The winds of late autumn tasted of frost and a promise of early snows as it set the last fading leaves dancing upon the stalwart maples and stout oaks trees. The Army of the Renunciate had skirted the edges of the shattered city of Zol to turn northeast and journey deep into the demon-haunted forest of Terramere. That night they shivered in their tents, camped for the night, spread across the muddy roadside.

The towns and villages they had passed along their line of march had either been abandoned for several years or occupied by the stubborn remnants of their previous populations. Demons and dark creatures had emerged to besiege the latter; and their beleaguered survivors now went north with the Army.

Four years ago, the Sacred King of Rowanhart marched home from Charas. She crossed the Hillora River and persuaded the people to go north with her. All the priests of the Nine Elder Gods of Light had spoken of omens and signs portending disaster if the people failed to follow her to safety. Now, those stalwart souls who had refused to flee found themselves besieged by monsters and demons, the advance guard of the Hellgod-Queen of Minnoras, Gylorean Galee. Time and again, the Army of the Renunciate had halted their march to aid those folk.

The mass exodus worked to the advantage and disadvantages of the army. Fewer eyes saw them pass; however supplies were harder to come by. The roads were rougher and inclement weather slowed their progress to a crawl.

A flag flew on a pole outside a dark blue tent. An ebony bar sinister split the banner, with the blue gryphon clutching a willow branch in the upper left of Nans Gryphonheart, and the Renunciate's symbols of a solar disc framed in flames on the lower right; all upon a hunter green field.

The Renunciate, Lord Isranon Dawnreturning, sat at the long trestle table in the command tent, which was one of the few pieces of large furniture the army had brought with them, besides his big bed that lay to the far side of it behind a curtain partition. The table, like the rest of the furnishings the army had brought with it, could be taken down and stored flat in the back of a wagon.

Built more like a blacksmith than a mage, Isranon was of average height--five eight. His sturdy frame had once carried more muscle than he currently had. Arcane wounds, from an assault that left him for dead nearly two years ago, had stolen much of his physical strength and were stealing his life an inch at a time, despite everything that both gods and myn could do for him. His black hair, pulled into a tail at his neck, was a mass of loose curls and wavy strands. The sunburst-cradled-in-flame godmark of Kalirion shimmered on his brow, partially hidden by a lock of dark hair that had come loose and fallen across his forehead.

Sunlight entering through the open flap did little to illumine the dim interior. The sleeping area had been curtained off more heavily since Isranon's increased appetites showed no signs of lessening. For the first time since early adolescence, it seemed like he could not get enough of either blood or sex and it troubled him as much as it did the others. For years he had prided himself for having those aspects of his sa'necari heritage under firm control; now it seemed that they controlled him.

"Kalirion, liege-god to my heart, soul, and faith..." Isranon rubbed his hands over his face as he struggled to frame a prayer. "What kind of monster have I become? Am I doomed to be what I was born? Where lies the strength to reject my nature?"

Sa'necari-born, the vile appetites of his race filled him with self-hatred. They were necromancers who had stolen all of the powers and abilities of the undead that they could take or control, assuming them through their rites, mastering and perfecting them in addition to their native arcane talents. Their gifts had been gained at a price, for they also had the needs and cravings of the undead; the unnatural hunger for blood and souls. After generations of sa'necari being created in the rites, their very genes had altered until more and more of their descendants began to be born sa'necari with those appetites and talents manifesting in puberty. Their rites of blood, rape, and death had become merely the means for increasing their arcane potency through the shattering of souls.

One small band of sa'necari-born rejected the rites, living lives of strict and unremitting pacifism: the Dark Brothers of the Light. Deemed heretics, the sa'necari massacred them except for one frightened twelve-year-old boy who took refuge among the lycans of Clan Red Wolf, the largest and most powerful of the hereditary chiefdoms of the wolfweres.

Reaching down to a long narrow pouch that hung from his belt, he caressed it, and his thoughts turned to the flute inside. His dead father had told him that so long as he could play the flute and enjoy it he would never be truly evil. Fact as well as philosophy had been blended into his father's statement. The more lives the sa'necari took in the rites, the more painful the music of a flute became to them.

The flute that his father had given him had once belonged to their revered ancestor, Isranon Dawnhand. Two years ago, one of Isranon's sa'necari attackers had broken that flute to prevent Isranon from using its power to stop them. The flute resting in the case at his side had been a gift from his first liege-god, Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity.

Yet Isranon had been afraid to touch it for weeks. He felt unclean.

