"Whitelock must not learn of the Orb." 'Twas the Lord who spoke now, the boy was certain of it. The Lord looked back at the mirror, trembled as he indicated the wraiths. "They cannot learn of it. If they do, then truly there will be no hope for British's return. Unfortunately, there is only one way I know of keeping this knowledge from them."

The one eye of the scribe suddenly came to life. It flashed first at the Lord, then to the boy, then widened in recognition and understanding.

The Lord turned away from the scribe and smiled fondly at the boy. "I am tied to him, just as I am tied to thee. I am the heart of us all. Should I die, we all perish, but then, I fear, that the three wraiths would be free too find another." The Lord trembled. "So long as a part of me lives, I spare someone else their devilry."

Within the mirror, the scribe strode forward, mouth opening and closing in unheard screams. Behind him, six eyes flared red, and the shadows followed.

"I could slay the scribe. Then, I think, only he and I would disappear." He closed his eyes, smiled at this thought, but when he lifted his eyelids, all that was revealed was sorrow. "However, only a boy would be left behind, a virtuous boy, one whom I would gladly entrust with this kingdom, but in the end, still only a boy. The wraiths will defeat that boy, learn of the Orb, and all will be lost."

Yes, the boy believed this to be true. Even now, he could feel the power of those approaching shadows, felt the hatred, fear, and lies they carried with them. And if the Lord before had been unable to stand up to them, how could he?

"And if we were to go away?" the boy asked quietly.

"Then so does our knowledge of the Orb," the Lord said with a sad smile. "The shadows will be unable to find it."

The boy trembled. Fear gripped him, not from the thing that rapidly approached them in the mirror. This fear was his own, the natural fear of what might—or might not—lay beyond. "But we will be gone. Everything that makes us virtuous will perish."

"I am not so certain of that," the Lord said. "After all, I could not do what needs to be done if not for Whitelock." The Lord leveled his sword at the boy's neck. "So perhaps there is still a little bit of us in him." The Lord drew back the weapon. Behind him, the scribe and the Shadows had reached the edge of the mirror.

The boy was no longer afraid. "Let us hope."

The Lord swung the blade.

* * *

When Blackthorn arrived in the courtyard of the castle, the Black Company awaited him with their steeds, as had been their orders. One of the men stepped forward. Blackthorn did not like the ruffian, Thrud, but the man could heft an axe like no one else. More importantly, he did not question orders to kill, and that would be needed this night.

From beyond the gates of the castle, far down the slopes of Liege Hill, rose the faint dirge of cries, jeers, and shouts. When he had left the chamber of Lord British, he had seen the torches approaching the hill, nearly a hundred of them, if not more. A protest, certainly, by those he had seen earlier in the streets, the folks who had attacked his men. He had sounded the alert.