

Copyright © 2018 Stephen J. Coey

Cover image © Shutterstock

The right of Stephen J. Coey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

About the Author

Stephen J. Coey lives in Darwen with his wife and three children and their dog, Molly. He started writing fantasy, horror and even a little sci-fi as a young boy, and still enjoys this now just as much as he did back then. Scorpion's Sting is his first novel.

If you'd like to follow Stephen to keep abreast of all his future releases, feel free to contact him at stephenjcoey@gmail.com, or @StephenCoey on Twitter.

Praise for Scorpion's Sting:

'A right page turner' Rebecca Healey

'As good as Gemmell and Feist' Samantha Richardson

(Author's disclaimer: admittedly, this last is a biased opinion, as Samantha Richardson is now Samantha Coey.)

About the Book

Ever since the mysterious Saviour came to the Kingdom's rescue ten years ago, peace has reigned. But now the land's deadliest assassin is at large. Heirs to the throne drop like flies. Vlar, the ruthless, half-crazed earl of Nydar, seeks the throne. Women and children vanish mysteriously from his earldom. Civil war looms. Preternatural beasts threaten to overrun the land. Behind the scenes, pulling all the strings is an evil sorcerer of frightening power.

And the Saviour is nowhere to be found.

For my wife and three boys, with all my love.

PROLOGUE

Connavar Rydden was an alchemist. There were only two people in the whole of Ehronin who knew this. To everyone else, he was known simply as Conn, and would often pose as a pedlar. He could make salves that healed mortal wounds, and elixirs that healed pretty much anything excepting certain terminal diseases, and dark magic, of course. He could get into the heads of the weak-minded and persuade them to do his bidding, and he could tame any creature, be it alive or summoned from the dead. He could dream the future while asleep. And, using any one of the many throwing knives secreted upon his person, he could split a flea clean in half from fifteen paces.

But he had very little of his elixir left, had lost the griffin he had ridden here, was stranded in the depths of a vast and barren desert called the Ceaseless Sands, and was about to be caught in the middle of a violent sandstorm with no shelter, no food, and – most worrying of all – no water.

The winds lashed his face with sand that could strip the whites from a man's eyeballs. Using both hands to shield his eyes, he descried the vague outline of something large nearby, and made his way over to it. He was almost upon it before he realised it was a sycamore tree, and he almost stopped in wonder. For the last three days he had seen naught but yellow sand and blue skies. He had seen no mountains, no clouds, no birds, nor any other living creature. And no trees.

The sycamore was golden, skeletal, and forlorn. Like as not, its leaves had been disintegrated by a previous storm. But its trunk would still offer him some protection. Dropping to rest against its bole he sat, head sagging forward, eyes squeezed shut, and listened to the surging of the wind. He was here, in an empire called Mori Voh, to seek the help of the Master Alchemist, but knew in his heart that he would not find him. He had journeyed far and searched high and low, but nowhere was his old mentor to be found. Accepting defeat, he leaned back his head – and felt a sudden, sharp pain in his neck.

He jerked forward, raised a hand to his neck and grimaced. He turned his head, careful of the stinging sand, and saw at once the danger. It was a bark scorpion, small in size, tan in colour.

One sting was all it took to kill a man.

The alchemist remained where he sat. His reflexes did not drive him to bolt, nor to strike out at the creature blindly. Rather, he linked minds with it, and calmed it. Then he used his left hand to pinch its tail – and impaled it with the throwing knife now clenched in his right fist.

The pain in his neck flared. His lips had gone numb, his throat – he hadn't thought this possible until now – had turned even drier, dry as old and dusty parchment. From his pack he retrieved a copper phial and drank its contents thirstily. His back convulsed and most of the liquid missed his mouth and spilt down his front. Nevertheless, what little he did swallow took effect almost immediately, nullifying the poison and leaving him light-headed. He smiled. A big wide smile that split his face. Had his fingers fumbled, had he dropped the phial, it would have been all over for him.

The alchemist glanced at the phial still in his hand and noted with dismay that he had used up the last of the elixir he carried in liquid form; he still had some in the form of salve, which could be applied to wounds or broken bones, but the liquid was spent. He could ill afford to be stung a second time. He cast about and checked for further scorpions.

He spared a thought for the griffin he'd lost that had flown him across the desert, and hoped the poor creature was still alive.

Of a sudden, the alchemist felt a moment of surrealism. All alone and ill-equipped, searching for further scorpions, he was about to be caught in a sandstorm, yet all he felt was calm. The brunt of the violent storm was about to strike, and he suddenly felt connected to the world – to the golden, leafless tree, the searing sun and relentless incoming storm that drove the sand before it.

Sometimes when he slept he had glimpses – visions of things yet to pass – in which he saw people usually at their moment of altering fate. But right then, for the first time conscious and awake, the alchemist had a glimpse. He closed his eyes and saw the king of Ehronin and his youngest son, Prince Jolin, and knew that what he saw could potentially spell disaster for the entire world of Ehronia.

Not only did he see, but he heard their thoughts...

...He saw as the king watched his youngest son with a profound fondness that has been known by many fathers, noble and common alike, throughout the aeons. The boy, seven winters old, toy sword in hand, re-enacted the Battle of Nydar. The battle had decided the war. And it had all come down to a duel between two men: Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin; and Skel, the quick and deadly champion of Mori Voh. Bastion had won and had saved King Oaken's realm.

'I am the best swordsman there is, Father!' declared the boy prince.

'As was Bastion,' said the king.

'He won the war! I'm Bastion, and I'm going to kill Skel.'

The king smiled, infused with the pure love and joy that his son brought to his life.

After overcoming hundreds and saving the kingdom with his toy sword, Prince Jolin turned to his father. 'Where is Bastion now, Father?'

'Nobody knows, my son. The Battle of Nydar was ten years since. Soon after winning me victory he quit the army – with my blessing, mind – to start a family. It may sound odd, but never had I laid eyes upon the man before he stepped forward to take my injured champion's place in the duel. And afterwards, having taken his leave, he disappeared and was heard of never again. Like enough, he wished to remain anonymous, away from those who would gladly have seen him brought low out of jealousy or misplaced honour. Or perchance he loved his wife. Your grandfather always said love can do strange things to a man. Whichever way, I hope he is well.

'Now, Jolin, it is time to make ready. Many people will fill the great hall tonight at the banquet.'

Time blurred momentarily for the alchemist, then, later that night at the banquet, in the great hall when no one else was watching, he saw a sickly pale man with long, greasy jet black hair and protruding eyebrows above sunken eyes approach Prince Jolin. He offered the boy a goblet, telling him it was the finest honeyed water in the kingdom. The boy expressed his doubts, but the sickly pale man pressed him, explaining that the great Bastion had swigged the very same drink on the day he had slain the mighty Skel.

'No, do not drink it!' yelled the alchemist from a thousand miles away, leaning forward from the sycamore and reaching out a hand, fingers splayed. But it was no good. The young boy within his glimpse could not hear him, and he drank the poison.

A little later King Oaken disappointed all of his guests by cutting short the festivities. All were made to quit the castle. His youngest son had fallen ill, struck with fever. In delirious fits Jolin cried out that Skel had come back from the dead to kill him.

The sickly pale man had already left, and soon after met with a hooded man garbed in black – an assassin. The alchemist did not understand why, but he was unable to focus upon the assassin within the glimpse; nor could he hear his thoughts – nor the sickly pale man's, for that matter.

The sickly pale man muttered a few inaudible words to the assassin, who gave a nod of his head and disappeared into darkness.

Back at the king's castle, the boy did not survive the night...

...Time shifted slightly. Now the alchemist saw a young girl, locked in a cell. She longed to be released from the cell so that she may carry out her duties tending the garden outside. Outside! How she longed to be outside! But she was only permitted to leave the cell for two hours a day, time that she must spend either in prayer or tending the garden. In the summer months these precious hours were mostly spent in the garden, but in winter they were spent almost exclusively in prayer.

She didn't mind prayer of course, or she didn't used to – but there was only so much a person could endure, especially as the rest of her time must be spent inside the cell, striving for enlightenment. She was special, she had been told. The One God had plans for her. She was to one day become Mother Superior of her very own monastery. But first she must find enlightenment.

That night she struggled to sleep, and half awoke to what sounded almost like her cell door being unlocked. But that was crazy, so she closed her eyes again. But then she felt a hand upon her brow. It was strange, but she felt no fear. Rather, the man's hand upon her brow somehow seemed familiar. Of a sudden she felt very tired. So she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her.

...Time passed. The girl was standing as close to her cell window as she could get whilst looking up through the iron bars, out into the blue sky. The window was too high up for her to reach, so she rested her hands against the wall. Her hands! She noticed for the first time that her hands were wrinkly! But she was only young and hadn't been here long enough for her hands to age so!

Her cell door opened and the nun who was her mentor said, 'Come, child, it is time for you to tend the garden.'

'Sister!' she cried. 'My hands have wrinkles! What is happening to me?'

'Nonsense, child, you have nothing to be alarmed about.'

'But look!' said the young girl, holding out her hands.

'It is nothing to worry about,' said the nun. 'You are a little older now than when you arrived. Your hands are bound to age a little. It is nothing unusual.'

...Time passed, and the young girl stood at her window again. She looked down at her hands. They looked like those of an old lady. What the nun had told her about being a little older than when she'd arrived was a load of nonsense. The girl held her hands up to the ray of sunshine beaming through her cell window above, turning them, studying them. She felt scared. An overwhelming sense that her life was slipping through her fingers gripped her soul and she put her head in her hands. A thought struck her, and she straightened and opened her eyes. She took her hair in her aged fingers and looked at it. Her hair was grey!

Just then her cell door opened, and the nun stood in the doorway, regarding her.

'My hair!' the young girl sobbed.

'I think your path to enlightenment has come to an end,' said the nun. She swung shut the cell door leaving the stricken girl by herself again. A moment later the sickly pale man with long, greasy jet black hair and protruding eyebrows above sunken eyes entered the young girl's cell and bade her lie down upon the straw pallet. He laid his hand upon her brow. The girl gasped, feeling more than just tiredness this time. She felt as if her very life-force was being leached away from her. She felt as if she was dying!

'No!' she screamed and rolled off the pallet.

The sickly pale man grabbed at her shift and it tore down her front, revealing sagging, wrinkled breasts.

'What have you done to me?' the young girl screamed.

The sickly pale man knelt by her side and smiled apologetically, knowingly, benignly. 'I must level with you, girl. I am not, in fact, a priest. And the nun outside is not, in fact, a nun. And you have not spent your childhood here to find enlightenment. Rather, you have been a precious source of energy to me.' The young girl's eyes welled up with tears. Her whole childhood had been a lie. She'd been betrayed by those she'd trusted most. She looked crestfallen. She looked broken. 'You see,' continued the sickly pale man, 'I am an alchemist, and have been harvesting your energy in my search for immortality.'

From a thousand miles away, in the depths of the Ceaseless Sands, the alchemist roared impotently: 'You are no alchemist!'

'But fear not,' added the sickly pale man, 'for am I sure that your One God will welcome you in heaven.' So saying, he placed his hand upon the girl's brow, closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath as he drained the last vestige of life from the young girl. When her body hit the ground, it looked like the long dead corpse of a decrepit old lady.

...The alchemist opened his eyes and surged to his feet. The sandstorm raged about him and he had to shield his eyes with both hands. He still felt as one with the world and used that connection to reach out to the griffin he'd lost, hoping it had strayed not too far. And hoping it had managed to escape the storm, especially as it would have had to deal with the suffocating finer grains of sand the higher it went. He needed to put this expansive land that was Mori Voh behind him. He needed to get back to Ehronin, fast – atop the griffin, preferably.

His glimpses were usually of the future. But from what he had just seen, he knew that this one had already started.

PART ONE

Tyranny is a tidal wave; it is a most powerful colossus and sweeps through the land leaving in its wake the purest destruction. It is all well and good to say, "It will pass," but were you there as it struck, by your side would you want a Hero of the Light.

– On the Gods' Perennial War, author's identity lost to the depths of time.

CHAPTER ONE

GOD OF GAMES

The room fell silent.

No sooner had the stranger from out of town entered the alehouse than he wished he hadn't. Folk had been dining and dicing, drowning their worries in ale. They'd been sharing tales of hardship and gawking at the barmaid.

Now they stared at Seb.

I should leave, he thought. But he didn't. It was then that he noticed the Silor-Thenn, garbed in the unmistakable tight-fitting leathers of a bounty hunter from Rin, renowned for their deadly skill with blade and bow. I should leave for certain. Instead he made his way to the bar, past accusing onlookers and others who chose to pretend he wasn't there, staring instead into pitchers and goblets and mugs.

He ordered his ale, nodding acceptance when the barkeep insisted that once the drink was consumed he should leave and never come back.

'Your pig-headed obstinacy will be the death of you,' croaked an old hag with balding blonde hair and brown and yellow teeth. She sidled up alongside him. He expected her to smell about as pleasant as a slop bucket but was surprised to find that she did not altogether smell too bad.

He glanced behind and saw that already one bruiser had moved to block his escape through the front entrance. Another two now guarded the rear.

'It was only a game of dice,' he answered the old hag.

'Exactly,' she rejoined. 'So there was no need for Ernie to wind up dead, was there?'

'He died?' Seb eyed those close by, gauging whether or not anyone had overheard her. Many were straining to hear the conversation, and he didn't need some old hag stirring the pot when things were already hostile.

Three now blocked his escape via the front. The Silor-Thenn remained where he sat, away to one side, halfway between the front and rear entrances.

'Aye,' said the hag, fixing him with an accusing squint. 'I thought you knew. You're about to be accused of his murder.'

Well, that explains the animosity. He took another look at the two bruisers at the back. One of them was very large and looked about as immovable as a tree trunk.

'He tried to steal my necklace,' he explained in a quiet voice. 'Then he ran into a wall.'

'Pah, damned fool,' she wheezed. 'Come with me if you want to live.'

Seb watched as she turned away from him and shuffled her way towards the back door. What could she possibly do to save him?

He didn't heed her advice. Instead he got comfortable on a worn stool and took a pull of the frothy ale, usually bitter yet refreshing – but right now he found he was unable to enjoy it. The villagers would want to see him swinging from a rope before the day's end.

