made another mistake。 If he were killed； no one would know how to save the Warward。 His final plan would die with him； and every man and woman of his army would be butchered as a result。
The realization seemed to push him over an edge。 He plunged to his knees。 The sirocco and the dust were strangling him。
Ruel shouted； 〃Warmark！ Corruption attacks！〃
At the word Corruption； a plete lucidity came over Troy。 Fear filled all his thoughts with crystalline incisiveness。 At once； he perceived that the Bloodguard was trying to undo him； Ruel's impenetrable fidelity was a deliberate assault upon his fitness for mand。
The understanding made him reel； but he reacted lucidly； adroitly。 He took one last look around him； saw one or two figures still surging back and forth through the livid anguish of the dust。 Ruel was moving to capture him。 Overhead； the dark birds dropped toward the ruins。 Troy picked up a rock and climbed to his feet。 When Ruel touched him； he suddenly gestured away behind the Bloodguard。 Ruel turned to look。 Troy hit him on the back of the skull with the rock。
Then the Warmark ran。 He could not make progress against the wind； so he worked across it。 The walls of buildings loomed out of the dust at him。 He started toward a door。
Without warning； he stumbled into First Haft Amorive。
She caught at him； buffeted him with cries like fear。 But she； too； was someone faithful； someone who threatened him。 He lunged at her with his shoulder； sent her sprawling。 Immediately； he dodged into the maze of the masterplace。
He fell several times as the wind sprang at him through unexpected gaps in the walls。 But he forced himself ahead。 The clarity of his terror was plete； he knew what he had to do。
After a swift； chaotic battle； he found what he needed。 With a rush； he lurched out into the center of a large； open space…the remains of one of Doriendor
Corishev's meeting halls。 In this unsheltered expanse； the force of the wind belabored him venomously。 He weled it。 He felt a paradoxical glee of fear； his own terror delighted him。 He stood like an exalted fanatic in the open space； and looked up to see how long he would have to wait。
When he glanced behind him； his heart leaped。 One of the birds glided effortlessly toward him； as if it were in total mand of the wind。 It had a clear approach to him。 The ease of its movement thrilled him； and he poised himself to jump into its jaws。
But as it neared him； he saw that it carried Ruel's crumpled body in its mighty talons。 He could see Ruel's flat； dispassionate features。 The Bloodguard looked as if he had been betrayed。
A convulsion shook Troy。 As the bird swooped toward him； he remembered who he was。 The strength of terror galvanized his muscles； he snatched out his sword and struck。
His blow split the bird's skull。 Its weight bowled him over。 Green blood spewed from it over his head and shoulders。 The hot blood burned him like a corrosive； and it smelled so thickly of attar that it asphyxiated him。 With a choked cry； he clawed at his forehead； trying to tear the pain away。 But the acid fire consumed his headband； burned through his skull into his brain。 He lost consciousness。
He awoke to silence and the darkness of night。
After a long lapse of time like an interminable scream； he raised his head。 The wind had piled dust over him； and his movement disturbed it。 It filled his throat and mouth and lungs。 But he bit back a spasm of coughing； and listened to the darkness。
All around him； Doriendor Corishev was as still as a cairn。 The wind and the vortex were gone； leaving only midnight dust and death to mark their path。 Silence lay over the ruins like a bane。
Then he had to cough。 Gasping； retching； he pushed himself to his knees。 He sounded explosively loud to himself。 He tried to control the violence of his coughing； but he was helpless until the spasm passed。
As it released him； he realized that he was still clutching his sword。 Instinctively； he tightened his grip on it。 He cursed his night blindness； then told himself that the darkness was his only hope。
His face throbbed painfully； but he ignored it。
He kept himself still while he thought。
This long after the vortex； he reasoned； all his allies were either dead or gone。 If the vortex and the birds had not killed them； they had been swept from the ruins by Fleshharrower's army。 So they could not help him。 He did not know how much of that army had stayed behind in the masterplace。
And he could not see。 He was vulnerable until daylight。 Only the darkness protected him； he could not defend himself。
His first reaction was to remain where he was； and pray that he was not discovered。 But he recognized the futility of that plan。 At best； it would only postpone his death。 When dawn came； he would still be alone against an unknown number of enemies。 No； his one chance was to sneak out of the city now and lose himself in the Wastes。 There he might find a gully or hole in which to hide。
That escape was possible； barely possible； because he had one advantage； none of Fleshharrower's creatures except the ur…viles could move through the ruins at night as well as he。 And the Raver would not have left ur…viles behind。 They were too valuable。 If Troy could remember his former skills…his sense of ambience； his memory for terrain…he would be able to navigate the city。
He would have to rely on his hearing to warn him of enemies。
He began by sliding his sword quietly into its scabbard。 Then he started groping his way over the hot sand。 He needed to verify where he was； and knew only one way to do it。
Nearby； his hands found a patch of ground that felt burned。 The dirt which stuck to his fingers reeked of attar。 And in the patch； he located Ruel's twisted body。 His sense of touch told him that Ruel was badly charred。 The dark bird must have caught fire when it
died； and burned away； leaving the Bloodguard's corpse behind。
The touch of that place nauseated him； and he backed away from it。 He was sweating heavily。 Sweat stung his burns。 The night was hot； sunset had brought no relief to the ruins。 Folding his arms over his stomach； he climbed to his feet。
Standing unsteadily in the open； he tried to clear his mind of Ruel and the bird。 He needed to remember how to deal with blindness； how to orient himself in the ruins。 But he could not determine which way he had e into this open place。 Waving his arms before him； he went in search of a wall。
His feet distrusted the ground…he could not put them down securely…and he moved awkwardly。 His sense of balance had deserted him。 His face felt raw； and sweat seared his eye sockets。 But he clenched his concentration； and measured the distance。
In twenty yards； he reached a wall。 He touched it at an angle； promptly squared himself to it； then moved along it。 He needed a gap which would permit him to touch both sides of the wall。 Any discrepancy in temperature between the sides would tell him his directions。
After twenty more yards； he arrived in a corner。 Turning at right angles； he…followed this new wall。 He kept himself parallel to it by brushing the stone with his fingers。 Shortly； he stumbled into some rubble； and found an entryway。
The wall here was thick； but he could touch its opposite sides without stretching his arms。 Both sides felt very warm； but he thought he discerned a slightly higher temperature on the side facing back into the open space。 That direction was west； he reasoned； the afternoon sun would have heated the west side of a wall。
Now he had to decide which way to go。
If he went east； he would be less likely to meet enemies。 Since they had not already found him； they might be past him； and their search would move from east to west after the Warward。 But if any chance of
help from his friends or Mehryl remained； it would be on the west side。
The dilemma seemed to have no solution。 He found himself shaking his head and moaning through his teeth。 At once； he stuffed his throat with silence。 He decided to move west toward Mehryl。 The added risk was preferable to a safe escape eastward…an escape which would leave him alone in the Southron Wastes； without food or water or a mount。
He leaned against