestones, along with the unhurried plodding hoofsteps of the mule pulling it. The morning air was clean and cool, the sun yet to pull herself completely above the high red ridges beyond the city, though the sky was a sweet pale blue and the topmost spires of the gilded bridge-houses were already alight. Parrots chattered from the eucalyptus trees, the echo of their voices gradually giving way to the murmur and occasional shout of Human disgruntlement, and the huff and bray and stink of heavily-laden pack animals reluctantly being pulled to a stop.

  The dray cart continued on.

  Strangely, The Line parted before the little mule as though by magic, clearing the way, and a hush surrounded her and passed in her wake. Conversations stopped mid-sentence; grunts of impatience choked off, and all eyes turned, astonished, to the burden she was carrying.

  There, reposing incongruously in the decrepit cart was a figure of untold resplendence. He lay uncovered, hands folded stately upon his chest, eyes closed in a pale, serene face. Brown curls of hair poked from beneath a winged helm elegant and grand beyond compare. His armour was so finely wrought and detailed that it boggled the eye and snatched breath from throats. Even in the dawn’s shade, it glowed and sparked as though the sun shone full upon it.

  A large, bulky shape covered with a blanket was shoved awkwardly into the cart beside the beautiful figure, but went completely unnoticed. A man in a swishing green velvet cloak and flamboyant feathered hat nonchalantly accompanied the cart, but he might as well have been invisible.

  Gastan was delighted. The reaction had been better than he could have hoped for.

  It had been a gamble, of course. The old man he had traded his fine horse to for this worn old cart and mule had been baffled, and thought him crazy, but had ridden quickly off west before Gastan could change his mind.

  People were closing in behind the cart now, following it, spellbound.

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  Gastan waved at them all as though he were escorting the Twin Emperors.

  He felt a little awestruck himself, and slightly nervous at the attention.

  He hadn’t expected it to be this easy…

  A large, canvas-covered wagon blocked the way ahead. Gastan took hold of the mule’s bridle and turned her to the right side of it. The travellers there, heading in the opposite direction, moved aside unbidden to let him pass, their eyes wide, riveted on his shining cargo.

  “Make way!” Gastan called boldly, as the crowd became more densely packed. “Make way! Important personage coming through!”

  A rider reined in his horse directly in front of Gastan.

  It was one of the Redwick Guards.

  The soldier’s eyes, like everyone else’s, went at once to the thief’s cargo, and for a moment he sat rigid and stunned. But his duty reasserted itself quickly, and he dismounted.

  Ah, Gastan thought, his heart rate quickening a little, even though he was prepared for this. Now we get to the first of many delicate parts…

  “Good morning, fine sir!” Gastan greeted as the Guard approached his cart. “What can I do for you this day?”

  The Guard wore pieces of plain silvertine armour that gleamed bright and polished in the morning light. Beneath the armour was a puffy-sleeved jerkin striped red and black, with a black and red-edged cloak sweeping from his shoulders. His helm was adorned with tufts of raven and crimson feathers – the Redwick family colours.

  He looked like a child in a dress-up costume compared to the transcendent finery of the unknown soldier that rested upon Gastan’s cart.

  “Mother of all the Gods,” the Guard exclaimed as he stared down into the cart, mouth open, eyes glazing over. “What’s this ‘ere you’re transportin’? Is he dead?”

  Gastan reached up and removed his hat, and held it against his chest. “Alas, yes,” he lamented, assuming a look of deep despair. “This noble soul has perished.”

  The Guard managed to tear his gaze away from the body long enough to scowl at the thief. “You know movin’ corpses across the border ain’t allowed, by decree o’ the Emperors and the Redwicks?”

  “Of that I am most aware, sir, especially in these perilous times, but…” he gave the Guard a rueful, pleading look. “This is a special case.”

  The Guard eyed him skeptically.

  Gastan replaced his feathered hat and bowed his head, wringing his hands in front of him as though anxious. “Sir, this… this is an Angel soldier! He is a member of the esteemed Sky Legion, fallen in the course of his duty!”

  There was silence from the Guard; and then, of course, because the man was not an idiot: “An Angel, eh? He’s got no wings.”

  Gastan raised his head, an expression of utter devastation on his face. “Sir, an unspeakable thing has happened! His attackers, they…” his hands began to tremble, and he gulped several times, struggling for words. “They… oh, sir, they hacked off his wings and left him to die!!” He spun away, hand to his mouth in grief.

  Shocked gasps and cries erupted throughout the crowd of onlookers who had witnessed the conversation. An excited, outraged murmur rippled away down The Line.

  Gastan smirked behind his hand, stifling a laugh, but carefully re-composed his features before turning back to the Guard.