He wanted naught more to do with the world of man. Although first, there was one thing that must be done – and at all costs.

Just then a man of nervous disposition and middle years edged sidewards towards Seb, leading always with his right boot, head swivelling this way and that in a feeble attempt at reticence. He hopped on to a stool next to Seb and feigned interest in the kegs and bottles of spirits and wine behind the bar. Although now sat down, the man's head continued to bob up and down, as though ducking an unseen object swung at his head.

'So last night,' said the nervous man, 'you dealt with the child snatcher.'

Seb said nothing.

'You saw him take every penny and crown of good Roland's coin from the poor fool after just a handful of games of passage.'

Seb said nothing and took another pull of his ale.

'Then the child snatcher offered poor Roland a chance to win back his coin. Didn't he? Eh?' His head continued to bob.

Seb said nothing. If the nervous man expected an answer he would be sorely disappointed.

'Come on, don't make me spell it out.'

Seb ignored him.

'Look, I know you're a good guy. That bastard child snatcher won poor Roland's daughter last night after the idiot agreed to a double or nothing bet. Well, the child snatcher once took my daughter from me too. Only last night, when you bet him all that coin, against Roland's daughter, you meant to return his daughter to him had you won. Didn't you?'

Seb said nothing.

'Yes, you sure did. I feel it in my bones. And I'm willing to bet that bastard child snatcher didn't much fancy waiting for his promised coin. I reckon he thought to take that pretty necklace from you instead, because a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush. Have I got the right of it?'

Seb's hand involuntarily went to his pocket and grasped the three dice he had taken from the child snatcher after he'd been attacked by him. As he had suspected, two of the dice were weighted to always land on a six. He'd taken them from his unconscious attacker as a trophy of sorts. Then his hand raised to the necklace about his neck and he afforded the nervous man a nod of the head.

'Aye,' continued the nervous man. 'Only that bastard met his end. But why did you come back in here? They won't allow you to leave alive, you know. He was one of their own. They've got men at each door, waiting for you. Now they've got you here they're happy for you to get drunk, make it all the easier for them. And as chance would have it, there's even a bounty hunter. If he should catch wind of what's going on – which he will of course, if he hasn't already – even if you somehow fight off everyone in this tavern, you won't get past the bounty hunter! It grieves me to say, but you're a dead man walking, my friend. Well anyhow, for what it's worth, outlander, I thank you for what you did last night.'

'Yes,' replied Seb, 'but you won't do anything about it. Just like you didn't try to help your friend Roland last night when he lost his daughter.'

Seb finished his ale and slammed the mug on the bar, leaving the nervous man speechless, head still bobbing, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Seb headed towards the large bruiser built like a tree trunk, stood feet planted yards apart, towering above his smaller companion.

'Where do you think you're going?' prompted the large bruiser.

'Can't a man take a piss at his leisure?' said Seb.

'You ain't going nowhere, murderer.'

'It was his own doing. He tried to steal my necklace then ran into a wall. Now stand aside. I have no desire to cause you harm.'

For a moment the bruiser looked less certain of himself. Then his face set and he said, 'Spoken like a killer. There's no room in Winderbrook for the likes of you. You're a murderer and will suffer for your crime. Ernie was a good man who brought us wealth and fortune.'

'A good man? He took pleasure in taking honest folks' young daughters from them. If that's a good man, I'd hate to meet a bad one.'

The large bruiser took a long time thinking of his next remark. He wasn't exactly the brightest of the bunch. Just the biggest. Eventually, he retorted, 'You're a bad man.'

'Not a bad come back,' said Seb. 'But you're not the sharpest tool in the box, are you?'

Seb saw that he would get nowhere with the brute and didn't bother waiting for another of his slow answers. Seb had numbers against him and needed to attain the front foot. Especially as the other bruisers guarding the front were now making their way over. Thankfully, the Silor-Thenn bounty hunter remained seated at his table – for now.

An old man was sat just within reach, drinking ale from a mug. Seb scooped it up and rammed it into the large bruiser's face.

The smaller bruiser reacted quicker than Seb expected, and took a swing for him, but Seb still managed to sway from the punch and butted him squarely on the side of the head. The smaller bruiser dropped to the rushes, out cold.

Seb turned in time to dodge from a dagger that cut the air instead of his neck. Instinctively his hand reached to the base of his back and grasped the haft of the double-headed battleaxe hanging from a baldric.

No, if I draw it, I'll kill them.

The dagger came at his gut. He sprang back and tripped on another's outstretched foot. The axe dug into his back as he hit the floor, but he paid it no mind. His blood was up, and the rage was upon him. I mustn't draw it. I'll kill them.

\- But you must stay alive. For Rose and for Rayne. To die now, at the hands of such as these, would be a tragedy. And now the Silor-Thenn comes.

He rolled, swept up a stool and broke it across the daggerman's skull. There was every chance the blow could prove to be fatal, but had it been Seb's axe instead of the stool, there would have been no doubt. At least this way there was a chance the daggerman might live, thought Seb.

The one who'd tripped him grabbed a stool also and now swung it at his head. At full momentum it could certainly break his skull. But stepping backward away from it held the risk of being tripped again. So Seb stepped towards the attack, inside the man's reach, where no momentum could build at all, and dealt him a solid elbow to the jaw. He heard a crack and felt the crunch of bone and the man went down without another sound.

He had to get out of there, and fast.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the Silor-Thenn was nocking an arrow to his bow. People were crowding out of his way in panic.

The large bruiser came at him again. Seb darted forward and butted his already bleeding nose and felt the bone and gristle give way as it broke. An arrow sped through the air as Seb ducked behind the bruiser just in time to avoid being struck between the shoulder blades.

Then a throwing knife buzzed past his ear from the other direction. From outside. It struck the Silor-Thenn bounty hunter square in the throat. Seb glanced outside and was amazed to find not a single man. There was no one, that is, but the old hag, vaulting into the saddle of a chestnut mare.

'We do not have all day,' she admonished. 'Are you going to climb up or not?'

He dashed outside and vaulted up behind the old hag and the mare lurched into a gallop.

The large bruiser lumbered through the back door and screamed at him whilst pinching his broken nose, 'You're a murderer! I'll have the sketcher in the next city draw your portrait! I'll have it pinned all around Winderbrook and the surrounding area!'

But neither he nor the other villagers looked like they were going to pursue them, and Seb hadn't expected them to. Not with the Silor-Thenn bounty hunter dead. By the time they'd readied their mounts – none of which would have been as swift, nor as fine a breed as Hag's mare – Seb would have been long gone.

He clung to Hag as they sped into the woodland. He marvelled at the old crone's dexterity, surprised at how fast she sped along on the chestnut mare as she gave it its head.

After some time, they stopped by a stream and she allowed the horse a moment to drink the fresh water. Then she tethered it to a nearby tree and rubbed it down with a fistful of straw. Seb stoked a fire to fend off the chill of the grey and oppressive autumn weather. Brown leaves scudded across the earth. Clouds intercepted the sun, cutting off any rays of warmth, and he shivered despite the glow of the growing fire.

'I never got your name,' he said.

'It's Matilda.'

'And to what do I owe the honour of your rescue?'

Matilda gave him a cold, appraising stare. From a satchel attached to the horse's saddle she withdrew an item and made her way over to the fire with a serene gait. She sat cross-legged, leaned forward and threw a powdery substance over the flames, turning them first blue, then emerald green. Seb sat stupefied and could only watch engrossed as the old hag stared maniacally into the flames. She began to hum a song that mothers sang to their children.

Cold seeped into his bones. Shadows loomed and grew deeper. He realised that Hag had stopped humming some time since, then gripped the haft of his axe as she began to chant in a whisper:

The Prophecy true shall ring,

When the cruel and lascivious king,

Throne not yet warm, lands already torn,

Shall meet with the Scorpion's sting.

Civil war on the horizon doth loom,

Creatures of death come, bringing doom,

From the bowels they'll rise: the dark shining eyes,

With death shall Ehronin be consumed.

A mere brave few will stand at the wall,

But should the City of the North ultimately fall,

A new age shall unfold, never before told,

Only with death can immortality await us all.

The Outlaw, the Wolf, the Cast Out Man, is key,

Along with the Axe and the girl, they are the Three,

With a people to unite they must first take flight,

But never shall the Cast Out Man be free.

In the end the dice will roll,

And one of the Three must fall,

Who that shall be depends on he that is key,

The decision is his, after all.

'Thus hath the prophecy been spoken. But time is of the essence,' she added.

'Prophecy?' he scoffed. 'What mushrooms have you been eating?'

'The prophecy is not definite but has three potential outcomes.'

'Which cover all possibilities, I'm sure. Your great skills overwhelm me,' he said with no small amount of sarcasm.

'The first outcome is perhaps the best as far as you are concerned. The second outcome is not so good. Although both hold great sacrifice in store for you.'

'And the third?' he found himself asking.

'The third outcome,' she mused as she looked off into the distance, and it seemed to Seb that she faced some inner battle. 'You really do not want to know.'

He rolled his eyes at her cryptic ramblings.

'But you must leave now,' urged Hag, 'and head east towards the Golden City with your companions – the Axe and the girl. In the end, whichever of the three possibilities comes to pass, one of you must make the ultimate sacrifice. One of you must die. The decision lies with you, Seb, who that shall be.'

'I have no intention of heading to Laerdes. Not to mention that I don't have a clue who the Axe is. Furthermore, the king of Ehronin is a noble and fair king who has ruled in relative peace for years. And who is this outlaw? Why would I want to die for something that I know nothing of?'

'You yourself are the Outlaw, Seb. There is an evil within you – even back at the inn you yearned to take the lives of every one of those bruisers, did you not?'

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Could Hag see into his very soul and read what lay there? How could she know that he had battled against the bitter anger within him, determined not to give in to his own lust to spill the villagers' blood?

'See, you do not deny it,' she spat with anger-fuelled disdain. Then she continued: 'You will face the most gruelling and arduous of tests. But you must set out on foot now, with just your axe, your backpack, and the clothes on your back. By the time you arrive at the Gates of the Golden City you will be renowned as a great and accomplished champion of the sword and will have powerful allies.'

'I am no outlaw.'

'Of course you are. Why else would the villagers seek to hang you at the gallows?'

'This is ridiculous. It is true that I can wield a sword, but last tourney my sword broke and I will never find the coin to replace it. And allies against what? I have no allies. Nor have I enemies. Why am I even explaining myself to you? Now, I'm going to head south, away from the Golden City. Farewell, Matilda.'

Seb stalked southward without a second look back at Hag, who must be high on Raken-only-knows-what. For this must be a grand jest from Raken, the god of games, playing a twisted, almighty joke on his pitiful excuse for an existence. He had suffered greatly at the hands of the gods only one year since. Why would he want to make another great sacrifice?

He wanted naught more to do with the world of man.

''Ware the bandits,' the witch called after him. 'Some passed nearby not long since. You'd be better steering clear of them.'

Seb ignored her. If he came across bandits, he wouldn't avoid them.

But why had Hag told him he would need to choose who died between himself and two others he had yet to meet? It made him want no part of her prophecy. A renowned, great and accomplished champion of the sword with powerful allies. And that with just an axe, stupid lunatic! he thought.

But he knew what he was capable of, and it scared him.

CHAPTER TWO

ACCUSATION

Amarinthine made her way back to the castle through the bustling streets and past the many stalls. When the wind stilled, the air was sweet with the pungent smell of perfume from the fragrance stalls in this wealthier part of town, which she was about to leave behind, but it had been nice to take a stroll through the affluent quarter for a change. She cradled an expensive bottle of perfume on request of the earl himself. Earl Vlar Llundenberg had stopped her in the castle corridors, interrupting her normal duties as maidservant to make the strange request. And of course, she had set out at once.

It was the first time she'd ever got the chance to get out of the castle proper whilst on duty as a maidservant and she had taken the opportunity to detour slightly through the Poor Quarter to say a quick hello to her brother and father at home. Her mother had not been in; she was likely round at somebody else's home with her herbs and ointments, pretending that it was the herbs and ointments that did the healing rather than her Ability – word could not be allowed to spread that Mother had an Ability, else she would be branded a witch, for which the punishment in Nydar was death by the wheel. Her brother, Puce, would already have finished picking berries for the day. She had wanted to share the exciting news with him that the earl himself had sent her on an errand.

But she had not got the chance to. Father was a master carpenter and had finished his most recent job yesterday. He could not commence work on his next project until the morrow, so he too was at home. He held a broken chair leg up to Amarinthine's brother and was explaining about knots in the wood. Even though Puce was too young to begin an apprenticeship, Father wanted to make certain that his son got a head start in life.

'It is important in carpentry to pay close attention to detail,' he was saying to Puce. Then, upon seeing Amarinthine, said, 'What are you doing home?'

'I've been sent on an errand to the Merchants' Quarter and dropped by to say hello,' she said. She was getting ready to deliver the news that she had been sent by none other than the earl himself and hoped that Father would be proud, and her brother impressed.

Instead Father snapped, 'Well, get out and do your errand! You've no time to be coming home. I'll not have anyone saying we have shirkers in this house!'

Amarinthine was upset and disappointed but had learned that it did no good to argue with Father, especially when he was trying to teach Puce something he considered important, so she had left her brother to his tutelage. But not before a quick shout to her father that he should stick the chair leg somewhere the sun doesn't shine. She was hurt but had grown used to the feeling; her father always had favoured Puce. She still loved her brother, of course. It wasn't his fault that Father showed such favouritism.

Crossing the city square, she averted her eyes rather than look upon the grisly corpses of a family of three on display side by side, each upon a wheel, limbs bent out of shape. Sadly, it was a sight that she and everyone else in Nydar was accustomed to. Like as not, they had been sentenced to death because the child, or perhaps one of the parents, had committed the crime of possessing an Ability, with the rest of the family being executed alongside them for seeking to defy the city watch in their arrest. They would then have each been bound to a wheel before having the bones in their limbs systematically riven and splintered and crushed with a cudgel. With a little luck, such victims died the same day. If not, it could take perhaps three or four days before death eventually took them. One man had been known to survive for a whole week afterwards. It was presumed that he had used his Ability to remain alive, but one thing was for certain: he hadn't survived any longer than that. The ensuing hanging, drawing and quartering made certain of it – after which his remaining body parts had been set afire for good measure.