Isranon closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his clasped hands as he found his center, and prayed ever more fervently to his liege gods, Kalirion and Dynanna, for the forgiveness that he found impossible to grant himself. In still moments alone, he grappled with his memories of the four imps at the village of Chyniolus, how they had screamed and twisted in his grip as he sank his fangs into them one at a time, draining them to death in the madness of hunger. Amiri had insisted that his draining of the imps had been a hemovore's natural response to the stress of a prolonged battle. Yet he could not forgive himself, and doubted that he ever would.

He had departed so deeply from his dead father's teachings of absolute non-violence, of not taking a life out of appetite or for pleasure, that Isranon knew there could be no turning back to the way he had been raised. When his father had found the blades that his lycan mentor, Nevin, had given him, Isranon Soulspeaker had told Dawnreturning that the only way he would ever be able to keep the teachings would be to die. He had been a month shy of twelve-years-old and two weeks later his father and all of the Dark Brothers were dead.

Sometimes he thought he heard his father's voice condemning him in the night as he struggled for sleep and finally resorted to drugs to gain the slumber he needed.

Each day when he rose from sleep, he felt again for the godmarks on his body to reassure himself that their favor had not been withdrawn from him: Kalirion Sun-Lord's sunburst godmark on his forehead; Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity's squiggle on his scarred chest; and Dynarien's rose on his neck. They were all still there.

Isranon tried to focus on his prayers, but his thoughts kept flickering back to his father with intense feelings of shame. His hand went out to the enchanted staff of his ancestor and namesake, Isranon Dawnhand, and caressed it as if it were a talisman to ease his heart. At eight years old, Isranon had vowed to find it; and his father had chastised him for being arrogant. A year ago he had persuaded the God of Cussedness to relinquish it to him from her hoard.

He ran his eyes down the staff known as Warrior and managed a small smile. Even from where he sat Isranon could feel the power and energy coiled around Warrior's six feet of hard rock maple. Nine inches of diamond had been magically grown onto the butt and the shaft was incised with intricate Kalirioni runes amid vines and leaves in jeweled inlays. The upper body, head, and wings of a pegasus topped it, so solidly done in heavy burnished kendaryl that it could be used to strike with that end also.

Anksha darted into the tent, threw her cloak over a chair, and wiggled her body in gratitude to the warmth of the spell Isranon had placed over the tent.

"Baby's growing." She slipped into her comfortable patois as she rubbed against him, patting her puffy belly. She could speak perfectly in several languages, but often reverted to the way she had spoken as a child. The tight curl of her tail showed how happy she felt. The tiniest bit of fur, so sleek as to be indistinguishable from the skin of her face, throat, and hands, showed beneath the edge of her neckline. Except for that it was easy for her to pass for human. "Anksha not one of a kind anymore."

Isranon caressed her with a fond smile. For centuries, his wife had been the only surviving member of her species. No one had ever realized how profoundly lonely she felt until he came into her life. His rogue magic had crossed the boundaries of their species and given her the child she had always craved. The pregnancy had relieved her abiding sense of isolation. She was his lion on love's leash; and he loved her with all of his heart.

She searched his face for signs of his mood, the tip of her tail beginning to twitch. "You're brooding, again?"

Isranon kissed her forehead. "Always."

"You are a good mon, my Isranon." She watched his expression.

"No, I am not. The darkness in my soul does not yield easily to my good intentions, Pet."

Anksha blinked and considered. "Hoon is bad. Sometimes..." She paused and thought for a bit more. "Sometimes, I think I always knew it. He did not kill Dawnhand, but he stole the staff so that Waejonan could do it. I was a baby." Anksha extended her hand to indicate how small she had been. "I forgave him. I was always forgiving him."

Isranon heaved a sigh and shook his head. "If you are saying that what I have done is forgivable..."

"No, not saying that. You're not a bad mon. You're teaching me not to eat little children. I liked the taste of babies. I still do. But now I want to know if they are good children or bad children before I eat them." She gave him a cheeky grin, displaying her huge tearing fangs. Anksha had the instincts of a cat that liked to play with its food and steal nestlings out of trees; armed with a feline's claws and fangs and possessed of a taste for blood and flesh--especially the blood of the powerful. "I only eat bad children now."

"You should not eat children at all." He ruffled her thick mane of black hair.

Anksha scowled. "I want to eat Stygean. He's bad."