  The blood had drained out of the Guard’s face. He was momentarily lost for words. “By… by the Gods,” he stammered, a glimmer of tears in his eyes. Then the colour returned to his skin in a flush of fury. “Who did this?!” he demanded.

  Gastan hesitated for only a moment. The question was so delicious that he almost regretted giving an answer. He drank in the Guard’s anger as though it was the sweetest wine.

  None of this penetrated his expression, however, which was arranged into a marble sculpture of perfect sorrow.

  “I… I was told, from those who witnessed the attack, of course, that the group responsible is an Outlander gang known as the Bladeshifters. In particular—” he raised a finger, “a deplorable fat woman by the name of Jewels!” He started wringing his hands again, pacing up and down and talking quickly, as though hastening to get the words out before his courage faltered: “It was said that this woman planned to make jewellery from this poor Angel’s fine white feathers, and that she coveted his magnificent armour for her own! Her loathsome gang somehow separated him from his comrades, ambushed him in the Valewood Forest, and…” he took a shaky breath. “I found him dying, as I was travelling to Meadrun for business, but there was nothing I could do…”

  “Who is he?” the Guard insisted. “What’s his name? Gods, Commander Re’Vier is gonna lose his nut when he hears of this!”

  “I am afraid I do not know,” Gastan replied sadly. “He died before uttering a single word.” He glanced around nervously, then moved closer to the cart, leaning towards the Guard. “But I fear that I was followed. I believe that Jewels is obsessed with the armour, and determined to steal it. Please,” he implored the Guard. “I must take this body to safety before it can be further desecrated!”

  The Guard rubbed his face and shook his head. “Why lug the body all the way out ‘ere? Why not take it to Arka-- oh, balls.”

  “Yes,” Gastan said grimly. “Now you understand my predicament. The monstrous tragedy in the Angel homeland left me with no other choice but to attempt to return this fellow to the Sky Legion, who I understand are headquartered in the Empire…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the Guard waved away any further explanations, and sighed, looking slightly ill. “Right. I’ll go and fetch an escort, and send word out for this… Jewels person. Ugh. What the hell’s the world comin’ to.” Turning away, he drew his sword and waved it at a group who had crowded close, trying to peer into the cart. “Stand aside, you lot! No one goes near the cart! Off with ye!”

  Muttering curses under his breath, the Redwick Guard returned to his horse, sheathed his sword, mounted and galloped away down the centre aisle of The Line, shouting orders to clear a path.

  Gastan watched him go, grinning.

  Ten minutes later, the man in the colourful feathered hat, the weary mule, and the rickety dray with its shining, revered passenger made their way down the sunlit centre of the cobblestoned Line towards the city gates, the way before them open like a boulevard. Four armed and mounted Redwick Guards escorted them; one on each side. The queue of travellers to left and right had been pushed aside onto the rocky, broken ground of the plateau, held in place by more black-and-red Guards, but no one was complaining or yelling abuse, as Gastan would have expected, and all were peculiarly silent. Indeed, some folk had climbed on top of wagons and animals; others strained to see over heads and cargo and crowded the road verges for a better view. Children were raised upon their parent’s shoulders, gawking.

  Even the dogs and pack animals were strangely hushed.

  Gastan looked over his shoulder.

  The crowds there filtered back onto the roadway, but not in a normal fashion. They all seemed to have forgotten what they were doing, falling in behind the cart, following it. Many abandoned their vehicles and possessions, proceeding on foot.

  Even some of the Guards had joined the mass.

  It was as though they were all mesmerised.

  Gastan returned his attention ahead, licking lips that had gone dry. Now and then he forced a smile and waved to the spectators, but not a single pair of eyes was focussed on him. Their gazes went right through him.

  The object of their fixation was, of course, the figure in the cart.

  A deep sense of unease began to pervade his skin, growing stronger with each step.

  Something eerie was happening.

  Gastan had thought the body would provide a distraction, an item of fascination or even shock. Parading it about in full view had been the right choice, however counter-intuitive. Attempting to conceal it or think of some way of smuggling it past the inspection would not have succeeded and instantly betrayed his guilt. His cover story had worked stunningly well, and he had achieved not only an easy passage into the city, but an escorted one.

  But this… this was beyond anything he could have anticipated…

  He rubbed at the sweat prickling his neck, though the morning air was still cool. All sense of smugness at his ingenious lie was quickly evaporating as a new problem present itself:

  How on Arvanor was he supposed to get the body to the smith, let alone into the forge, if no one could take their damned eyes off it?!

  Gastan steadfastly refused to glance at the corpse himself any longer. Every time he did, he was overcome with a powerful feeling, that same crushing guilt that he was carrying a dear old friend to his doom.