Clear of the corpses, Amarinthine now passed food stalls, cobblers, tinkers, and various others plying their trade. Forcing herself to return a genuine smile from a passing fuller, she wondered why the earl had sent her to obtain this fragrance – her duties were within the castle itself and there were other servants who ventured into the Merchants' Quarter on a daily basis. It was probably just that she happened to be at hand, and the busy earl no doubt needed a gift for an important guest, or a lady friend he was to meet later tonight perhaps. She shrugged to herself as she approached the drawbridge.

Although it was too cloudy to allow the warmth of the sun to shine through, she had been glad to get out into the fresh air. She enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city: the haggling, the chatter, the laughter. It was all still a wonder to her at the tender age of fourteen winters. And she loved being outside in the sun, even if it wasn't warm. At least the castle now shielded her from the blustery weather, she thought, noting the way the castle's banners snapped in the wind.

She crossed the drawbridge, passed under the stone archway and felt the usual breeze as the air was sucked through the entrance. She had felt fully invigorated during her trip to the Merchants' Quarter and was slightly disheartened to be back already. Nevertheless, she made swiftly towards the earl's apartments.

Marching down the passage that led there she began running through the breathing exercises her mother had taught her as a child to alleviate anxiety, stress or anger. Mother had persistently tried to teach her healing magic but Amarinthine had never been able to grasp it, not seeming to have the Ability like Mother did. She did find, however, that the breathing process required still helped her with many things in life. Despite herself, she found that her nerves rose at the prospect of coming face to face with the earl again.

When he had asked her to go out and purchase the perfume it was only the second time that he had spoken to her. The first was when she had waited on him in the great hall, when, after having quickly appraised her, he had complimented her on her services. She had blushed, pleased that she had managed not to spill her lord's platter down his front at what had been her first endeavour at waiting table – the task usually fell solely to the pages. He must have realised that it had been her first time and wanted to make her feel at ease within his employ, she thought.

The door to the earl's apartments lay open.

'My lord,' she called softly from the doorway.

'Aha, there you are. Come,' Earl Vlar Llundenberg entreated her, studying her smooth, pale skin and red hair as she entered. He himself had black hair and sported a curling black moustachio.

'Shall I leave it on the side, my lord?'

'No, no. Close the door. Good, come here, child.'

Amarinthine hesitated, not understanding why but growing slightly uneasy. 'My lord,' she said again as she proffered the fragrance.

'A small girl like you must be jaded after a sojourn to the Merchants' Quarter. Would you care for refreshment? Wine perhaps?' he said as he made his way gracefully to a cabinet. He retrieved a bottle of Ar'enthian Red and poured two goblets.

'I, ah, my lord, I am forbidden to drink whilst on duty.'

'Nonsense! I am the earl, and I make the rules. I will even water it down for you. I can see that you need the rest. Relax and take a drink with me.' He smiled as he passed her a goblet before taking a large gulp of the wine himself, spilling some down the expensive white lace at his front. He paid it no heed. Nor did he bother to water down her wine.

Amarinthine sniffed at it before taking a small sip. Being only fourteen winters old, she had not yet acquired the taste for it. Nor could she or her family afford for her to drink it, even though one could purchase the stuff sold in most taverns rather cheaply.

'My lord,' came an unexpected voice from the doorway behind her. 'My apologies for the intrusion, but there is a pressing matter. A woman is about to lose her family-run farm because she has been unable to pay the increase in your taxes these last few months after her husband died in your service. But her son is in your army too, serving extended duties at the Borders. He has the coin to pay her debts.'

Earl Vlar Llundenberg gave his latest visitor a cold and frosty stare. 'You dare intrude my bedchamber without invitation?'

'But, my lord, bailiffs are about to kick her and her daughters out of their home. I thought... If we could wait but a week for her son to return –'

'Enough! Can you not take a hint, man? I care not a whit about the bloody woman. If she cannot afford to pay on time the tax I have levied then she must forfeit her endowments – do not dare speak another word–' the earl silenced the man before he could explain further, 'now turn about, seek out Cannick, and tell him you're to be given ten lashes by whosoever is on duty as punishment for your insolence.'

'Yes, my lord,' the downcast man said, turning as ordered, and headed off to arrange his own lashing.

Hands shaking, Earl Vlar Llundenberg put down his empty goblet and took the glass phial of perfume and unstoppered it. He poured some of the contents into the palm of his hand. Gently rubbing his palms together, he bade Amarinthine approach. It felt as though her legs carried her towards him by themselves.

Once she was close enough he applied the perfume to her neck, placing his hands ominously about her throat.

She froze.

He took from her her still-full goblet of wine, placed it down, then applied more of the perfume to his hands. What he did next shocked her to the core.

He slid his hands up her dress, all the way up to her small and immature breasts. Her whole body went rigid with terror. She had never worn such perfume before – being of a far finer quality than the average stuff sold to the common folk, it was a costly novelty beyond her family's means – but she was sure that it was not meant to be worn on the breasts, and especially not meant to be applied by a man. The earl was attempting to seduce her, likely ready to rape her!

The gravity of this realisation dazed her momentarily. She did not often attract attention from the opposite sex, being of a strong, fairly large frame for a girl, and flat-chested. She gathered her wits. This was the earl, not just someone she could have beaten up by her father should she run to him and tell him. If she refused Earl Vlar Llundenberg, he could have her banished from his earldom – could have her family banished too. He could have her placed in the stocks, or locked in the dungeon. He could even have her killed. He could do as he pleased! And he was most certainly not renowned for his kindness. Some of the servants whispered that he was a mean-spirited brute. Now she knew the truth of those whispers.

As the earl groped her, she felt a hot flush rise from the pit of her stomach, racing through her chest, face and arms. Her fingers pulsed and throbbed and panic consumed her. She could simply give in to the earl. But then what else would he later have her do? Perhaps she could act disinterested and devoid of emotion, maybe then it would all be over quickly. Maybe then he would never again lust after her. The earl flung her on to the bed, pulled down his trousers, lay atop of her and resumed his groping.

Sickened, Amarinthine decided on a course of action. Forget what Father would think. Forget how her future may be affected. She would throw off the hands of the earl and tell him to never again dare touch her, and to hell with whatever he threatened her with. She would rather die than be abused by this monster.

His hand snaked down to her groin.

Amarinthine felt humiliated. But hatred roiled within her, surmounting her humiliation, and she snapped. She did not remember hitting the earl, only that he pulled away in pain and cursed angrily. She remembered that he had called out to his guards and of a sudden found herself racing along the antechambers in desperation, Earl Vlar Llundenberg's enraged shouts pursuing her down the corridors.

One word above all carried to her ears.

Witch.

***

'She tried to bewitch me!' He heard his earl scream. 'I want her strapped to the wheel!'

'You heard the earl!' General Cannick commanded. He was Champion of the King, having won the Biannual Games, and also had the privilege of commanding Nydar's own army – the largest in the whole of Ehronin, even larger than King Oaken's. 'Do not let that witch escape! Alert all castle guards. She escapes, and I'll have your heads.' Cannick took pursuit of the renegade to make certain that his guards did not bungle this opportunity to capture a witch.

As he passed a high arched window that afforded a good vantage point of the courtyard to the rear, he spotted a figure garbed in grey with long red hair flowing behind her. She headed towards the disused stables.

'To the old stables!' he ordered. 'Circle the barn and block off all escape routes. Now we have her trapped.'

He slowed to a walk as his guards raced ahead to surround the building. He told them to wait. He would be the one to apprehend her.

General Cannick strolled up to the doors of the old stables where two of the guards waited eagerly to enter – another two were at the back.

His scarred face held a look of grim satisfaction as he entered, confident he had cornered his quarry. His cold blue eyes searched every nook and cranny inside, but the girl was not to be found.

'WHERE IS SHE!' he yelled.

***

'What have you done?' came the greeting from her father.

She had taken a gamble running into the old disused stables through the front and then straight out again through the back. At full sprint she had made a left and jumped through a window to exit the castle grounds, and then down the riverbank behind. Splashing knee-deep in the river she'd plunged on across to the other side, dodged behind a large elm and ran for all her life was worth. And she'd made it home.

'Where's Mother?' she cried.

'Not yet returned. What have you done?' he repeated.

'The earl tried to rape me!'

'And what did you do?' he asked.

'What?' She was confused; Father didn't seem to understand what she was telling him. 'He tried to rape me,' she repeated.

'I know that, you told me already. So did you let him?'

'No!'

'Oh, you foolish girl, do you realise what you have done?'

'I've done nothing,' she sobbed. 'The earl lied and called me a witch and now the guards are chasing me! Help me, Father!'

'Get out! Get out of here now! I'll not have the City Guard think I'm party to your witchcraft. Get out and never come back!'

'But Father, I'm not a witch!' She thought he must have misheard her. 'The earl tried to rape me and when I refused he shouted for the guard and called me a witch. I had to run.'

'You should have lain with him and considered yourself privileged. Think yourself lucky now that I'm not handing you over to the City Guard myself!'

'But they'll have me killed! They'll strap me to the wheel!'

'Go. You must needs leave the city.'

'But, what about Mother...'

'GO!' he shouted. 'Never come back, or I swear, I'll hand you over to the earl!'

Her body wracked with sobs as she turned to go.

She paid no heed to where she headed, for there was nowhere for her to go to. She would be unable even to leave the city, she thought, for she had no signed papers and was not a merchant. Nor could she pay the gate toll to pass through any of Nydar's gates.

***

'Are you okay?' came the concerned voice of a merchant as he overtook her in his wagon. It was being towed along by a white mule. She was sat by a birch, gazing blankly down the road with red-rimmed eyes. The white mule nickered as the wagon stopped with a jolt.

'I'm fine. Or I will be once I get out of this godsforsaken city,' she replied.

'Here, there's room enough for you in my wagon. I'm heading to the next town, then onward from there west. There's evil creatures in those parts nowadays, but I can lead us where they do not stray. I'm heading through the mountains, but know of a way we can get through, with Bess here' – he referred to the white mule and patted her for emphasis – 'if you care to join us.'

Before she knew it she was sat beside the reassuring merchant being rhythmically bumped about in the front of the wagon, knowing not even where she was going or whom she was with. In fact, she found that she did not even care.

Over the next two months she grew to know the merchant and his white mule well. Somehow, they encountered neither sight nor sound of either kreresh or terra tsal – both fearsome predators of the wild that the merchant informed her had recently bloated in numbers, much to her alarm. But despite the knowledge of this, whilst in his presence Amarinthine felt safe and at ease with this kindly stranger, who in fact was no longer a stranger to her after the last few weeks they had spent together.

Safe and at ease.

Until the bandits came.

CHAPTER THREE

BANDITS

Following the stream south Seb strode against the wind, thoughts of Hag and her prophecy troubling him. The villagers had wanted him hanged, and the Silor-Thenn would have been more than happy to provide the rope and tie the noose for them if there was any coin to be made. So why had Hag helped him? Did she truly believe that prophecy of hers? He cursed under his breath and told himself again that he wanted naught more to do with the world of man.

He planned to build a hut where he would live alone, somewhere deep in some quiet woods to the south. To escape his past. But he could not help recalling the past however much he tried. It was like a living nightmare sent by the gods to torture him for ever more, mocking him in his inability to bring about the justice needed.

He remembered it like it was yesterday. And he would remember it thus for ever more. It had been a cold day. He'd briefly kissed his wife, Rose, that morning before turning to give their daughter a big hug and a bundle of kisses.

'Love you,' she had said.

'Love you, my little baby girl,' Seb told her.

'I'm not a baby!' she complained, rubbing her tired eyes. She had been four winters old.

'Rayne, my little ray of sunshine, you'll always be my baby girl.'

Then he set off for the tourney, the sun having just risen. He had to run all the way there – all five leagues of it – to make it in time. Trying to conserve his energy, he made it in under two hours but would have been swifter had he not had to carry his sword.

Tired and hungry he nonetheless defeated his first two opponents, tapping their chests with his blade to prove that he could have slain them had he so wished. With his third opponent he met his match.

Parrying and feinting, advancing and retreating, he and his opponent entertained the crowd longer than all others had, until he was tripped by a spectator. Then, blocking his opponent's almighty overhead swing that would have cloven him in two, his old sword had broken.

The match was at an end. Despite losing he still received coin, but, having left soldiering in order to turn to farming and a quiet family life, he knew he would never again be able to afford another sword.

Shaking his head, Seb snapped himself from out of his lucid memory, back into the present.

Wending his way between a birch, an elm and a redberry bush, he spotted movement ahead. Just beyond the edge of the wood was a group of nine men, presumably sell swords, protecting a merchant's consignment from the look of it. Just then the wagon tilted drastically to one side, causing its fat driver to fall and strike his head on a rock.

The one who must have been the leader of the group barked a laugh at the fat driver's expense, whose blood seeped into the earth from his head wound. As Seb backed deeper into foliage, the leader struck the driver across the back, calling him a stupid lout.

Seb watched as four others of the gang carried the driver into the back of the wagon and tried to get him to drink some water as another took up the reins of the mule. The wagon set off again, gently rocking back into the ruts.

'Not sure I can wait till we get to Garst before I take a whore,' said the leader of the group to one of his lackeys. 'Need a release from all this stress, working with such dolts! Let me know if you spot any females. Doesn't matter about the age.'

Seb studied the lackey's reaction to his leader's comment and watched as the man simply nodded, as though the request were perfectly reasonable. Seb felt a knot tighten in his gut and clenched his fists in anger.

Bandits. The witch had warned him about them.

He decided to follow.

***

So far it had been a long day for Bantas. He and the others had risen early, far too early for his liking, just as he had the previous day too – or at least it had been early for him. He had just bought himself breakfast from his favourite pie stall in the marketplace when he'd first met up with this degenerate crew. Munching happily on his ox pie, gravy trickling through his stubble to drip from chin to jerkin, he wasn't so sure he liked the look of who were now be his new companions. They had been hired to protect a rich merchant's consignment, and from what little he had seen of the rich merchant, Ver'bane, he had taken an instant disliking to the man – he didn't know why; he didn't like to ponder on such things. As a rule of thumb the big man didn't mind who hired him so long as he earned coin – and so long as there was no rape or murder involved. He didn't mind cutting down enemies with weapon in hand on a fair and even standing, but murder and rape did not sit well with him. So when offered the job of protecting the consignment on its journey to Garst – three days' journey away – he'd made sure to ask what would be involved. The rich merchant's right-hand man, Izlim, had advised he was merely to guard a wagon to Garst and back. Happy with the answer, and in need of coin, he agreed to this simple assignment. He was always glad to find a job which should prove to be easier than his last.