Isranon stiffened. He could not let go of his belief that he could turn Stygean Loosestrife from the path leading to the darkness of the rites of mortgiefan, before the boy's soul could become tainted by them.

"Promise you won't eat him or take him as a blood-slave, Anksha. Please?" Isranon remembered the way he had suffered when Anksha took him as a blood-slave, setting her Dominance-Links through all the fibers of both his physical and psychic body; and he shivered at the thought of her doing the same to Stygean.

"If he's bad..."

"I should be the one to decide that."

"Jingen likes my candy. I give him candy all the time. Stygean says mean things to me when I offer him candy."

"Give him time, Anksha. He will come around." Isranon's thoughts strayed to the two boys. Jingen would be thirteen soon; Stygean already was. They were sa'necari-born and had already matured into their fangs, powers, and appetites for both blood and sex. Many of Isranon's companions had tried to pressure him into having both boys killed on the grounds that they were too old and indoctrinated into the ways of their people to ever change. Isranon felt driven to try and salvage them. Jingen parroted Isranon's teaching at everyone. Stygean constantly threw his sa'necari beliefs in their faces and rejected the teachings. Yet, Isranon felt most drawn to Stygean; seeing something of himself in the boy. Defiance had been Isranon's sword and shield after he lost his family to sa'necari raiders at twelve. Stygean's defiance reminded Isranon of his own.

"I have a dream, Anksha. I am the last Dark Brother of the Light, and I have chosen a path that leads counter to some of the teaching. I think salvation for my people can only be achieved if I found a new Dark Brothers. One based upon a middle path. You captured twenty-eight sa'necari-born children during the fighting at Ocealay. I want them. I want to teach them to follow my path."

"Including Stygean and Jingen?"

"Yes."

"Stygean wants to kill you."

"Possibly." Isranon gave a weary shrug. "Stygean is sa'necari, born and raised. However, he is not yet tainted by the rites. He's known love, and I'm certain he still craves it. How can I hope to end the cycle of hatred if I fail to turn boys like Stygean from the paths of darkness?"

"I eat them. No more hatred."

"It's not that simple." He stroked his fingers through her hair. "Redemption is not cheaply bought. Neither mine nor his."

Randilyn stood in the doorway of the tent she shared with Amiri, gazing out at the hard rain sheeting down. The dense black clouds had turned that late afternoon as dark as midnight. Her pale hair and skin looked ghostly against the backdrop of the overcast day, limned by the lamplight from the table behind her. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance, forcing the Army of the Renunciate to halt frequently and wait for it to break before moving on.

She was an Ymraude nibari. They were made, not bred, or born. Most of them began life as humans, although a few sylvans could be found in their ranks. Potions and spells moved them into the change from whatever species they had begun life as; and the initial action of the potions was to extend their life spans through the use of Blue Moon's Mourning. They all had one thing in common: they had been born male and wished they had been born female. All things came with a price; and Ishla the God of Love and Technology offered them a trade. She would make them female, but only if they agreed to become nibari and ultimately vampires.

Compared to the Lemyari vampires, the Ymraudes had no power of any consequence. When the godwar broke out, it went swiftly against the original pantheon of light. All of the major and more powerful gods fell to the onslaught from the hellgods; and finally only Ishla remained. She was a gray god, neither fully of the light or of the darkness; secretive and subtle. Powerful secrets stolen from her temple by her high priest, Zarlec, who betrayed her, had given the hellgods their victory. The Lemyari resulted from a bastardization of her initial research into vampires which Zarlec had given to the hellgod Gylorean Galee. In order to buy herself time to open the last surviving Gate Arcane through which she could bring allies, young gods, to her aid, Ishla unleashed her two most powerful remaining weapons: the demon-eaters and the Scavenger, a being so terrible and unstoppable that she vowed never to create a second one.

Her final act before opening the Gate had been the creation of the Ymraudes. They were subtle creations, designed to infiltrate the ranks of the other vampires, and destroy them from within. She paired them with the demon-eaters, deploying them in guerilla units. Whenever an Ymraude perished, her chosen nibari immediately transitioned into the vampire's replacement, making it close to impossible for the enemy to destroy all of them. Unlike their more powerful kinsmyn, the Lemyari, the Ymraudes did not suffer from the uncontrollable appetite for blood. Their instincts never dominated their faculty for reason.

The Ymraude shaman, Amiri, had been chosen by Ishla to guide, protect, and study the last of Ishla's demon-eaters. Amiri had gambled dangerously by tricking Isranon into biting Anksha, which brought the little demon-eater into season for the first time in her life and nearly resulted in the deaths of both Anksha and Isranon.

