He's enjoying this! Thomas realised, studying the priest. He recognised the glow in his eyes as he put his helmet back on his head. This is what he's been waiting for ever since boarding the Jules Verne. The realisation made him wonder whether it had been wise to wait here, in this building, instead of trying to slip away. There was no doubt that having a good defensive position was important, but had that been the priest's real reason for making them stay put? Or had he feared that they might lose their pursuers and be cheated out of his fight?

     He'd almost been killed during the original attack on the Ship of Space, Thomas remembered. Does he want revenge on the people of this world? But no, the wizard told himself firmly. That can't be. This is a priest of Samnos, after all. The God of War does not grant His favours to those acting on such shallow motives. Drenn made us stay here because he believes that this is our best chance for survival. There had definitely been a glow of excited expectation in the priest's eyes, though, and Thomas guessed that this was a case of what was best for Drenn also being what was best for all of them. Lucky him, thought Thomas, watching the back of his head thoughtfully.

     Then all speculation regarding Drenn's motives was dashed from his head by the sound of furtive footsteps coming up the stairs. Drenn put a finger to his lips for silence and the Tharians held their breaths as the natives drew closer. Thomas saw Matthew's fingers going white on the hilt of his sword, the tip of which was shaking ever so slightly where he held it out in front of him.

     The two junior soldiers weren't having quite so much success in remaining calm, though, and Jop Sonno's breath was coming in harsh gasps. Drenn tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention and repeated the finger to his lips gesture. The cavalryman nodded and made an effort to breathe more quietly.

     Then the first enemy came into view through the doorway, and Thomas gave a start of surprise. From what the others had told him, he'd been expecting barbarians, similar to the Kimmats of the Underworld, or even the Duhraks of the Southern Continent, but the man who froze at the sight of them a bare eight yards away across the dusty floor was a soldier, as sophisticated in his dress and weaponry as Matthew and his men.

     He was wearing a uniform of polished steel and cured leather, and the sword he was carrying was the equal in workmanship to anything possessed by the Beltharan army. He didn't look evil either. Instead, he gave the impression of fear and painful caution, and Thomas found himself feeling a strange connection with him, having been in similar situations himself.

     He was fully human. Young and handsome but bearing a scar on his face testifying to a not too recent battle that he'd only just survived. Young, but an experienced veteran nonetheless. No doubt a dangerous adversary. He saw the soldiers reaching the same conclusion, raising their weapons and bracing themselves for battle.

     "Are these the people who attacked you?" asked Thomas as the first soldier was joined by two others, then by a fourth. They just didn't strike him as the aggressive type. Could there have been a terrible misunderstanding?

     "Yes," replied Drenn. "They jumped us without warning. If not for my training we would all have been killed."

     "Are you sure they were trying to kill you? Perhaps they just wanted to take you into custody, for questioning. Did they say anything...?"

     "They were trying to kill us, Tom," said Matthew, his eyes on the growing number of enemies gathering in the next room. "There was no mistake."

     "Maybe they're at war with someone. Maybe they mistook us for their enemies."

     "Then that is a mistake they will pay for," said Drenn grimly.

     "Maybe it's not too late," said the wizard, however. "Maybe we can talk to them. Explain that we're not their enemies..."

     "Just be ready to cast your spells when they attack," snapped back Drenn. "You can try talking to any prisoners we take."

     Thomas started to protest, but the priest gave him such a look of impatience and anger that the words died in his throat. Prisoners, he thought, though. Okay, that's how it'll be then. He let the words of the Firebolt spells he'd been ready to cast fade to the back of his mind, replacing them with the words of Sleep spells. His fingers scrabbled in his pouches for the pinch of sand that was the spell's material component and he took a step forward until he was standing just behind Roj Villa, ready to cast the spell over his shoulder.

     There were almost a dozen of the enemy soldiers now, and as their numbers grew they grew bolder, the first of them edging into the room. He spoke to the Tharians in a harsh, demanding tone, no doubt demanding their surrender, but the Tharians only raised their weapons higher. The enemy soldier, who wore some markings on his uniform that probably identified him as an officer, drew his own sword and called his fellows to join him. There was enough room for eight of them to stand side by side, the others forming a second rank behind them, ready to come forward to replace the fallen in the first rank.

     The Tharians retreated into the corner to avoid being outflanked. "I am a representative of Samnos, God of War," said Drenn, speaking loudly and clearly. "I demand that you stand aside and let us pass. If you make war upon us, you will be punished. This is the only warning you will receive."

     "They don't understand you," pointed out Thomas in increasing desperation. "They don't know our language."