'Finally, His bleeding Lordship has deemed it time to turn up!' came the sarcastic greeting from Izlim, who was personally responsible for the delivery the important cargo.

'I stopped off for a pie from my favourite stall,' explained Bantas, brushing juice from chin and jerkin.

Izlim glowered at him with so much animosity that Bantas was taken aback, and as he answered spittle flew everywhere, most unlike their first meeting when the man had been calm and reassured. 'Oh, well, fiery bloody pits, that's okay then! My apologies, Lord Pieman, perhaps one would like also a glass of vintage Ar'enthian Red before we embark?' Izlim referred to the expensive red wine for which the town of Ar'enth was renowned.

Bantas peered balefully at the short, hook-nosed leader.

The other seven hired guards, some previous mercenaries like Bantas, others just general bruisers, had chuckled at Izlim's outburst, but restrained themselves from laughing too hard lest they too provoke Izlim's malice. Then the motley crew had hitched their wagon to the mule and set forth.

'Never mind him,' placated the youngest of the gang, a slim lad with blond hair. 'He's always tetchy. You'll get used to him. My name is Aldo.'

Bantas took the hand offered in greeting but thought to himself even then that this might be a long and frustrating journey; he had sensed that Izlim was the type to take great pleasure from bullying others.

Now, on the second day of their journey, Bantas' suspicions on the cruelty of Izlim proved correct when poor Namal – the wagon driver – cracked his head open on a rock. Bantas glanced back at the blood seeping into the earth and shook his head silently. As he did so, he glimpsed a man, maybe six feet tall, maybe a little over, with dark red hair. But that was all he could glean before the man melted back into the trees and foliage. Usually he would advise his seniors of what he saw, but right then he wanted nothing to do with Izlim, and even if he did tell him, Lorgh only knew what the vile character might do to the likely innocent bystander.

Izlim had laughed heartily at Namal upon seeing the fat driver fall and injure himself. Just what kind of a man was he to assume such an expression of pleasure from the driver's possibly life-threatening injury? He had even punched Namal in the back for his apparent stupidity. Bantas had known men die from head wounds seemingly less serious than Namal's, and worried for his health.

The slim lad with blond hair, Aldo – the only one of the wagon guards whom Bantas thought of as actually having any sense of morality – made certain that the injured Namal drank plenty of water and urged him to eat as much as he could in his nauseated state.

After some time, Bantas strode over to the wagon to check on him.

'How are you feeling?' he enquired.

'Awful. Feel sick,' said Namal.

'How many fingers am I holding up?'

Namal squinted at him in concentration. 'How many hands are you holding up?'

'Shine! You're in a bad way,' he said.

'I know,' replied Aldo. He was the only one of them Bantas counted as a friend. 'He's turned all sorts of shades of green since he banged his skull.'

'Somebody make this damn wagon stop spinning, will you,' moaned Namal.

'Izlim, sir!' shouted Bantas. 'I think we might have to stop and make camp till Namal here recovers. All this jolting around is doing him no good and he's in a bad way.'

'Oh, Lord Pieman has spoken, has he? Well we're not stopping, you slovenly bastard!'

'But I've seen men take lighter blows to the head than he and still die, sir. He needs to stop and rest.'

'Stop and rest, eh? Bet that's just what you'd love to do, you lazy good-for-nothing! Well, we're not stopping. Ver'bane needs his cargo delivered with all possible haste – and safely! Stopping for that fat, stupid git will be against Ver'bane's orders. And will increase our chances of meeting with bandits, or worse. Not safe. No, we're not stopping. It's his own fault for falling off the wagon, the dozy bugger!'

'But he might not survive!'

'All's well and good! That'll mean more pay for the rest of us. Having to carry that fat bastard to Garst, we'll deserve it.'

'It wasn't his fault, Izlim. The wagon all but tipped completely, I saw it. Anyone could have fallen and smashed their head.'

'That's enough, Bantas! I've already said we're not stopping. Any more from you, you scruffy bastard, and I'll crack your head open on a god damn rock!'

'On your head be it, Izlim.'

'I'll have your head on a spike if you don't shut up!'

At this, Bantas stopped and hefted his old, worn axe. He said nothing; his body language shouted out in challenge loud enough. He could tolerate only so much from this cruel and narrow-minded man before he reached boiling point and his lid blew off – and he thought that moment was now.

But the bully ignored him and stalked away as if he had won the argument, leaving Bantas in a cloud of rage.

***

On the third day, with the sun at its zenith, a chilly wind buffeted the gang as they emerged from the wood.

Izlim stopped without warning and squinted east. He spotted another wagon in the distance at the edge of the forest, presumably a merchant transporting his wares. With an unsettling hunger in his eye Izlim set off at a run towards it and bade his party follow. They even left their own wagon behind for the time being, with Namal in the back of it. As an afterthought Izlim ordered somebody to remain and protect it during their absence.

'Looks like we're in luck!' said Izlim, sneering as he ran. 'We've found ourselves some unexpected bounty, and a whore to boot!'

Bantas found himself hating Izlim immensely and wished he had not agreed to this distasteful expedition. He could see the faces of those riding the descried wagon being pulled along by a white mule. Izlim wanted to rob them of their wares and throw rape into the mix while he was at it.

***

Seb watched as they set off close on the heels of their hook-nosed leader. They had left their wagon behind with the injured driver still in the back, and Hook-nose talked of rape.

Then he looked ahead, to where the bandits were headed – they were dashing towards what was likely a merchant transporting his goods.

As he raced past the bandit's own wagon, sparing a glance at the sleeping man sprawled in the back, of a sudden another stepped out in front of him, and something heavy struck the side of his head.

Just before blacking out, even as he fell to the earth, Seb grimaced in disgust at Hook-nose's intention, and his thoughts turned towards those in the other wagon.

There was only one man. And a red-headed girl, not yet in her womanhood.

CHAPTER FOUR

MURDER

The kindly merchant spotted the gang approaching from the west and cursed his luck. He tried not to allow his fear to show, for he did not wish to upset the young girl, Amarinthine – a beautiful name, he thought. He had tricks to avoid kreresh and terra tsal, but there was nothing he could do, however, where humans were involved.

The bandits descended upon them.

'Hello there!' he greeted. 'How goes it?'

'Well hello, merchantman,' came the all-too-merry reply from a short, hook-nosed man who appeared to be the leader. 'What wares do you carry?'

'I don't have much, I'm afraid,' replied the merchant, spreading his arms to indicate that his wagon was far from being full.

'I can see for myself that you do not have much! I asked what wares you carry.'

The merchant stared at the short hook-nosed man. Then his gaze came to rest on the other members of the gang. One of them, a big man with an old, worn axe, shifted his gaze from right to left and seemed uncomfortable with the transgressions about to occur.

'I have candles,' said the merchant, 'for the church of the Maker.' He referred to the god, Lorgh.

'Candles, eh? We could do with some of those, couldn't we, lads?'

'It's a silver for five,' he stated.

'That's a shame, I don't have no silvers to spare. Tell you what, how's about you just give them to me, and in return me and the boys will give the girl a good time. She looks a fun-loving whore.' The swine leered lustily at Amarinthine even as he stepped forward to have a rummage in the merchant's wagon.

'Take what you will from the wagon. But nobody touches the girl,' said the merchant as he drew Amarinthine towards him and took a few steps back.

'Oh no, it would be rude of me not to repay you for your wares. As I said, in return we'll give her a good time. Now give her to me!'

'I said nobody touches the girl.' The merchant drew his dagger and moved to stand in their way.

'Just leave the girl be, Izlim,' intercepted the big axeman. 'You heard the man. He has even offered you his candles. There's no need for trouble.'

But the hook-nosed man just sneered as he put his arm around a young lad with blond hair. 'That what you think?' the hook-nosed man replied to the axeman. Then he said to the young blond lad in a maliciously hushed tone before shoving him forward, 'Aldo, put the merchant out of his misery. Now.'

Stubbornly the merchant stood his ground in front of the girl, one arm held out behind him as if to protect her. But Aldo's sword flashed out before the merchant could react. Bewildered, he put his hand to his chest, and it came away covered in blood. He had not expected that it would come to this. Had he been on his own the bandits would have been satisfied with taking his wares and his wagon, but because he had tried to help Amarinthine, therein lay the problem: the bandits also wanted to rape the girl. The merchant had a daughter of his own and could not allow for that to happen.

But the merchant could only watch as his dagger slipped through his unresponsive fingers. Feeling dizzy, he spread his arms, still standing, still shielding Amarinthine from Aldo's sword.

'Run!' he coughed, as the blond lad punctured his chest a second time.

***

Seb awoke on his back, head turned to one side, staring groggily at a mulberry tree.

First, he ran through an inventory: he still had his dagger; his backpack was still full and in place upon his back; also on his back was his axe within its baldric, digging into him; and the necklace was still in place about his neck. Lifting his head gingerly, he saw that his attacker had moved to check on the fat driver in the back of the wagon. He noted that the bandit carried a club, which was what his head must have met with. He realised that he had lost consciousness only momentarily and was mightily relieved for that fact. He rolled and fought off a wave of nauseousness even as he crawled around the other side of the mulberry tree. He sat against the bole and tried to make his head stop spinning by force of will.

'What the...?' he heard the bandit say, followed by a cautious tread of foot.

So, the dimwit is approaching, thought Seb. He made himself stand and had to lean against the mulberry tree as a fresh wave of wooziness hit him. He waited until he heard something brush against one of the many low-hanging branches, and as soon as he thought the bandit must be right on top of him, lurched round the trunk and fell into the surprised man. Seb's dagger took him in the heart. They fell to the earth together, and Seb had to fight to retain consciousness.

Rising to unsteady feet, feeling like he was about to pass out again at any moment, he retreated back the way he had come, into the shelter of the forest. He needed time to recover. Time that the likely innocent merchant did not have.

***

Bantas found himself transfixed and unable to move for an instant. He could not believe that Aldo, his only friend in the group, could murder the innocent merchant so readily and without mercy. He thought that Izlim would toy with the merchant and simply rob him of his wares, not have Aldo kill him. The merchant seemed like a sensible fellow and Bantas did not think there was any need for it to end in bloodshed, though he had been ready to step forward to protect the girl if it came to that. But the initial shock of Aldo's actions left his legs weighted down as if by a mountain of granite.

Knowing already that the man would die, Bantas watched, as if in somebody else's body, as the merchant took a second sword thrust to the chest, yet somehow kept his feet.

But the merchant's legs were unable to support him indefinitely and he eventually dropped to the ground, holding his wounds to staunch the flow of his lifeblood. Izlim stepped around the man and grabbed the young girl. The hook-nosed leader dragged her close and licked her nose and cheek.

Of a sudden Bantas was released from his transfixion and he sprang forward. He hammered Izlim on the temple, knocking the man to the ground.

'Nobody touches the girl!' he boomed.

The gang members seemed uncertain as to what to do and looked to their dazed leader for guidance. Izlim screamed at them, 'Kill the bastard!' Bantas was surprised that the man was still conscious – he mustn't have landed his punch as well as he aught.

Five of them, not including Aldo, stepped forward with weapon in hand to face Bantas. The first to attack him swung a mace in a clumsy arc towards his head, but he ducked this and, rising upward with axe in hand, cleft a hole in the man's abdomen. Glistening red, snake-like entrails uncoiled and slithered to the ground.

The second attack came immediately after the first in the form of a wood axe swinging towards his side. Bantas reversed his battleaxe and swung it downward to meet the attack with terrible strength. His axe crashed into the other's with a clang, sending his opponent's weapon from his grip. Bantas followed up with a headbutt, sending the suddenly unarmed man sprawling.

The ease with which he dealt with these two gave pause for thought for the others.

Axe in one arm, girl in the other, he backed away into the trees until they were out of sight. Then he made the girl run with him deeper into the wood, weaving his path as he went, covering their tracks where he could, knowing they would be followed.

Eventually though, the girl collapsed and Bantas was forced to carry her.

He knew that even if he lost Izlim and his gang, once Izlim made it to Garst the rat would no doubt waste no time in arranging payment from Ver'bane for the distribution of sketchers' portraits of he and the girl. It would not be safe for them to enter any nearby towns or cities.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move in the gloom. He swung his head to stare directly at it, but as he did so it seemed to melt into the background.

All was still. He made his way quietly to where whatever-it-was had been. But nothing was to be seen.

Soon after, exhausted, yet conscious that he needed to reserve his strength, Bantas lowered the girl gently to the grass and made ready to settle in for the night.

***

Following the scent of blood, the two night creatures chanced across the two fleeing humans. Only one of the humans seemed to have the use of its legs, but nevertheless, the creatures followed cautiously, keeping in shadow, until darkness descended and the two humans stopped to rest for the night. The two kreresh circled the pair, forked tongues flicking in and out of their snouts as they tasted the air, hunger fuelling their lust for blood.

Their vision, attuned to the night, allowed them to make out that the one with the use of its legs was very large for a human. He could be a threat. They would kill him first.

***

Bantas remained awake. Head and shoulders propped up on the bole of an old oak, he kept his axe close at hand. The girl slept soundly by his side.

He heard a slight noise, barely perceptible, to his left.

Springing to his feet he swept up his axe and presumed a stance ready for encounter. He hadn't survived his battles as a mercenary purely by chance, and he trusted his instincts. There was a creature out there, he felt sure. He had hoped it would attack Izlim and his gang, but the reality of it was that he and the girl made a much more enticing target. He did not have long to wait before a dark shape flew through the air at him.

Bantas sidestepped and chopped down with his axe in one fluid motion.

There was a grunt and a thud. The beast's head and decapitated body fell to the ground.

'What is it?' asked the girl in a panicked voice as she sprang awake.