Amiri's friendship with Isranon had suffered because of it. Randilyn had told her that it would; but her master was stubborn when it came to her quest for scientific knowledge to replace what had been lost in the godwar thousands of years ago. The fragmentary texts on the demon-eaters, what little had survived the centuries, had been entrusted to Amiri and by extension, Randilyn.

She stared again at the sleeting rain, wishing it would stop. One of the few things that their liege-lord, Isranon Dawnreturning could not do was alter the weather. Randilyn wished he could. Going north was taking twice as long as coming south had.

She heard the beads in Amiri's corn rowed hair clack together and knew that her master had roused. Randilyn's mouth pursed. She opened the neck of her tunic and sank to her knees. "I suppose you're hungry?"

Amiri's fangs descended, ivory against her crimson lips. "What are you pouting about now?"

"Did I say I was pouting?"

"I know that tone of voice, Randi." Amiri settled behind Randilyn and licked her neck.

"Bite me and get it over with."

"Definitely pouting." Amiri's fangs broke the skin on Randilyn's neck delicately, sucking the delicious fluid that rose to her mouth from her nibari's veins.

Randilyn stiffened and pushed away Amiri's attempt to lessen the discomfort by swishing into her pleasure centers.

: Come on, Randi. Relax. : Amiri sent through their link.

: Won't. :

Amiri finished, licked the wound closed, and rocked back on her heels. "What have I done now?"

"You lied to him."

"Isranon?"

"If truth dies / all that is left of life / is darkness and lies."

"Oh, for Ishla's sake, don't start quoting Padruig Caimbeul at me."

"I will if I want to. You lied to Isranon."

"If I had told Isranon the truth, it would have destroyed him."

"I searched the books, trying to find where you got your information. All I found was that vampires and sa'necari don't pin up and kill imps like he did because of the stress of battle ... unless they're going rogue."

"You have it all wrong. Hunger always becomes an issue when too much power is expended by a vampire or other high-level hemophages and hemovores. It isn't as rare as you think for a hemovore to drain an enemy in the midst of battle, Randi. When..."

"You've never done it." Accusation deepened in Randilyn's voice.

"I don't wield the kind of power that Isranon does. I don't spend that much of myself in battle, because I don't have it to give."

"The rogue state...."

"He isn't showing any other symptoms of the rogue state, Randi."

"You've been watching him?"

"Don't I always?"

"Then what do you think it is? He sends for more nibari every hour or so, sex and blood again and again. He wasn't like this three years ago. If that's not rogue, then define it for me."

"I assure you he isn't going rogue. He's sa'necari, not a vampire. If I tell him how utterly mystified I am, he'll come to his own conclusions, and those could be fatal."

Randilyn lowered her gaze and closed her tunic, fiddling with the buttons in a distracted manner. "Corbienne is going rogue."

Corbienne, one of five Lemyari vampires traveling with Isranon's company, had always seemed unstable to her; and the more that Randilyn learned of Corbienne's history, the more the nibari became convinced of it. Corbienne's father had owed gambling debts to a vampire of Lord Hoon's lineage. Not knowing the nature of the mon that he owed the money to, Corbienne's father had tried to avoid paying the money. The vampire had then demanded Corbienne as repayment for his debt. After slipping the young mon some of his blood in a glass of wine, the vampire had killed her in front of her family and abandoned her. When Corbienne rose three days later, the maddening hunger of the newborn had driven her to consume her entire family. She had then fled into the forests, grieving and confused, until Haig found her and tried to teach her self-restraint as he had once been taught by Dane Jayce.

Randilyn had recognized the signs of a breakdown in Corbienne following the battle of Chyniolus, and knew that she was Passion-Dancing her human lover, Iuf; mistaking appetite for love and gradually killing him. Amiri had made a study of the Passion-Dance, allowing several innocents to die for the sake of her scientific investigations. Randilyn had protested it then, and continued to try and act as Amiri's voice of conscience. Sometimes it worked, but far more often it failed and resulted in Amiri disciplining her for interfering.

"You ought to do something, Amiri."

"I've spoken with her time and time again. So long as she's in denial and refusing treatment, there's nothing I can do."

Tears welled in Randilyn's eyes. "Won't you do something more than talk?

"No."

"You could tell Isranon..."

Amiri frowned, wiping the last traces of Randilyn's blood from her lips. "I'll think about it. I promised Iuf that I would not speak of it without his permission."