  He could also swear that the body had began to radiate a gentle warmth, the way stones retain the heat of the day’s sun, and that the armour was, imperceptibly, becoming more and more intricate, with fine filigree designs where there hadn’t been before.

  Gods, he was glad he had closed the thing’s eyes…

  He had entered the shade of Bridgetown’s massive gates, now, the reddish stone blocks lingering with remnants of the night’s purple shadow. Black and crimson flags fluttered on the tops of the watchtowers, and archers were stationed on the barbican, keeping an eye on the traffic.

  Just in front of the portcullis was stationed a line of huge hulking, spiky Grik guards, all bearing halberds with black pennants, forming a wall blocking the way forwards. The crystalline spikes rising from their hunched, rocky shells were various shades of red, black and gold, to match the Redwick colours.

  The middle two Griks plodded aside as Gastan’s escort approached, and his mounted riders fell back, allowing the thief and his spectacular cargo to enter the inner, shadowed cavity of the gatehouse. Once they were inside, the Griks returned to their places, effectively sealing the way back.

  Gastan gulped.

  No going back now…

  But it was something of a relief that the crowds were blocked from view. And if Jewels or the Freeroamers had been following, they were now locked out, and would have to go through the same inspection process.

  Gastan allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

  The farther end of the barbican was open, revealing, beyond the dark teeth of a second portcullis, bustling, gloriously normal city streets streaked with hazy oblongs of morning light. The sounds of oblivious, everyday Human activity echoed into the gateroom. This pleasing view was obscured almost at once, however, by two more bulky Grik guards converging on Gastan and his cart.

  “We told dis some dead Angel man,” one of them grumbled in his deep, gravelly voice. “Mus’ treat wiv respeck. Still gotta check ‘im, tho.”

  “Of course, gentlemen, of course!” Gastan tittered, more nervously than he had intended. He gave a theatrical bow to cover up his anxiety. “Be my guest!”

  “You, dere!”

  Gastan looked up to see a third, smaller Grik with stubby, pale red spikes waddle out of a doorway on the left. The creature gestured with its halberd. “Dis way!”

  With a resigned sigh, the thief headed through the doorway, reluctantly leaving his precious cargo behind.

  He didn’t dare glance back.

  He passed through a hallway made of huge, dusty, reddish stone blocks, lit by torches on the walls. A single, closed wooden door went by on the right: beyond it he could hear the muffled, jovial voices of Guards.

  The passageway was short, and ended in a large open room within the curtain wall. There were no windows, but the room was brightly lit with numerous torches on stands and lanterns hooked to the ceiling beams. Wooden benches were lined up in rows across the room and around the walls.

  The room was also filled with other men in various states of undress and disgruntlement.

  A stern-looking physician with grey hair and pale blue robes swept about the room with a leather-bound book held open in one hand, casting cursory glances over each naked traveller and jotting things down.

  “I say,” Gastan muttered. “This is all a bit undignified…”

  The Grik poked him in the ribs with the butt of its halberd. “Get silly Human clothes off,” it ordered, then went and stood in front of the doorway.

  Giving the Grik an insulted look, Gastan dutifully did as he was told. Tossing his hat onto a bench beside the wall, he divested himself of all his garments.

  Silly Human clothes?! he thought, folding them up with great care and placing them on the bench. I’ll have you know, you stupid little pebble, I have never in my life donned anything but the highest of fashion! What would a Grik know of the nuances of tasteful apparel?!

  Impatiently he stood there, hands on hips, still bruised over the cruel blow to his fashion choices until the physician finally strode over to him. The man swept around him in a circle, somehow taking in every square inch of his skin in a single glance, then turned to his book.

  “Name?”

  “The Great Ruban Folke!” Gastan replied, emphasising the lie with as much dramatic gesticulation as he could manage.

  The physician noted it.

  “Purpose of visit?”

  “Transporting a deceased person!”

  The physician paused, and looked at Gastan over his half-moon spectacles. His pale blue eyes were quite intense.

  Realising the implication of his statement, Gastan flushed a little. “Ah, I can assure you, sir, that there isn’t a trace of black upon his person…”

  “Hmmm.” The physician scribbled in his book. “And where is the body?”

  “Your marvellous Grik sentries are attending to him right this mome—”

  “You are clean, and may go.” Snapping his book shut, the man strode away. The Grik at the door moved aside to let him pass.

  Gastan gathered up his clothing and re-dressed himself. He sat down on the bench to pull on his knee-length boots and tie them up. The rest of the men in the room, chatting, joking and complaining, were filtering out through a door in the far corner, through which a bright shaft of sunlight spilled.

  Free to go.

  There was still time to escape; it wasn’t too late. He had retained a decent pouch of coins and the nice little dagger he had stolen from that boy. He could pay the toll. He could flee across the bridge and disappear…

  His heel tapped anxiously on the sandy flagstones.