'Kreresh, and there's more than one,' said Bantas as he stalked towards a second creature, illuminated faintly by the moonlight, hackles raised, teeth bared, emitting a deep throated growl with its forked tongue flicking in and out of its snout. It looked like it had been sent from hell. Kreresh usually had a mixture of black and dark brown mottled fur, but this one just looked black – black as shadow. Its head was the size of a bear's, but with a longer snout. It had reflective, lustrous eyes that seemed to glow, mirroring the moonlight, and erect, pointed ears. Its muscles were taut in its powerful, canine-like body and its paws were huge, with long ragged claws. Bantas judged it would have stood as tall as him had it stood on its hind legs, and Bantas was well over six feet tall.

The kreresh leapt, straight at him, which was what he anticipated. He dropped to his right, the weight of his axe helping to drag him down, but could not avoid a glancing blow to the ribs from a strong paw. His chain mail protected him, but he lost his balance and sprawled to the ground.

The beast was by his side, too close for him to use his axe effectively.

It pounced again.

He grabbed it by the throat and wrestled it to the ground, taking gashes to his legs from its flailing claws. He ignored the pain and clamped his hands about its throat, trying to squeeze the life out of it whilst avoiding its searching jaws and long fangs. It managed to roll him off its chest and pulled out of his grasp, giving him yet another cut to his left thigh. Bantas rose to a crouch and hurled himself at it head first.

With a judder and a cry, the kreresh fell to the earth with him atop of it, his dagger protruding from its chest as its form went from rigid to limp.

Adrenaline still coursing through him, Bantas raised himself on his arms to scan the area in search of any more kreresh but could see none. Reaching to pull his dagger from the beast's chest, he groaned in pain. His legs felt as though they were on fire and he thought they must have been cut to shreds by the beast's claws.

'You're an ugly sucker,' he told it as he looked into its reflective, now-brown eyes. 'Eyes not glowing any more, are they?'

CHAPTER FIVE

ENCOUNTERS

Somewhat recovered from his blow to the head, Seb returned to the place where the gang had attacked the merchant. There he found his body, abandoned, an open invitation for crows and ravens to peck at his eyes, for terra tsal and kreresh to rend his flesh.

It appeared that before his death the merchant had managed to kill one of the gang, as there were signs that another body had been dragged away and buried in the wood. Seb hoped that it wasn't the young girl's.

He did not feel responsible in any way for the dead merchant, for he had tried to help him, but a deep well of anger made him seethe at the thought of Hook-nose and his gang, and what they had done to the merchant. And what they had likely done with the girl.

His head no longer swam, and he was almost back to his normal self; only a lump on the side of his head and a splitting headache served as testimony to his encounter with the bandits.

He wanted naught more to do with the world of man – but first he would seek out this murderous gang. And then he would see to his original task.

Eventually, he overtook the bandits' wagon, and made certain to avoid notice from the now conscious driver who'd been left behind to guard it alone, it seemed. He continued ahead, following tracks that led to a wood. Wending his way, he spotted movement. He edged forward, and voices carried to his ear. He was almost upon them.

'...just ahead. We'll set up ambush,' a voice hissed.

Hiding behind an elm he watched as five of the gang advanced through the trees. They were heading towards a stream.

'I'll rape the whore yet,' said the same voice. It was Hook-nose.

Seb followed them at a short distance. Farther ahead the stream gathered momentum and veered to the left where it became a faster-flowing river, creating an alcove. Here he paused as the bandits fanned out into a semicircle. They had found their prey: the pale-skinned girl with flowing red hair, accompanied by a tall, powerful axeman with a stubbly beard who had previously been accompanying the bandits. He strained to hear what the axeman was saying.

'... may still be following us, tracking us,' the deep voice rumbled.

'How close do you think they are?' came the young redhead's softly spoken question as she gathered water from a less turbulent section of the stream. She looked tired.

'Anyone's guess. Here, take my dagger just in case. Drink as much as you can, fill the waterskin again, then we'll carry on.'

In an attempt to warn the unwitting pair, Seb imitated the call of a greylag. It was risky, but he had to do something. They heard it and turned but, not seeing anything, returned to the task of gathering water from the stream. The five bandits paid it even less heed.

Hoping that the big axeman merely pretended not to have recognised his warning, he crept up behind the nearest and youngest of the bandits whilst still keeping an eye on the short hook-nosed man who seemed to be in charge. Then Seb saw the axeman do something he did not expect. The big man laid his axe to rest against a tree and, unarmed, stepped out into the stream to wash. Seb saw Hook-nose give an evil grin as he raised his arm before chopping the air. It was his signal to attack.

Seb reacted before the ambushers. He closed the gap between himself and the youngest of the gang and, gripping his axe in two hands, smashed the haft into the side of the blond's head. The young man crumpled to the ground in a heap.

Seb assessed the situation in an instant: Hook-nose and another were heading towards the girl. She was isolated, but gripped a dagger in her fist. The other two bandits rushed the axeman. He'd not had a chance to retrieve his weapon.

Seb headed for the girl.

Events unfurled in a flash. The axeman picked up a thick branch and parried a blow from a club, then shouldered the club-wielder into the path of his second attacker. Without pause he substituted the branch for the battleaxe. In the space of two breaths, two vicious swings of the weapon sprayed showers of crimson.

As Seb raced towards the girl, fearing for her life, he was shocked to see her first attacker fall to the ground, a dagger protruding from his neck. But the hook-nosed leader was yet upon the now unarmed girl.

Seb bellowed, primal, instinctual, and charged. Of a sudden Hook-nose seemed to realise that he was the last remaining attacker because he turned and fled. Seb tried to give chase but nausea returned alongside a pounding head and he was forced to stop.

'Glad to make your acquaintance,' said the big axeman, grinning as he stumped over. He did not seem to care about the retreating leader of their ambushers. 'My name is Bantas, and this young warrior girl is...'

But the young girl did not respond. She was staring at the man at her feet, his shocked expression fixed upon his lifeless face, the dagger she had wielded jutting from his throat. Her hand shot to her mouth and she was soon hunched over, retching violently, disgorging vomit.

'You do not know her?' asked Seb.

'I've not caught her name yet. We just met.'

Seb appraised the big man. He was tall – very tall – with a heavy, muscular frame, yet agile. Not the kind of guy you wanted to get on the wrong side of. He could easily be very intimidating were it not for his easy and approachable manner and the big smile on his friendly face. Seb could see not a trace of beguilement there. He could also see how the girl might already appear to be comfortable around him.

'I see,' he said. 'My name is Seb.'

'Pleased to meet you, Seb,' Bantas rumbled as he yanked his dagger from the neck of the girl's attacker. Wiping it clean on the bandit's tunic the big man then moved to check on the girl.

Seb gave the two a moment of relative privacy as he made his way around the bodies of the gang. First, he checked on the young blond he had knocked unconscious. As he expected, the young man still breathed. He relieved him of his short sword, a well-fashioned blade, he thought, simple yet elegant: the two edges of the blade curved inward slightly before curving outward again to then meet at a sharp point at the tip. Seb made a mental note that the leaf-blade must have been a family heirloom, judging by the bandit's young age and the company he kept. Seb and his wife would have had to work their farm for two whole years and not eaten in the meantime before they would have earned enough coin to purchase such a blade. It felt good in his hand and was well balanced.

'Think I might keep this one,' he told the unconscious bandit. 'Besides, I don't want you sticking me with it.'

He took what provisions he could from the bodies of the dead, such as bread, cheese, dried beef and even salted pork. From the body of the mace-wielder he took a dagger for himself, another simple yet reasonably well-crafted blade, and tossed his own inferior dagger to one side. He gathered the remaining weapons and laid them out for his two comrades of circumstance to inspect, should they desire any of them. Then the young blond began to stir.

'He wakes,' he said.

Uttering something reassuring to the girl, Bantas hurried over to the nervous young blond, who tried to raise himself but was stopped in his tracks as Seb pressed the young man's own sword into the nape of his neck.

'I had thought better of you,' said Bantas.

'I was only doing what I'm paid for,' replied the young blond.

'Murdering innocent merchants is not what you're paid for. Protecting the wagon is.'

'Hold on now, Bantas, I thought we had a friendship.'

'We did, until I realised that you're a murderer who hunts down young girls.'

'Well then for friendship's sake, don't kill me. Let me go.'

'It will not be for friendship's sake, Aldo. It will be because to do otherwise would be wrong.' He looked sadly at the wretched young man who did not understand. 'I may not have a way with words, Aldo, but murdering merchants and bringing harm to innocent children is not right.'

'I was ordered to! And anyway, she's no child!' argued Aldo.

Bantas shook his head, slowly. 'She is little more than a child. As for orders, Izlim is a spineless coward. Do not follow him, Aldo. Be your own man. Now go!'

Aldo scrambled away from sword point and scampered off in the direction Izlim had fled.

'He won't heed your words,' said Seb with deep contempt. 'I would have slit his throat.' He spat on the ground.

'Likely he won't,' was the big man's reply as he brandished some salted pork and dropped to rest against the bole of an old oak. 'I'm bloody starving. And I could sleep for a week.'

'Did you not discern my warning from the trees?' he asked Bantas.

'Hmm?'

'I made the call of the greylag, which migrated a month ago. Did you not comprehend that something was amiss? You put down your axe.'

'Oh,' said the big man as he closed his eyes. 'Sorry. I didn't realise.'

'Never mind!' snapped Seb, finding himself growing irritated by Bantas' blithe manner. 'But if you hear me sound the call of the greylag again, take heed! I don't know who they are or why you were with them, but they may return. I wouldn't want to see harm come to the young girl.'

'No, not at all! Just as I would not see harm come to her either. But you may want to concern yourself more with all the kreresh that are following us,' said the big man sleepily as he finished his salted pork.

'Kreresh are following you?'

'Aye. They'll be here later, especially with these disembowelled bodies lying around.'

'Right, come on then. Get up, we're going.'

'I was going to have an hour to sleep and restore my strength.'

'Surely you jest?'

'They'll hang back until nightfall anyway. We can leave before dusk and they'll be drawn to those already dead. The dead don't put up a fight, you see.'

'Still, I'd rather be as far away from here as possible.'

'Nothing stopping you. But if I head out now I might draw kreresh away from the dead here – and towards us instead – with my wounds.'

'You're wounded? You should have said.'

'My legs. Had an encounter with a couple of kreresh last night. Ripped my thighs open a little. Hurts a bit. The wounds have opened up even more what with all the fighting.'

Now that Seb looked at the big man's legs he was surprised he hadn't noticed earlier; he thought the bump to the side of his head must be affecting his observational awareness. Bantas was bleeding at the thighs but made no complaint. Seb retrieved some alcohol and strips of fabric from his pack and handed them to the axeman. 'As much as I'd like to leave you behind, I'd better stay. You two wouldn't be safe if I left you on your own,' said Seb.

Bantas nodded and rose to his feet. 'What is your name?' he asked the girl.

'Amarinthine. Thank you for saving me.'

'No need to thank me. We're not clear of danger yet. What were you and a poorly armed merchant doing out here alone, anyway?'

'He wasn't as defenceless as you might think. He had ways of warding off kreresh and terra tsal. He just couldn't do anything about those bandits. As for myself, Earl Vlar Llundenberg of Nydar tried to rape me, then sent his men after me. I might be a danger to be around,' added the girl, looking vulnerable.

'Well, if you didn't catch it, my name is Bantas. And our hero here is Seb. I would think it safe to say that you need not worry about being a danger to be around. Excuse me a moment please, Amarinthine, whilst I apply alcohol and bandages.' Bantas slipped round the other side of the huge oak.

'I am no hero,' Seb told Amarinthine. 'In fact, I'm sure you and the axeman would have handled those bandits fine without me.'

When he studied her face, he saw someone who emanated an inner strength and steel – and defiance. She was fairly tall for a female, but not too tall. She was flat-chested, and underdeveloped in that sense. He found himself staring into her hazel eyes. The more he looked into them, the more he thought they were like auburn stars exploding into a profusion of yellow, green and even blue in a vortex of colours that might be found on a rare evening in the night sky. But that wasn't what captivated him. Her eyes were like his daughter's. They were like Rayne's.

Seb remembered what Hag had said, that he would meet the Axe and a girl. Could the witch's prophecy be true?

Conscious that he might be making the girl feel uneasy, he turned away abruptly and set to with the task of gathering firewood.

'If we're going to rest up here for an hour or two, we may as well be warm,' he said.

Nobody objected to lighting a fire, but once lit, he sat away from its warmth and kept a solitary watch for danger.

Clearly too exhausted to resist the lure of slumber and despite the approaching kreresh, Amarinthine and Bantas were soon fast asleep, blanketed in the campfire's warm glow.

Seb mused that if Hag's prophecy came to pass, and if Bantas and Amarinthine were the two of whom she spoke, he would need to choose which of the three of them was to die.

CHAPTER SIX

THE PEDLAR

Seb woke the sleeping pair. 'Time to be moving.'

'Already? I only just blinked,' complained Bantas.

'You've had over an hour. Besides, I spotted movement in the trees. Kreresh.'

'Oh.'

'Come, we'll supper as we walk, and put some distance between us and them. Hopefully, Bantas, you are right and the kreresh will be too busy with the dead to bother following us.'

'If they have any sense, they won't,' said the big man as he hefted his worn old axe.

'Here, take this,' said Seb, offering Bantas his own axe and baldric with which to carry it. 'I have Aldo's sword now, and you will have more use for it than I.'

'You are serious?' said the big man. Seb nodded. 'It's a generous gift!'

'I can't have you lugging that rusted piece of iron around with kreresh on our heels. I may need you better armed.'

'Let's see those kreresh try it on now!' Bantas exulted as he took a swing, the double-headed blade whooshing through the air. 'It feels good!'

'I've gathered together your attackers' weapons if there are any that you wish to take, Amarinthine.'

Not wishing to dally with kreresh nearby, swiftly the girl took two daggers, leaving behind a mace and a club.

They headed out, following the river south and east. Seb wondered just how far they would journey together. He still felt as though he did not know his new companions.

'Are you a soldier?' he asked Bantas.

'Mercenary. You?'

'I used to be. Turned to farming quite some time ago to spend more time with my family.'

'Are you on the run?' asked Amarinthine.

'What makes you say that?'