The huge scarlet pavilion dominated the south corner of the non-humans section of the camp where it met that occupied by the humans. Isranon's general, Nans Gryphonheart, had insisted upon the segregation to reduce the chance of friction. She had spread the myn of her original unit, the Rowdies, through all the groups, mostly as officers.

The gaudy pavilion served as a line of demarcation between the lycan units and the human. More than one hundred nibari were in the herd that Isranon had claimed as reparations from the sa'necari households his army defeated at Ocealay. The nibari were genetically altered human cattle, bred for docility over the centuries by the vampires and sa'necari. They produced high levels of endorphins, and very low levels of adrenaline--too low to allow for aggressive behavior.

The majority of the nibari in their herd were female, while most of the humans in their company were male. In order to avoid dissention in the ranks arising over the non-humans' access to females and the humans lack of it, Isranon had established a brothel for the troops by rotating a portion of his nibari slaves to serve in the Scarlet Tent.

Captain Luck Settlesby had served in Nans' freeranger rescue unit for over twenty years. He had been just fourteen and his older half-brother, Itch Hollins, seventeen when they signed up with her. They had earned their freerangers' runes while traveling the northeastern and central eastern portions of the Merezian continent with her.

Luck kept himself occupied and his phlegmatic nature did not lend itself to brooding; although there were times when he felt bitter and angry about Itch's death just over a year ago. The Scarlet Tent helped take the edge off his tensions and not a day passed without his getting in a bit of rutting. He had taken a particular liking to a golden-haired nibari called Farris and whenever she rotated into the tent, Luck reserved himself two sessions a day between her legs.

He emerged from the Scarlet Tent feeling satiated and relaxed. The rain had stopped. Luck pushed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head and spied Iuf walking past. He frowned at how gaunt and lined Iuf's face had become; the circles beneath his eyes were so dark they looked bruised. The branching crow's feet spread around his eyes looked more deeply-sunk than before, etched into skin that had been weathered to the texture of old leather from years spent in the saddle. "You okay?"

Iuf paused, pulling at his grizzled beard as he waited for Luck to reach him. "Sort of. I was on my way to see Amiri. I need to get more of her tonics."

"Still sick?" Luck's eyes narrowed, settling on the scarf that Iuf wore. Most of the myn wore heavy wool scarves around their necks to deal with the late autumn cold; however it seemed as if the way that Iuf wore it so carefully placed was suspicious. He wondered how many bite marks he would find on Iuf's aged neck.

"Yeah. Just a mite."

"Can I walk with you?"

"If you want." Iuf shrugged.

"She say what's wrong?"

"Gave it a fancy name I can't pronounce."

"I heard that Amiri took you off active standing. Does Nans know?"

"Not yet. First big city we reach, I'll be leaving the company."

Luck frowned in concern. "That bad?"

"Yeah."

Luck walked Iuf to Amiri's tent and wagons. The Ymraude shaman had two wagons and a large tent. Since she cared for all the ills of the company, the humans had had to get over their initial uneasiness at having a vampire as the main healer and surgeon for the army. However, most of them, Luck included, preferred dealing with Randilyn over Amiri. It was not entirely because Amiri was a vampire. Her stone cold way of dealing with myn did not go over as well as Randilyn's warm concern.

Iuf went inside the tent and Luck considered following, and then changed his mind. While Iuf and he were old friends, the mon was not in any of Luck's units and that made it none of his business. So he decided to give Iuf his privacy.

He turned at the sound of young voices and spied Disharyl Scathwick first. Only a few of Anksha's blood-slaves had that much freedom to move about the camp. Disharyl was one of them. She had been Liuthan Loosestrife's principal bio-alchemist on his estates in Ocealay; and Amiri employed her skills with herbs and arcane substances. Luck had never been comfortable around Disharyl, and it was not simply because she was sa'necari. Something about her had never rung true for him. She was small, buxom, and somehow tawdry although he could not quite place his finger on why he perceived her that way.

Jingen Scathwick ran past Luck and threw his arms around his mother and she kissed the top of his head. The boy had just turned thirteen. He was one of the two oldest of Anksha's twenty-eight child slaves, sa'necari-born, branded and collared, but not held in the destructive bondage of her Dominance Link. Jingen released his mother to give Luck a polite smile and dip of his shoulders.

Luck turned about, knowing that where Jingen went, his sullen companion, Stygean Loosestrife, was frequently close behind. Stygean carried an armload of firewood into the circle created by the two wagons and Amiri's big tent.