  The silvertine armour and the crossbow were worth a small fortune, even if the smith didn’t agree to melt them down, and he had brought them all this way…

  An unexplainable ache throbbed in Gastan’s chest.

  I don’t even know his name…

  Gastan told himself it was greed that convinced him to rise and approach the Grik at the door.

  “You no go dis way,” the Grik said stubbornly. “You go dat way. Fings returned to you outside.” He pointed with a stubby finger.

  “Ah. Yes. Well. But. You see…” Gastan tried to peer down the passageway. The Grik’s head was only level with his chest, but its humped back and spikes obscured the thief’s view. “They are taking a rather long time out there, don’t you think? I am trying to escort the body of an important person, an Angel Legionnaire as it happens, and if anything should happen to him, I shall be holding you Grik Guards accountable, not to mention the trouble if the Commander of the Sky Legion…”

  The Grik made a grating sound in his throat, like stones grinding together. “You stay in dis room,” he commanded. Then he turned and thumped away down the corridor.

  Gastan waited, leaning with his back to the wall, heel tapping again, listening intently for anything that could be heard, the slightest tiny hint that he was in trouble. He could still hear muted sounds from the guardroom through the stone, and the bustle of life in the city, and something of a commotion on The Line outside.

  But in between these sounds was an ominous pocket of silence.

  Finally, his nerve gave out, and he spun into the corridor.

  He passed the wooden door. The torches flickered as he hurried by them. The open entrance to the gatehouse was just ahead…

  He came to a paralysed halt on the threshold, his breath choking in his throat.

  The cart was where he had left it, as was the mule, flicking her ears lazily at a fly buzzing around her face. The Griks were there, too; three of them, and the blue-robed physician.

  But they were all lying on the ground, unmoving.

  The physician was slumped against the cart’s wheel, his book and pen dropped onto the cobblestones.

  There was no one else in sight.

  The wall of Griks stood with their spiked backs to the gatehouse, and did not appear to have noticed anything amiss. Beyond them quite a lot of shouting, crying and screaming was going on, and the Guards seemed to be distracted.

  From within the cart, a strange, bright glow emanated, like sunlight, though the shaft of sun from outside only extended a couple of yards into the gatehouse, well beyond the mule and dray.

  Gastan’s heart thundered. He forced himself to move forward and check the physician.

  There was no sign of life.

  The man was dead. They were all… dead…

  All the blood in Gastan’s veins turned to ice. The Redwicks did not tolerate violence in their streets. There were no trials in Bridgetown, no dungeons, no gaol cells. If Gastan was caught in this mess, he could expect an immediate, very scenic tour to the bottom of the canyon.

  No questions asked, no answers given.

  He had to get out of there, very, very quickly. The Griks could turn around at any moment…

  And yet, as though in a dream, he rose slowly to his feet, and looked into the cart.

  The man in shining armour lay there, still and peaceful, and he was the most glorious thing that Gastan had ever seen. Brilliant light shone from him; his armour rippled with it. A soft, white, ethereal mist curled off the metal. Thin, delicate traceries of silvertine spread outwards over the grimy wood of the cart, decorating it with beautiful intricate patterns.

  His skin was pale, his lips bloodless, yet somehow full of life.

  And he had wings. Gastan’s audacious lie had become truth. Feathery wings of pure white and golden light lay folded, and curved around him like a shimmering cloak.

  And his eyes were open.

  Slowly, the man’s head turned, and looked straight at Gastan.

  Something broke within Gastan. Tears streamed down his face; tears of remorse, of awe, of an unbearable urge to reach out and embrace this man, who was everything good in the world, yet had suffered so terribly…

  He started to reach out an arm to touch him…

  The mule brayed irritably, breaking the trance.

  Gastan’s arm drew back with a sudden violent jerk. He gasped as his sense of self returned in a flood that left him dizzy.

  He reeled away, clutching his head, trying to stay conscious.

  Nausea rose in his gut.

  What… is… this… thing??

  It wasn’t a man, it wasn’t an Angel, it was…

  A wraith? A wraith that wasn’t black? A… a silvertine wraith?!

  Trembling for real this time, Gastan gulped in deep breaths, regaining control of himself. The Griks had still not turned. He had to run.

  But a bulky shape shoved into the corner of the cart caught his eye.

  He could still get out of this with something worthwhile…

  Pulling his hat down to shield his vision from the… man… wraith… Gastan staggered around to the other side of the cart, took hold of the blanket-wrapped bundle and awkwardly wrestled it into his arms. Pausing only to shove his hat more firmly onto his head, Gastan the thief clutched his ungainly prize to his chest and fled for his life.