With a shrug she answered, 'It's unusual for a man to travel alone through these parts – though the merchant I travelled with had been alone, I suppose.'

'And Aldo murdered him.' It wasn't a question.

'That scumbag. The merchant was a good man. He died trying to protect me, and I barely even knew him. He was called Rod, and I will never forget his name. Such a brave man. A better man than Aldo could ever hope to be.' Tears formed in her eyes.

'I am sorry,' said Seb.

They continued awhile in silence. Then Bantas asked Seb, 'So where is your family now?'

'At home,' said Seb non-committally. 'Tell me, I don't suppose you know of anyone who may have been in the region of Sett Whistle, say a year since? A soldier, say, returning from battle with bloodlust upon him, just passing through? Perhaps part of a group?'

Bantas shook his head and said, 'Sorry, I don't. I've never been to Sett Whistle.'

Again silence ensued. Amarinthine cried quietly to herself. Bantas put a consoling arm around her as they walked. 'You're safe with us, Amy,' he hushed. She looked up at the big man and gave him a smile, evidently liking the nickname he had just given her, but soon resumed her inaudible crying within the one-armed embrace as they continued along the river.

Behind them they heard the distant baying of the kreresh. The beasts were readying to feast on the bodies left behind. The trio increased their pace.

'It grows dark. Best find somewhere to camp soon,' commented Seb. 'You two keep following the river and I will try find somewhere before the light fails us.'

He hadn't been scouting long when he spotted a grazing elk. He stopped, captivated by the beauty of the sleek yet muscular animal. The creature had such grace, and a calm settled upon him.

But out of the tranquillity a deadly predator swooped down unexpectedly from the treetops, gliding on flightless wings through the silent wood. It was a terra tsal, and within the space of two heartbeats it had ripped out the throat of the unsuspecting elk with its reptilian jaws.

Standing only two feet shorter than Seb, the predator feasted with its long, narrow jaws and sharp, pointed teeth, tearing and ripping at the elk's flesh until it could get a mouthful to worry before tearing and ripping at flesh again. Red light from the setting sun reflected off its glinting red teeth. It stood on two short legs, and to prop up its bent body it also stood on two neatly folded wings as it leant forward to gorge on its prey. The scene was a macabre one, and a chill went up Seb's spine.

Knowing that he needed to return to his companions he turned and withdrew as silently as he could, hurrying as much as he dared.

When he caught up with them he announced, 'We can't stop here.'

'Why not?' asked Amarinthine.

'A terra tsal is nearby, feasting on an elk. The blood will attract kreresh, not to mention the danger from the terra tsal itself.'

The girl looked scared. 'Is the forest usually this fraught with predators?' she asked.

'I have never seen kreresh so close to a terra tsal before. You may have a point, Amarinthine. I know that kreresh have been threatening to overrun the land for a couple of years now, but suddenly there seems to be an influx of terra tsal, too.' Then he spotted something. 'Look, ahead. Is that a campfire in the distance?'

'Aye,' said Bantas happily, and increased his pace. 'Let's go say hello.'

'It's not the remaining bandits, is it?' asked Amarinthine.

'No, they could not have got that far ahead of us,' Seb reassured her.

Already in front, Bantas turned and added, 'Especially not with a wagon. And what with Namal being injured. Besides, they would have continued their mission of delivering Izlim's important cargo. It wouldn't be worth his life if Izlim returned to Ver'bane – his boss – without having carried out his little assignment. Ver'bane would have his head. I once knew a man who crossed him. Ver'bane had him murdered by an assassin whilst we were fighting as mercenaries. Everyone knew what had happened, but no one dared say anything. Ruthless.' Contrary to his talk of death, Bantas seemed happy at the prospect of spending the night by a fire.

Seb considered what the big man had just said as he too increased his pace to keep up. Would Ver'bane, having heard of Bantas' betrayal as he would see it, decide to send out his assassin again? The ruthless merchant could easily have his portrait drawn up by a sketcher. A few portraits dotted about surrounding villages and towns and cities could make things very difficult. Then there was Amarinthine. She had said she was from Nydar, and that she was wanted by the earl himself. And Izlim had seen all three of them together; perhaps, with Ver'bane's financial backing – or maybe even the earl's – Izlim would arrange for sketchers' portraits to reflect the fact that the three of them were now travelling together... But Seb didn't voice his thoughts; his new companions had enough to worry about. And he had not forgotten that portraits of him may already be spread around nearby villages and towns and cities. He wasn't concerned about the danger of visiting such settlements. Keeping clear of town guards and bounty hunters would be easy enough for him. But it irritated him. It could affect his search quite badly.

The sun was still a sinking lump of red on the horizon and it was growing dark fast in the wood as the trio neared the campfire. It was within the shelter of a deep cave and Seb saw that a solitary figure sat watching them.

'Good evening,' came the solitary figure's greeting, shadows playing across his face giving him an iniquitous visage just momentarily – Seb thought he looked like a madman laughing in the face of despair. He appeared to be a pedlar. He wore bright and colourful clothes, which only served to compound his nightmarish aspect. But, confident in his pose, and despite the fact that he was outnumbered, he displayed to the newcomers no fear.

'Good evening,' said Seb. 'It is going to be a cold night.'

'And one with creatures of the night on the prowl,' said the pedlar, and of a sudden his nightmarish aspect vanished. 'Come,' he said in a more friendly tone, 'join me in safety by the fire.' As the pedlar spoke these words, Seb found himself all at once reassured by the affable manner with which they were now welcomed. The scene of the pedlar by the flames was no longer nightmarish at all, but warm and jovial. It was as if they had passed a test of sorts, and were now made suddenly welcome at this pedlar's fire. Seb glanced at Amarinthine. She was smiling with relief.

'No need to worry, Amy,' Bantas said to the girl without looking at her.

'Come, Lonnie,' said the pedlar, 'we are in the presence of friends. They mean us no harm,' he added, placing a concealed dagger down by his side.

A boy a few winters younger than Amarinthine emerged warily from the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Amarinthine gave him a friendly smile but he continued to glower at the strangers. Bantas raised his eyebrows at the boy's appearance, likely wondering what a pedlar and a young boy were doing travelling this far out with no protection other than the weapons at their sides. Seb kept a deadpan face, but he too wondered about this.

'We have no food to offer, I'm afraid, but you are welcome to share with us the warmth of our fire and the shelter of this cave,' offered the pedlar.

'Thank you, I think I will,' said Bantas. 'Here, have some mutton.' He procured the meat for their hosts before plopping himself down by the fire.

The pedlar smiled his thanks. He and the boy must have been hungry as they wasted no time and ate with gusto. Upon finishing the meal, the pedlar rose and wandered over in the direction from which they had come. Quick as a flash his dagger flew from his hand to hurtle through the air, startling everyone. A terra tsal fell from a nearby tree. The pedlar strolled over to it, yanked the blade from its eye socket and wiped off the thick black blood before making his way back to the awestruck group.

'It is a good job that kreresh do not like the blood of the terra tsal. In fact, no creature likes the blood of those reptilian obscenities. Unnatural, evil creations,' said the pedlar. 'Nature did not create them.'

'There were kreresh following us, but we shook them off with a few corpses, didn't we, Seb?' said Bantas.

Seb signalled for him to shut up. The pedlar raised an eyebrow but smiled with mirth.

'There'll be no more corpses tonight,' stated the pedlar.

'That will be fine by me,' said Seb.

The pedlar nodded his agreement.

'How did you fell the terra tsal like that?' asked Amarinthine, shivering. 'I didn't even know it was there.'

'Lots of practise, my sweet. Why don't you give Lonnie some company back there? I think you will find it quite warm deeper in the cave. It seems to retain the heat of the fire, I have found,' suggested the pedlar.

Amarinthine rose and made her way over to Lonnie. Soon enough they were chatting like old friends and the seemingly timid and untrusting boy laughed out loud at Amarinthine's stories of life in and around the castle back in Nydar. It was a welcome sound to Seb's ear and he smiled at the memory of his daughter's laughter.

He glanced at Bantas, who nodded towards the ground in answer to the unspoken question. Bantas would take first watch.

Seb lay down, suddenly feeling very tired. He thought about what life would be like further south, away from his past, where he would build a house from timber and live out his days away from the chaos of civilisation.

He fingered the necklace that was a permanent fixture around his neck, feeling the usual pang of guilt that he felt every night before going to sleep. He recalled the face of his wife, Rose, pictured her beautiful red hair and pale skin, giving him a big smile as he presented the necklace to her four years ago. But he didn't think that he had loved her in quite the way she'd deserved. He had lived in guilt over this for the last ten years and more. As was often the case this last year, he wondered what gave him the strength to carry on, to keep living life. He missed her so much.

Eventually, sleep took him.

...Seb knew he would never again be able to afford another sword.

Returning home, as he neared the farmhouse he sensed that something was amiss. His dog, Flute, had not raced to greet him. He could not hear the endearing sounds of Rayne as she played, nor could he hear shouts of 'Daddy! Daddy!' And his wife was not stood in the doorway smiling at him, gladdened at his return.

***

Bantas considered rousing Seb from his fitful slumber but decided against it. He did not yet know the man well enough to start waking him from his sleep and did not wish to risk a knife in the ribs for his trouble.

'The demons of his past haunt him,' said the pedlar.

Bantas had thought the man asleep and his sudden statement startled him.

The pedlar rose, strolled the few paces over to him and handed him a little wooden box. It looked old and well used, yet cared for and warmly patinated. 'Open it,' he said.

Bantas obliged and lifted back the lid on its small, well-greased iron hinges. Inside, the small container was half filled with a white, greasy matter.

'Apply it to your legs. They will heal faster.'

'Thank you.' Bantas stood promptly and dropped his trousers unabashedly and began to apply the salve.

'Do not use it all but keep what remains. Use it sparingly, and only when needed.'

'I managed to stop my thighs from bleeding, but I have still been wary of the wounds reopening and attracting kreresh. How did you know they hadn't fully healed?'

'Oh, the girl mentioned – Amarinthine, is it?'

Bantas nodded and glanced over at Amy, sleeping soundly nearby. 'I didn't catch your name,' he said.

'Conn.'

'Mine's Bantas.'

'And where do you plan to go from here, Bantas?'

He shrugged. 'Seb wants to head south. I want to see Amarinthine to safety – as does Seb, I'm sure. But beyond that I don't know. No doubt Ver'bane will have had sketchers spread copies of my portrait around the land. I plan merely to survive.'

'And the sketchers may also have Amarinthine's portrait spread around the land?'

'Aye,' said Bantas. 'Ver'bane no doubt will search for the both of us, as it was for her that I turned coat.'

'Protect her, Bantas. She is, ah... important. Try to keep Seb with you too. He seems a man that can handle himself.'

'Why is she important? Is she nobility?'

'Is not the innocence of any girl important?'

It seemed to Bantas that the pedlar evaded the question.

The two sat awhile in silence. Bantas closed the lid of the small wooden box and placed it inside his coat pocket. Then he asked, 'What did you rescue the boy from?'

Conn raised an eyebrow and a slight smile touched his lips. 'That is observant of you.'

'Not really. I found myself facing danger with a young girl to protect. But I didn't choose to bring her here to these dangerous woods with kreresh and terra tsal on the prowl – I rescued her.'

'And Seb?'

'He chanced along. But he is a welcome companion, as would you be.'

'I am afraid that I have other business to attend to.'

Bantas took this as a hint and did not press the matter further.

After thoughtful consideration, Conn said, 'At the back of this cave are tunnels. Creepers gather there – we are safe, though. I think the passage must be warded because the creepers never come through.'

Bantas gave him a questioning look.

Conn explained, 'I know they live down there; I've travelled through many times. But they never come through here. Most people don't realise, but they have lateral lines – sensors along their appendages that help them hunt by sound in the dark.'

'As long as I can chop through their literal lines with my axe I'll be fine,' said Bantas.

Conn corrected him. 'Lateral lines. And once their bodies are in position, their tentacles move faster than people think. And they have incredible strength.'

'Well, I'll just chop through their strong, literal lines regardless.'

'You mean lateral lines.'

'No, I mean literally rows of them all lined up, ready for me to chop my way through!' Bantas laughed.

Conn couldn't resist chuckling along with him as his mirth was contagious, but soon resumed with all seriousness: 'At the back of this very cave, in the dark recesses, there are passages. They lead to the mines, carved out by folk of legend. Dwarves, some say. Anyway, as I said, no need to worry. The passage through to this cave is warded somehow. No creeper will come through.'

'Good,' said Bantas. Then he changed the subject. 'So, you have any news to tell, being a pedlar and all?'

The pedlar smiled. 'Truth is, though I do dabble in peddling, I am more of an alchemist.'

'What is an alchemist?'

'We strive to understand the world, along with all of nature's secrets.'

Bantas thought the man a little strange. Understanding the world came easy to him. People did good things, and people did bad things. The world could be harsh, and it could also be a beautiful place with wonders to behold. He didn't see how one needed to be an alchemist to understand this.

He just said, 'Oh.' And then asked, 'So have you any news?'

The pedlar was still smiling. 'Indeed I do,' he said. But then the smile vanished. 'Grave news, actually. Recently there have been many deaths about the land. Mostly nobles, especially heirs to the throne. I suspect that something is afoot. If there is a price on your head, you will be dragged into it. Mark my words, an assassin is at play here. And if I were you, I would be careful. I suspect somebody, perhaps Vlar Llundenberg of Nydar, is eradicating all those that stand in his path. His goal remains to be seen, though likely it is King Oaken's throne that he seeks. And civil war will break out if that comes to pass. Already Baron Mason, fearing for his king's safety, has been building up his army in the City of the North. I have a gift for such things, and I think that the three of you will be dragged into it.'

'Fantastic, that's all we need! On top of everything else we're going to have an earl hunting our backsides.'

'Indeed,' said the pedlar, leaning back and making himself comfortable before closing his eyes. 'I am tired, so if you don't mind I think I'll catch some slumber.'

Eventually Conn dozed off. Watching him, Bantas wondered if the pedlar's show of trust was a masquerade. Did the man already trust them enough to sleep in their presence? Perhaps he and the boy were both exhausted and were left with no alternative.