"Staying out of trouble?" Luck stepped closer to the boy.

Stygean dropped the wood in a pile near the fire and backed away from Luck with an uncertain expression that soured into a glare. "I'm not allowed to visit my father until my chores are done."

Luck studied the boy's eyes, noting the hatred in them. A shift in Stygean's scarf as the boy moved revealed the edge of the slave collar laying beneath it. "Then you better get to it."

Stygean snarled and ran off.

Luck could understand why his friend, Travis Potshard, disliked the boy; however Luck himself had mixed feelings.

Stygean threw himself down on his bedroll exhausted from a day of travel on horseback followed by hours of chores. A small chest sat at the head of his bedding. It contained all that remained of his personal possessions. His family had been wealthy and powerful. Now he had nothing except a few changes of clothing, three books that Isranon had given him, and an empty swordbelt and scabbard.

He pulled the tie off his tail of black silken hair, tucking it under his pillow. It hung to the middle of his back and would have grown all the way to his ankles if he let it. The blackened metal slave collar chafed his neck and his ran his fingers beneath it before letting them stray to the A rune burned into his light olive shoulder. Blood normally healed everything for a sa'necari-born like Stygean, but the smith who branded him had used a kendaryl iron. Nothing would ever make it go away.

His tent mate, Jingen Scathwick--also a slave--rolled over in his bedding and propped his head on his hand. "Finished?"

"They always make me do more than you." Stygean snarled a curse under his breath.

Jingen sneered at him. "That's because you cause them more trouble than I do."

"I hate them."

"So do I. But that's no cause to get yourself disciplined every time you turn around. You ought to be more sneaky about things."

"I can't be. They killed my mother and they're killing my father. It eats me up to think about it."

Jingen shrugged and stretched out on his back. "I'm beginning to think you've given up on our plans for vengeance."

"I haven't."

"You have to be nice to their faces, stick them in the back when we get our hands on some blades."

"Fat chance getting a blade."

"If you say so. Real sa'necari don't give up so easily. I think you're afraid of the Renunciate. The price of heresy is death, Stygean. We're the only ones free to do it to him."

"I don't know..."

"Don't be a gutless cow. We'll bide our time and then we'll slip him the blade."

"The Renunciate?" Stygean rolled over on his side to face his friend.

Jingen rolled his eyes. "Yes. The Renunciate. He's a heretic. Death is his destiny and we'll give it to him."

"I just ... I just don't know." Stygean could not keep the hesitation from his voice.

"Are you sa'necari or have you become one of the cattle?"

Stygean tensed, pricked by the suggestion that he was not sa'necari enough. "I am sa'necari."

"Then it's agreed. We stick him."

Stygean sucked in a long breath. "I'm not afraid of them. I'll do it."

As she did every evening once camp had been made for the night, General Nans Gryphonheart joined Isranon in the command tent for a glass of wine and a discussion of the day's events; they would also plan for what they might expect the next day based upon scouting reports and pin-point where they were on the maps of the region.

War had never been something that Nans expected to find herself involved in. She had earned her runes as a freeranger at seventeen, doing search and rescue work; which rarely involved fighting. Nans had taken out her share of monsters and bandits; however, war was far different.

One of the more pleasant discoveries of the previous week had been a town with a relatively intact collection of abandoned taverns, wine shops, and a distillery. They had seized every bit of good liquor in the place. Their foragers always went through the abandoned towns with swift thoroughness.

Tenly, Isranon's aide-de-camp, had a talent for making perfect mulled wine, adding the cinnamon, cloves, and sugar precisely to a warmed cup of claret. His skills, attention to detail, and unflappable nature, led Nans and her officers to overlook his private indiscretions; one of which was appropriating looted goods acquired in his foraging expeditions and then selling them to various soldiers under the table.

General Nans Gryphonheart tapped the map on the table in the command tent, a huge blue pavilion. She was a cinnamon-haired, sapphire-eyed mon and tall--though not by Sharani standards--at five foot eleven inches. Most people knew her only as a freeranger captain turned general; some knew that she was the bastard cousin of King William Gryphonheart of Gormond's Reach, daughter of a Gormondi princess who most considered mad. Until a year ago, only the Rowdies and close friends knew that she was yuwenghau, a demi-god; the wilderkin daughter of Willodarus, God of the Woodlands and Wild Creatures. Nans had been forced to reveal herself after becoming trapped in Minnoras as the city-state fell to the forces of a hellgod, Gylorean Galee. She had ripped the portcullis off with her bare hands and led a group of refugees through to safety in Gormond's Reach.

