Most travelers did not. The magical doorways were for druids and wizards, so the stories went, and when not used properly, could leave one stranded in nothingness. Unfortunately, most in Blackthorn's current company believed such stories, even though Blackthorn had led them safely through the portals time and time again.

No traveler would appear from this particular portal, not this night, and stepping through the doorway at this hour, when Trammel was no more than a dark disc, would take them to Verity Isle, home of the mages. Hence, Blackthorn and the others awaited the rising of the second moon, Felucca, which would be half-full and waxing this night. Once that moon was closer to mid-heaven than Trammel, the destination of the gate would mysteriously change to a second island, this one in southwest Britannia.

At the appropriate hour, Blackthorn mounted Virtue, and ordered his men to follow him into the blazing doorway. A brilliant, azure flash, and then he was through the gate, galloping across the perimeter of a second ring of stones. The air was much warmer, without rain, and the moons hung like crystalline shards in the clear night sky, sisters to the three comets. A marsh spread to the southeast, coating the breeze with a salty tang, filling the winds with the chatter of midnight creatures. Where once plains had stretched to the north, the waves of the ocean shimmered in the night.

He waited for the others to arrive. First Dryden, then Suturb, then the rest of the men, one by one, materialized through the second gate. Their steeds whinnied and stamped and shook their manes. "That, I shall never get used to," Suturb muttered, soothing his stallion. "Let us leave this place."

They rode northwest along the coastline, toward the lights of a city set where the foothills of the western mountains flattened to join the sea. The giant walls and towers of Jhelom, the City of Valor, the home of Britannia's fiercest fighters, emerged against the night sky. Even at this late hour, the city teamed with life. Shouts, music, jovial laughter, and the clanks of mugs echoed over its walls. The gates were flung wide, and a captain of the Black Company rode forth to greet them.

"Lord Blackthorn. Judge Dryden. Captain Suturb." The giant of a man greeted them each in turn, his grin as wide as the half-moon above. Shaggy, red hair fell from beneath an iron helm spiked with what he claimed were the fangs of a dragon.

"Captain Ghaland," Blackthorn said, dismounting. "I see that thou art alone. Where are thy men?"

"Busy this night," Ghaland laughed. "Traveling from pub to pub, making a vain attempt to keep order. Folks seem to be at each other's throats, more so than usual. Already one drunken duel has resulted in a death. We hope to prevent another . . . Drunken duel, that is. We cannot abide a sloppy fight!" He guffawed. "Come! I will take you to The Sword and Keg where the other captains of the Black Company have convened. There thou mayest relax with a drink. And I have had my friend, Gremnor, reserve the finest quarters for thee at The Warrior's Stead."

Ghaland led Blackthorn and his companions down the main thoroughfare. Light, music, laughter, and song spilled into the street from many an open window and door—that is, until the Black Company passed before the establishment. Though the music and song never completely silenced, the laughter often did, replaced by hushed and heated discussion, and at least one discussion erupted into an argument, ending with a fistfight by the sound of it. Revelers who stumbled by were quick to quiet their din, and many openly glared at the company.

Captain Suturb spoke what Blackthorn felt. "There is much malevolence in the air. Even the shadows seem to glare at me." He shook his head, staring back at a beggar who shook his fist at them after they had refused to give him a coin.