Bantas also mulled over what he had said about the mine's inhabitants. Creepers were slow creatures. They would slide and worm their way along the ground, feeling their way in the dark. Tentacles would reach out, grabbing hold of any prey that got in their way. Human or otherwise, they would be slowly suffocated. Or sometimes a creeper did not even wait for its victim to die before it began to feast on them. Sometimes they kept their prey alive, held in a vice-like grip for days on end until eventually they grew hungry enough to feast on them. Irrespective of the knowledge of this, Bantas was confident in the pedlar's reassurances that the passage was warded.

Every now and then, however, his eyes came to rest on the back of the cave.

When the time eventually came and his turn at sentry duty was over, he roused Seb. After outlining briefly what Conn had said about the warded passageway and its chilling inhabitants beyond, in no time at all he was fast asleep.

Thankfully the night was uneventful, and he awoke to Amy shaking him gently by the shoulder. They broke their fasts with salted porridge. Bantas commented that giving away mutton had never proven so worthwhile and lavished the pedlar with praise for the salve, proclaiming it wondrous stuff.

'Think nothing of it,' said Conn.

As the boy prepared to leave with the pedlar and head out on their separate way, Amarinthine gave Lonnie a fond hug and bade him farewell. They seemed to have got along very well, thought Bantas.

Out of the children's earshot, the pedlar advised he and Seb, 'Take the passageway to the mines by the entrance at the back of this cave. It should be safer than continuing through these forests. Remember what I said about the creepers, but keep moving and you should be all right. A few leagues south-east through the mines beneath the Sark Peaks you will find extra torches, rags and kerosene of mine interspersed along the way in case of emergency. But keep an idea of your general direction. The other end of the mines that you want to arrive at comes out in the foothills. Below, you will again see the same river that you have been following, the River Leagues. Continue along the river and after a half day's travel you will come across the Na H'Basi. They are an honourable warrior tribe who know me well, so tell them that I have sent you and they will know that you come as friends.' Then the pedlar beckoned Lonnie and Amarinthine and gave Amarinthine a pendant to wear about her neck. 'To help keep you safe, child. When you reach the Forest of the Na H'Basi, show it to them so that they may know I sent you. Keep it with you, always,' he said.

The pedlar and the boy set off, leaving the trio at the mouth of the cave.

''Ware the kreresh!' Bantas called after them.

'They wouldn't dare cross me,' joked the pedlar. Somehow, Bantas believed him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE CAVES

The caves were cold and oppressive. Amarinthine didn't like it down here. The draught that sucked through the entrance pierced her cloak, giving her a chill down her spine that would not go away. Then the passageway opened up into a high-ceilinged cavern, and they were free of the draught. She found to her dismay that it was even cooler down here. Coldness seeped up from the unforgiving stone floor and she could feel it rising through the bones of her tired feet. She watched her breath billow out as vapour to float lugubriously upward before disappearing into the darkness, just out of reach of the flickering light from Seb's torch.

Trying to make conversation, Amarinthine mentioned about the boy, Lonnie, and his tall tales, relating how he had claimed to be of nobility – an heir to the throne, no less! – and how he could talk with wolves. She recounted that the boy even claimed the wolves told him to beware the evil creepers that lurk in these very mines. She laughed nervously at her own comment but felt no mirth. Seb and Bantas were not exactly convivial either. She added that she had warned the boy to be careful of whom he tells these tall tales to, especially as some would accuse him of being a heretic – a person with an Ability – for talking with wolves. By law people with Abilities were of course violently executed – except sketchers, but only because they helped catch others with Abilities, which Amarinthine thought a little hypocritical of society.

They kept walking. It was said that the gods first battled upon the summit of the Sark Peaks thousands of years since with lances of lightning and shields of enhanced ice and swords of fire. But down here in the bowels of the mountains it looked anything but magical. Seb led the way, muttering something to himself about heading south. Amarinthine followed next, with Bantas bringing up the rear. Amarinthine looked to her left as she heard what she imagined to be a creeper sliding down the wall and she bumped into Seb, who hissed, 'Careful!'

She imagined that he silently cursed her for burdening him on his journey. She did not want to be an encumbrance to anyone. And she missed her mother. She even admitted to herself that she missed her annoying little brother, Puce. I'd even forgive Father for throwing me out of home if it meant returning and having everything back to normal.

She found herself holding back tears. Her mother would have made everything all right again had she been here. She always did. But she wasn't here. Amarinthine hadn't even had the opportunity to say goodbye to her. 'I love you, Mother,' she whispered inaudibly into the air, hoping that her voice would somehow carry to her ear.

Seb stopped. 'Be still,' he said, and cocked his head. Amarinthine cast about, panicking because Seb had made them halt. She was sure that creepers were following them, keeping to the edge of the torchlight.

She stared at Seb, seeking reassurance. His stern face was illuminated by the burning brand in the otherwise pitch blackness. He was tall, though not as tall as Bantas. He had dark red-brown hair, – which now appeared black within the darkness of the cave – intense brown eyes, and looked exactly the type of person to take all things seriously. He always wore a hard, bleak expression. Like flint. And if he smiled, rarely did it touch his eyes.

'It's okay, there'll be no creepers about. They're slow,' Bantas reassured her, seeming to read her thoughts.

'Water,' said Seb, then turned and resumed his march.

They soon stopped again by an inlet of water, fed by a trickle through a seemingly solid wall.

'Best drink as much as we can from our waterskins and then refill them. I don't know how much farther we'll have to go before we come across another water source,' said Seb, his voice echoing. He passed Bantas the torch, then washed quickly.

Amarinthine went next. As she reached over, the pendant the pedlar had given her dangled just above the black water. Not wanting to get it wet she took it off and placed it on a natural ledge within a slight recess, taking the opportunity to wash her hands and face. Next went Bantas, and Seb took back the torch. Amarinthine reached for her pendant, but it was not there.

'I left it just here! Right on this ledge,' she said.

'What's the matter?' said Bantas.

'The pendant the pedlar gave me! I swear, I put it right here.' Amarinthine felt panic at having lost it, as the pedlar had assured her that so long as she wore it, it would keep her safe.

Seb and Bantas searched the immediate area, but nothing was to be seen. A ring of darkness slowly closed in on Amarinthine as Seb moved away from her with the torch, and she thought she saw something gleam a few paces away on the cave floor. Desperate to retrieve the pendant that would keep her safe, she made a dash towards the source. Just then a cold, slimy, long and dexterous arm wrapped itself about her leg. She fell and hit the ground hard, her hands slapping against wet stone. Grasping in vain for a handhold, she was dragged backward rapidly across the cave floor, and she screamed.

She groped at the flexible arm, which she now discovered was a tentacle. Something attached itself to the palm of her hand and she realised that it was stuck to her. It had suctioned itself to her hand, and the memory of her mother describing to her the principles of the suction cup sprang to mind. Apparently certain chirurgeons sometimes used suction cups made from vegetables – gourds – to suction bad blood from human organs. But that knowledge would not help her now. Looking up, the cavern flickered drastically between illumination and darkness as Seb sprinted towards her, torch in hand, Bantas following close behind. But already she could feel rock scraping her waist as she was dragged into what she could only guess was a small tunnel. Dropping the burning brand, Seb dived towards her. Time seemed to slow. She struggled to free her hand from one of the creature's many suction cups and was rewarded with a slurping pop as her palm came free. She reached out her liberated hand. Seb's arms were outstretched towards her as he landed heavily upon his front. But she could only manage to touch a fingertip of Seb's with her own. Before she could grip his wrist or his hand – before she could get any grip at all – of a sudden the tunnel enveloped her, and Seb's torchlight disappeared from sight.

***

'AMY!' thundered Bantas as he dived alongside Seb. The cry echoed and reverberated its way throughout the underground caverns and tunnels. Amarinthine had vanished. They heard a thin, muted wail, then nothing.

'Damn!' cursed Seb. He picked up the burning brand and further inspected the gap. 'There's no way we'll fit through that hole. And I don't know if we'll find another way through.'

***

Getting dragged down the hole, she started to scream, but her cry was cut short. Another suction cup fastened itself to her, this time sucking itself to her face. She could hardly breathe. Panic consumed her. Never had she felt such utter dread. Amarinthine desperately tried to bite the suction cup covering her mouth, nose and eyes, but could not gain any sort of grip as her lips and teeth slid against the cold, slimy skin of the creeper. It was still dragging her backward down the stone slope. Raising her hands – and receiving scrapes and knocks to her body and her elbows for her efforts – she tried to pry the creature's tentacle from her face. But its grip was too strong. Her exertions were fruitless and only made her tire more quickly. She gasped ragged intakes of breath and the rate of her breathing increased faster and faster. Black spots appeared in her vision, which she did not think should be possible in the pitch dark. Then she passed out.

Awakening, Amarinthine at first wondered where she was. All is pitch dark. Memory returned. Something was pressed against her legs, weighing her down. She cast about to either side, her hands searching for something – anything – that might dispel her fears and prove that it had all been a horrible dream. But all she could feel was the cold stone beneath her and cold emptiness before her – until her hands felt at what was pinning down her legs, and realisation struck her: it was the creeper. She tried to pull her legs from under it, but she could not. It remained inert, weighing her down, waiting for its hunger to build sufficiently.

'Help! Help me, please! HELP!' she screamed, working herself into a frenzy. Something smothered her face: another tentacle. Again she found breathing difficult, trying to force ragged gasps into her lungs, and she soon passed out for the second time.

When next she woke she began to cry, hugging herself tight. She rocked back and forth and from side to side as much as the weight of the creeper on her legs would allow. When her sobbing grew too loud for the creeper's liking, again a slimy suction cup would attach itself to her face.

Amarinthine couldn't remember if she had yet again passed out or if her silent hysteria had stretched on for ever. Perhaps the creeper had suffocated her to the extent of her losing consciousness a thousand times. Perhaps this was how she would remain for years on end, until old age claimed her life. After rocking back and forth an interminable length of time, something strange happened inside of her. She had felt angry and scared, and wanted nothing more than for the creeper to go away when... something... within the recesses of her mind, something she could only describe as a doorway, suddenly, yet slowly, yawned agape. She did not know what it was. But a doorway in her mind yawning agape was the best way she could describe it to herself. It felt odd. Then something under her skin popped, and now flowed from her body. She opened her eyes and saw the creeper suddenly raise itself on numerous tentacles and turn to regard her with two obsidian eyes. Then it dawned on her – there was light! She could see! After a cursory glance around the empty cave her gaze settled back on the creeper. Each of its ten long appendages was lined with suction cups, its black skin was slick with thin slime, its body seemed to consist solely of its flat head, tentacles stretching out from where its neck should be, and slimy drool dangled from its mandibles. It seemed that should the deceivingly fragile-looking creeper extend itself to full height it may just reach the ceiling of the vaulted cave. Its tentacles had been spread around its body forming a sort of spiral shape. Only two of its extremities had pinned her legs, but with surprising strength. She was pondering this when the creeper rose and slunk away from her, which was when she realised she was suddenly very hot. Then it dawned on her who was responsible for the sudden existence of light: she was.

Amarinthine was glowing – incandescently.

She propped herself up on her elbows and watched as the creeper made a slow retreat – and spotted two people on the other side of the cavern. Something sped through the air and struck the creeper and it collapsed in a knot of tentacles.

***

Seb was growing agitated. He consciously made an effort to quell his frustration, resolutely forcing calm upon himself time and again. But the forced calm never lasted. They had been searching for Amarinthine without rest for what he thought must be two days now, though it could be more. He was so tired. He had long since lost his sense of direction. Only occasionally would he regain his internal compass when they chanced across a place they had been previously, marked by Bantas to assist them in their search. They were fast running low on their supply of rags for the burning brand, and kerosene with which to soak them. And they had already come across and pilfered three of Conn's stocks for making torches. Neither he nor Bantas even mentioned the idea of giving up.

They deliberated which direction they should search in next, and took the opportunity to rest their legs.

Of a sudden Bantas cried out, 'Curse Raken! One of the buggers has me!'

***

'There's more of them!' said the taller of the two figures at the other end of the cavern.

'Conn?' shouted Amarinthine.

'Yes, it is I,' he said.

Amarinthine was relieved to say the least. Then she remembered that she was glowing, and feared what the pedlar might make of it.

'Lonnie and I came back for you,' he continued. They remained at the other end of the cavern, keeping a keen watch for approaching creepers from the direction they had come. 'Did you get separated from Seb and Bantas?'

'Yes, and I don't know where they are.'

'Don't worry, I'm sure they'll find you,' he said. It seemed to her a strange thing for him to say. He had sounded calm and in control. But then he added, 'This was not meant to happen. I foresaw this not at all, but then again, that's why I gave you the pendant. How did you lose it?'

The fact that the pedlar said nothing about the light bursting forth from her body surprised her. 'I think the creeper you just killed took it,' she said. 'How did you know I lost it?'

'You mean you don't know where it is? Damn, it's the only one I had!'

'Why, what was it?'

'It was charmed, so that I could know your whereabouts, and that you were well. Such a shame it is gone – and so soon!'

'I am sorry,' she said.

'It is not your fault. But by Lorgh, that's a handy trick you've learnt. How long have you been able to do that?' he asked, referring to her newfound Ability.

'It's only just happened,' she answered. 'And I don't know how.'

She must have sounded worried, because Conn tried to reassure her: 'It's okay, you'll soon learn to control it, I am sure. Not many with Abilities have teachers, but most manage fine. Take Lonnie, for example. He learnt the art of talking with wolves all by himself. Anyway, it's a damn good time to discover you have an Ability with light, in these treacherous passages, no less! However, you had best go now. Head in that direction,' he said, pointing with one hand as he held a burning brand in the other. 'There shouldn't be many creepers that way; Lonnie said he spoke with a nearby wolf that escaped from a kreresh by fleeing into the caves, and it told him the route is relatively clear. Keep heading up the gentle slope and you will eventually emerge near the Forest of the Na H'Basi, where I told Seb and Bantas you would arrive at. If you have not met up with them by then, light a fire by the River Leagues. Either they will see it and come to you, or the Na H'Basi tribesmen will.'

'Why can't I stay with you?'

'I still need to get Lonnie to his destination. He is important too. You need to stay with Seb and Bantas. I have read the omens, and this is what they tell me. Go now, we'll distract the creepers,' he added as he hurled a rock, striking a creeper between the eyes.