"Once we strike the Lusatranden Highway, we should be able to make better time in spite of the weather." Nans flicked a wisp of cinnamon hair from her face.

Isranon sat with his legs wide and a nibari kneeling between them, her arms together behind her back in First Position. He listened to Nans with his fangs buried in the nibari's neck. The blood filled his mouth, ran down his throat, and filled his body with a pleasant warmth. She was his third that evening. He licked the wound closed and wiped his blood-rimmed mouth on a small square of black cloth.

"Tell me about the road, Nans." He noticed that she no longer stiffened when he fed in front of her. Isranon had met Nans on the edges of Gormond's Reach, leading a small party of refugees, survivors of Gylorean Galee's coup that caused a bloodbath in Minnoras. Their respective peoples were mortal enemies, and he had been reluctuant to reveal his nature to her, until a vampire-led ambush forced him use his fledgling powers to save them. They had crossed the gulf of distrust lying between them. Friendship had blossomed and devotion followed.

Haig entered, running a hand through his unkempt, coarse black hair. He wore a bearskin cloak thrown back which matched the generally hirsute aspect of his stocky, powerful body. One of the five Lemyari vampires in Isranon's company, Haig led his fellows in service to the Renunciate.

Tenly brought out glasses and three of the golden preserving bottles the sa'necari produced. He turned to Haig and asked in a droll tone, "Troll, demon, or manticore?"

"Troll."

Tenly nodded and poured him a glass of troll blood.

Haig gave a long, hard laugh. "You're a good one, Tenly."

"I know, sir."

The vampire eased his bulk into a chair and leaned to see the places that Nans had marked on the map. "If I'm any judge of distances, we should be at Linder's Meadow tomorrow."

"Most likely before dark." Nans ran her finger along the road on the map.

One by one, Isranon's commanders and counselors arrived.

Nevin Igguiden, oftimes referred to as Nevin Scarface, arrived next with his cousin Olin. An ugly scar traversed Nevin's face from his forehead, across a broken nose, and to his upper lip that was half-split, all from a wound that had failed to heal properly. It gave his hoarse growly voice a sibilant quality. Lycans healed faster and better than humans, rarely leaving them with scars; and as weapons went, only runed-silver and kendaryl could do that to one of them. His long black hair was caught at his neck in tail, except for two long strands at his temples into which had been braided the fingerbones of demons signifying his rank as chieftain of a newly formed battle-clan. Formerly the senior lawgiver to all of Clan Red Wolf, Nevin had been Isranon's childhood mentor and was now his spirit-brother. Nevin carried a big, crescent-headed axe in his belt, a sword at his shoulder, and a pair of lycan knives strapped to his thighs.

Most lycans carried just those fighting knives. Unlike humans, who often carried a sword whether they knew how to use one or not, the ever-practical lycans carried only weapons they were adept with. Their knives were among the best on the continent, with a curved back edge that ran a third of the way up the blade, and strong quillons. They had evolved over the centuries out of the hunting knives carried by rural folk.

However, it was the axe that first clued Haig to the fact that Nevin was one to walk softly around. Haig continued do so and gave Nevin a polite nod of welcome as the lycan settled into his place at Isranon's left hand.

Travis followed Luck into the tent, spied Nevin, and picked a seat as far from the lycan as he could. Nevin frowned at Travis. Olin ducked his head with a chuckle, running his fingers through his black and white hair. Travis had been uncomfortable around Nevin ever since Olin informed him that his cousin was corsach--a homosexual.

Amiri the Ymraude shaman and Zulaika their warleader arrived next. Zulaika carried herself with military precision as she settled into her chair with Amiri at her left hand. Anksha bounced into the tent two seconds behind them and curled into a seat at the head of the table beside Isranon. She ran her tongue around her mouth, licking the last bits of blood from her upper lip.

Amiri regarded Nans and Isranon. "We must decide soon where we plan to winter. Otherwise the snows will trap us."

"My thoughts were Gormond's Reach." Nans tapped the map. "It's the closest safe realm."

"That should not be our only concern. We need mages," Amiri said. "The only magic here is Isranon's. I am a shaman, not a mage."

"Perhaps Edvarde can help there," Isranon said.