     "They know my meaning if not my words," replied the priest, however. "They know what I'm saying."

     He was right, if their reaction to his words was any judge. The first rank was shuffling nervously, clearly unhappy with facing the huge, physically intimidating man. Drenn was putting all his authority into his stance and bearing now, something Thomas had seen other priests of Samnos do, sending out psychic waves of menace and power so strong that it was sometimes enough all in itself to send enemies fleeing in panic.

     "Yes, you see now what you are facing," said the priest in satisfaction. "Come then, if you dare. Who will be first to face my sword? Who will be first to face the wrath of Samnos?"

     The enemy commander gave a signal, and the second rank of his men drew bows and arrows, aiming and letting fly in a single swift movement, each targeting a different Tharian. The soldiers flinched, and Roj Villa cried out involuntarily as the heavy steel arrowhead punched cleanly through his breastplate, but each arrow was stopped by the moon trog glass ceramic armour they were wearing beneath. The enemy soldiers stared in astonishment as Matthew plucked the arrow out of his uniform and tossed it disdainfully away, and then Drenn gave the order to attack, leaping forward without waiting to see if the Beltharans were with him. The enemy soldiers were already collapsing unconscious, however, brought down by the Sleep spell Thomas had been quietly casting behind him.

     "You got all of them!" cried Matthew in delighted surprise. "You have improved!"

     "They've probably got the whole building surrounded," said Drenn, however, crossing to the window and glancing carefully out. "This is just a respite before the storm."

     "But we've got this lot," pointed out Matthew, moving among the sleeping enemies, removing their weapons and motioning for his men to do the same. "We can bargain for their lives."

     "Negotiate a peaceful solution," agreed Thomas delightedly. "By letting them go, they'll see that we come in peace."

     Drenn sighed at their innocent naivety, but it was true that Samnos urged peace as an alternative to war whenever possible. To kill unnecessarily was a sin. "Very well," he said, therefore, and helped disarm the prisoners.

     They heard hushed voices coming from outside the building and guessed that a second wave of enemy soldiers was on its way. If they saw their fallen comrades and thought they were dead, any chance of talking their way out of this would be gone. He shook the enemy commander, therefore, trying to wake him up, but the man was out cold, and likely to remain so for some time. He'd improved the duration of the spell over the years, as well as the number of people it affected.

     "Move them into the next room," he urged the others, therefore, dragging the commander by the ankles. "So they'll see them before they see us." The others saw what he had in mind and began helping him.

     They were just dragging the last two unconscious men through the doorway when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The Tharians dashed back into the other room and took up their positions again, just in time as more soldiers appeared, gasping at the sight of their fallen comrades. One of them knelt to examine the men, who were just beginning to regain consciousness.

     Yes, that's right, thought Thomas hopefully. You see? They're still alive. We could have killed them but we didn't.

     Did Drenn and the others kill any of them in their first battle? he suddenly wondered anxiously. He remembered Matthew saying that they'd managed to drive them away. Gods, please don't let them have killed any! If there's been blood spilled they'll just keep coming until we're dead or captured! The others were behaving as if they thought the plan had a chance of working, though, which gave him hope. The Gods grant we can still make friends with these people, he prayed. We can't fight a whole army.

     As the spell blasted enemy soldiers climbed unsteadily back to their feet, seeming surprised to find themselves still alive, the new arrivals entered the room, just as the first lot had, and formed a line facing the Tharians. Thomas had plenty of magic left, but having to cast any more spells would mean failure. Only talk could save them now.

     "I want to try to talk to them," he told the others. "I've got a spell that'll help me speak their language."

     Drenn nodded. "Cast a defensive spell first," he said. "You're not wearing armour."

     Thomas was already casting a Globe of Force, though, not wanting to feel an arrow plunging between his ribs, and the recovering enemies backed away fearfully, recognising words similar to those that had been spoken just before they'd fallen. Could this unarmed, harmless looking man have been responsible for overpowering them single handedly?

     Sure enough, when he finished speaking no-one was knocked unconscious, but the man dressed in blue was now surrounded by a globe of shimmering light, like a soap bubble. Thomas had chosen a version of the spell used by the mage noblemen of old Agglemon; a spell whose protective bubble was deliberately made visible as a status symbol, making them stand out conspicuously as they strode in stately dignity along crowded streets to the awed gaze of the mundane population. Thomas also wanted to make a statement by making the spell visible. He wanted to show the natives that they had powers, that they were people not to be trifled with. It might make them think twice before resorting to violence, and it was also possible that curiosity might make them more inclined to talk.