Nans poured herself another glass of wine and stretched her legs out better. "Before the Azure Circle set up in Rowanhart, Ildyrsetts had the largest mage school outside of the City of Magic itself. Lord Edvarde is one of the Ildyrsetti School's largest patrons. He can certainly help. However, that will mean turning west and add at least a week, more likely two, to our journey."

"I'm willing to chance it, Nans. Amiri's right. I can't do it all myself."

Nans scanned their faces and gave a small nod. "So be it. Ildyrsetts."

When the meeting ended, Isranon sat with only Nevin and Anksha. His shoulders slumped. He was hurting again. Nevin noticed and poured him a glass of Sanguine Rose. Isranon sipped at it. "I worry. For all that I have done, I am still sa'necari. Since the Five Captains made that fact known abroad, we could find our allies turning upon us."

"Edvarde won't," said Anksha. "He knew before we left last spring."

Isranon nodded listlessly. "Edvarde is a good mon. Yet Treth closed its doors to us and broke the charters it had issued to Nans."

"Gormond's Reach will not break with us and that means that Darr will not either," Nevin pointed out.

Isranon's lips framed a faint smile. "And the Taladrim say I'm sacrosanct."

He would never forget the Taladri, Gaeatyra. She had come to kill him because he was sa'necari. The Taladrim were paladins of Tala; anti-social loners running with their moonwolves to hunt and destroy abominations like sa'necari and vampires. Travis had brought him a girl entrusted to Gaeatyra's care that had been wounded by a death blade of the sa'necari. He had pulled the death magics out of the girl and healed her.

Gaeatyra's moonwolf scented sa'necari on Travis, and she beat him senseless to locate Isranon. At Nans insistence, Gaeatyra had Read him and found him pure. Isranon had chanced her killing him to convince her that he had never crossed the line into the darkness of the rites.

Isranon saw little difference between the chances he was taking with Stygean and those he had taken with Gaeatyra, a paladin of Tala.

The five Lemyari had camped between the Ymraudes and the lycans in a quadrant that served to buffer the human majority from the blood-slaves and the nibari herd. Among the dark ranks, Lemyari were considered and often referred to as the 'royals' of vampires, because of their great power. Haig had the largest tents for the fourteen nibari in his private herd and their young. Jun owned only a single nibari; a young female named Nolly that Isranon had given him last summer. The other three, Corbienne, Garin, and Keahi, had smaller tents and fed from the common herd.

Corbienne's tent contained two huge chests, a scattering of large pillows for sitting, and a thick heavy pallet. Three goose down comforters made the bedroll, topped with blankets and more comforters. Iuf snuggled deep between the layers, warm and comfortable, watching Corbienne undress. She fluffed her long black hair, and arched her back, thrusting her ivory breasts and roseate nipples at him.

He might lie to others, but the old freeranger could not lie to himself. He knew that his vampire lover had lost herself to the obsessions of the Passion-Dance, and was slowly killing him. However, no matter how rough she became with him, Iuf could not find it inside himself to stop her. He loved her as he had never loved anyone before in his life. Amiri had excused Iuf from all work and told Nans that he was not well. He hoped that she had not told Nans the truth. Amiri had also given him a blood tonic to take to slow down the rate at which he was succumbing to the effects of Corbienne's constant feeding. Iuf fetched the tonics on time each week from Amiri; he had taken it for a few days and then thrown it away and kept throwing it away after that. Corbienne refused to face up to what she was doing, and Iuf had decided that he did not want to prolong the Dance. He was getting old and there were worse ways to die than in the arms of his love.

Iuf ran his hands through his graying hair and licked his dry lips. He no longer had the strength to make love to Corbienne. Her disrobing had become an empty symbol of a deadly love affair. Corbienne looked so young, barely eighteen; and Iuf was well past forty, close to the age he should have retired. The life of a freeranger was hard and the myn who lived that life tended to age fast. She had made him feel young and taken his mind off his years.

Now they were both paying for it. Nans and Isranon had both tried to put a stop to the relationship. Iuf knew that they had been right to, but he could not stop loving Corbienne, not stop wanting her, and not stop opening his veins to her.

"I love you, Iuf." She slithered between the blankets with him.

"I know, Corbie. I know."

He turned his face away from her to expose his neck better and shuddered for an instant as her fangs opened the artery. Illusion stripped the years from him and he once more walked the meadows of his youth; a young mon hand in hand with his one true love. Iuf grew swiftly dizzy, descending deeper into the dreams she gave him. His eyes closed and the darkness claimed him.