'Omens? How can you read omens?' asked Amarinthine.

'I am an alchemist,' said Conn. 'I am merely posing as a pedlar.' He made it clear that this was all the explanation she was going to get. She did not even know what an alchemist was. 'I am proud of you, Amarinthine. You have coped admirably under the circumstances. No matter what happens, always maintain a positive attitude and approach to life, that way the universe will conspire to work in your favour.'

She sensed that the pedlar considered his message of decided import, but she could not take it on board as right then everything felt so surreal.

'Stick close to me,' he told Lonnie. 'We will lead them away from Amarinthine. Do not worry, boy, we too will be fine.'

'Bye, Lonnie,' called Amarinthine.

'Bye, Amarinthine. Safe journey,' said the boy. He seemed very brave, she thought. He must place great faith in Conn.

Amarinthine turned and headed in the direction that Conn had indicated. She hoped that Lonnie would be all right. And she hoped that she could find Seb and Bantas again. The idea of journeying alone scared her.

***

Seb turned, casting torchlight on his companion, and saw the creeper. Bantas had his axe ready to chop into one of the creature's appendages.

'Stop! It might lead us to Amarinthine!'

'You want me to allow this thing to drag me off?'

'It may be our only hope of finding the girl. I'll follow you. I should be able to fit through any holes that it drags you through.'

'Well that's just dandy! And what if it drags me through some hole in the bleeding ceiling?'

'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'Easy for you to say!' said Bantas as he punched a suction cup aimed for his face. Then he said to the creeper, 'You're not sticking one of them things on my face!'

'Stop talking and it might leave your face alone,' suggested Seb. Bantas gave him a sour glare as he was dragged around a corner. The creeper had an extremity wrapped about Bantas' legs and he was being dragged back the way they had just come. Seb could see that Bantas was struggling to keep his axe from scraping on the stone floor. 'Do you want me to carry that for you?' he asked whilst following.

'Not only do you want me to be dragged off by a bleeding creeper, you want me to disarm myself too? You must be out of your mind!' He punched another suction cup.

'All right, keep the damned axe. Just stop talking!'

Bantas muttered something inaudible and batted away another searching tentacle.

The creeper made its way to the far side of a jutting outcrop of rock. Although they had passed the place two or three times already, they had not until now noticed the opening in the floor, and the deep drop below. Dragging Bantas with it, the creeper plunged into it.

Seb hurried over and stopped at the lip of the drop. Fifty feet below he saw Bantas struggling against the creeper. Somehow the cave was lit up. The big axeman seemed fine; the creature must have landed gently and lowered Bantas down with it. His axe was wedged inside a tentacle. Seb watched him headbutt the creeper and punch one of its arms, but another tentacle gripped him around the waist. Bantas retrieved his axe and chopped through one of the arms holding him. The creeper now held him in several vice-like grips about his legs and waist but still Bantas kept severing extremities wherever he could.

Of its original ten, the creature soon only had four remaining arms. It let go of him and began to retreat. Bantas stepped in close and swung down his axe in a mighty chop. The creeper stopped, dead.

'That's what you get for sticking your bleeding suction cups in my face, my axe in yours!' Seb heard him shout at the dead creature.

'Behind you!' he called down, as another two creepers approached. One of them made a grab for the axe, and Bantas, trying to keep his weapon from the monster's reach, tripped and fell. His axe clattered to the stone as one of the creepers wrapped its numerous tentacles around him. Then it smothered his mouth and nose with a suction cup and his shouts could no longer be heard.

With the other creeper now directly below him, its body pressed against the floor as its tentacles reached for Bantas, Seb jumped down the deadly fifty-foot drop.

He landed squarely upon the creature's head. Its eye burst like a popped pimple, and white gunk exploded outward, covering Bantas and the creeper that wrestled him.

Springing up from his heavy yet cushioned landing, Seb drove his sword into the last remaining creeper's eye. White pus oozed from its wound as it sighed its last breath.

Bantas threw the slimy, limp tentacle off his face. He touched his fingers to the gunk on his jerkin and sniffed the fatty substance. Between breaths he said to Seb, 'I think you did that on purpose. Thought it wasn't funny enough to simply watch me get dragged off by a bleeding creeper, drop down a bloody big hole and have my face sucked by this bugger!' He kicked the creeper. 'No, that wasn't enough for you! Thought you'd splat me with the world's biggest bloody pimple!'

But Seb paid him no attention. He walked towards the source of light. He walked towards Amarinthine. He had not noticed her until now. She must have seen Bantas struggling with the creepers from the far side of the cavern and hurried over to help; she held her two daggers in a tight grip and was short of breath. She was alone, and looked frightened. Tears formed in her eyes.

'It's okay, it's all over. Me and Bantas are here now.' He hugged her. A look of relief washed over her face and she embraced him tightly in return.

'You don't think I'm a witch, then?' she asked, indicating the light that issued from her body.

'Not at all, Amarinthine. Don't you worry, everything is okay now.'

'Aye, don't worry, Amy. I'm here to look after you both,' said Bantas.

The cave seemed to light up brighter.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE ATTESTING

Wearied of the long march through the caverns, Amarinthine watched the light from her hands ripple against the glistening walls. She was tired, and her feet hurt. She wondered at the time of day.

'Mother always tried to teach me healing,' she said, trying to break the monotony of the trek, 'but she gave up. It seemed that I had no Ability.' Then she laughed before adding, 'Or certainly no healing Ability, anyway. It must have been my experience with the creeper that brought on this trick of mine.' Already the feat of illuminating the dark caverns with her hands came much easier to her. 'Mother's breathing exercises were definitely a factor,' she added wistfully, again wishing her mother were here.

Bantas must have sensed her desolation, as he placed a giant hand on her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

'I can't see how this Ability will be of much use once we get out of here, though. I've decided, I want to learn how to fight. I need to be able to defend myself if ever I come across another Vlar Llundenberg, or an Izlim or an Aldo. I want to be a warrior, just like you two.'

In a sudden, unexpected fit of anger, Seb snapped: 'You're not at home any more, Amarinthine, playing childish games and treating everything like one big adventure! It's time to grow up and smell the roses – and roses are not just pretty-looking things, there are thorns that will cut you, and cut you deep. You want to be a warrior? You wouldn't last an hour in battle!'

'Here now, go easy on the lass,' said Bantas. 'She's had a hard time. It's understandable she wants to learn to defend herself.'

'The world is cruel and harsh, and no place for a girl to be running around waving a sword. I've been there and seen battles first-hand. People say they want to be warriors, for pride, honour, revenge or some other reason – they run off into battle despite not being ready, and you know what? They wind up dead. She's only a girl; she'll never be strong enough or have guts enough for it. Anyone can see she cannot be a warrior!'

'A man should not pour scorn on another's dream.'

Seb scowled. 'We will stop here,' he said. 'It's as dark, foreboding and dank as anywhere else in these accursed caves, but I doubt we'll find anywhere better.'

Despite the awkward atmosphere they settled in for the night as best they could in the dank cavern – if indeed it were night; Amarinthine wondered how Seb could be so sure about the time of day – and wrapped blankets about themselves. Seb took first watch, nursing an unlit torch, flint and steel for when Amarinthine's own light eventually died, which they reasoned it surely would once she fell asleep.

Amarinthine felt angry at Seb. What right had he to ridicule her ambition like that? And why shouldn't she become a warrior? She was young and had plenty of time to learn to fight.

The light from her hands began to falter, then went out. Amarinthine sat bolt upright, frightened. Then, practising her breathing exercises, she focused her mind on the task at hand. And before Seb could light his torch she yet again had the cavern illuminated. She cast around nervously but could see no creepers.

Now focused on keeping the area bathed in light, she determined that she would concentrate her efforts on this new Ability of hers, and would not again falter.

And she would prove Seb wrong and would become a warrior. Just because she was female did not mean that she couldn't learn to fight. Once clear of the caves, she decided, toying with her two daggers, she'd get Bantas to teach her how to use that axe of his.

And tonight, if any more creepers came, this time she would not rely on being rescued. She would kill them herself.

***

It took three days, but eventually they found their way to the other side of the mines, exactly where Conn said they would arrive at. To Amarinthine's surprise and welcome relief she had managed to keep the caves illuminated even as she slept. It meant the trio had not run out of fuel for the torches, which they certainly would have otherwise.

And fortunately, they had encountered no more creepers.

Night time approached when they made camp in a clearing just inside the Forest of the Na H'Basi. Seb reasoned it would be better to come upon the warrior tribe in daylight. Watching Bantas gather firewood, of a sudden Amarinthine was struck with the idea that if she could manipulate light, perhaps she might just be able to manipulate heat also. As Bantas searched about for his flint and steel, she brought to mind images of crackling flames and imagined searing heat. Inspired by her newly acquired Ability, she concentrated on the firewood, determined to set it alight.

'Do not let Seb's words the other night bother you,' said Bantas.

Amarinthine nodded and gave him a thin smile.

'If it really is your dream to become a warrior, do not let another's words deter you. They are only words and mean naught. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.'

***

Seb was tired. He toyed idly with his wife's necklace. A strange one, that pedlar, he thought. He couldn't understand why Conn had wanted to help them to such an extent. First, he welcomed them to share his campfire and the shelter of his cave and then was even confident enough to sleep in their presence. He gave Bantas the wondrous salve to heal his wounds, and Amarinthine a pendant so that he could ensure her safety. Then he had returned to help her escape from the creeper that had taken her. All of these things were far more than what anyone could expect from a passing stranger. He suspected the pedlar had ulterior motives, just like Hag.

Settling the necklace into place, he took out the three dice he had taken from the child snatcher. He rolled them on the uneven ground, yet the two that were weighted still landed on sixes. Only the third would roll naturally. Idly he tried to roll three sixes.

The fire should be lit by now, and he wondered what was taking so long. He glanced up in time to see a sudden explosion throw Bantas from his feet as an inferno burst into life.

'What in the seven depths of hell?' yelled Bantas.

'I'm sorry! I didn't mean for it to explode like that!' said Amarinthine.

'That was you?'

'I just wanted to see if I could light the fire. Are you all right?'

Seb roared with laughter at the sight of Bantas patting himself down, sat on his rump looking up at Amarinthine with incredulity, all the while shielding his eyes from the intense heat of the campfire. Seb's dark mood lightened with the fire, which Bantas described as a 'fulminate bloody inferno.'

'Couldn't you stop it growing so fast before it sets the forest ablaze?' asked Bantas.

'Oh, yes. Sorry, I think I'm still adding to it,' said Amarinthine before closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths. 'This is tiring,' she added, 'and I don't really know what I'm doing.' But gradually the campfire died down until it was of a normal size and temperature.

Just then an abrupt voice hailed them in a foreign tongue.

'Waarheen gaan jy?'

Bantas was on his feet in a flash and hefted his axe, ready for combat.

'Easy, Bantas,' said Seb. He turned to look at the two newcomers. The one who spoke reminded him of a bird, maybe a hawk or an eagle. His head was shaven, and he had small, shifty bird-like eyes and long wooden enamel earrings which, aptly, had been carved into hawks in flight. Seb felt as though the doors to his soul were penetrated each time those eyes gazed into his. The other tribesman had strange horizontal, plain wooden piercings through his eyebrows and seemed to be standing in deference to the former. They were tribal warriors.

Seb said, 'We come as friends. The pedlar, Conn, sent us.'

'Alchemist,' said the one with the horizontal eyebrow piercings with a little surprise.

'Sy 'n heks,' the tribal warrior with the shaven head said harshly. His long earrings swung through the air as he turned to point a grimy, long-nailed finger at Amarinthine, glaring at her with his piercing bird-like eyes.

'I lost my pendant,' she said meekly. Conn had told her to show the Na H'Basi tribesmen the pendant so that they may know he had sent them.

The one with the wooden eyebrows said, 'Wamuhu says she witch.'

Seb thought furiously for a way to deny this. Bantas moved between the tribesmen and Amarinthine.

'If friends, come,' said the one with wooden eyebrows. He and Wamuhu turned and set off at a run.

'Do we go?' asked Bantas.

'I think we'd better. They might hunt us down if we don't,' suggested Seb. 'But if we go as friends, we have nothing to fear.'

'Well, they harm Amy and I'll rip our friends' arms from their sockets.'

The three quickly gathered their belongings and went after the tribal warriors.

***

Amarinthine kept pace, as did her two heavier companions, her protectors. She wondered if they'd be able to protect her from the warrior tribe should they decide to strap her to the wheel or hang her, or have her burnt at the stake, or whatever it was that the tribe did to witches.

Soon it would turn dark. She hoped that, isolated in the forest as they were, they would not find themselves attacked by kreresh or terra tsal. Fighting down anxiety, she tried to push such thoughts from her mind.

The sky opened up, and rain poured down on them. Night descended. The clouds and their deluge of rain blotted out the moon and all became black. Of a sudden they halted in the pitch dark, and the trio grabbled for one another. Then a light burst forth from ahead. They squinted at it in surprise – Wamuhu held a burning brand aloft, which earlier he had not been carrying.

'Come,' said the tribesman with the wooden eyebrow piercings, and they resumed their swift pace in the driving rain. Although they now followed Wamuhu's dancing brand, they still ran the risk of injury on jutting rock or tree root, slippery leaves upon sodden mud, or hidden holes within the deep shadows. An hour passed and still, the same gruelling tempo was set by their impassive guides. Hair plastered to her face, clothes soaked, Amarinthine's feet squelched in the mud as she concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other in what now felt like an all-out sprint. It wasn't just this mad race through the forest that tired her, she had felt weary since setting the campfire alight. She hoped, surely, that the tribesmen wouldn't keep up this pace much longer, and certainly hoped that they wouldn't step it up.

Then, at long last, they reached the village.

Bantas doubled over, lost for breath. 'Good job they stopped,' he gasped. 'I was about to break their legs to see if it slowed them.'

Amarinthine lifted her head to the skies a moment, mouth open, thirstily drinking the driving rain. When she took a look around, she thought she had a good idea of how the Na H'Basi lived. Their houses were squat huts made chiefly of straw. The rest seemed to be of wood – especially the larger buildings, which appeared to be shops and meeting halls, though it was hard to tell in the dark – and each house was sheltered by a giant tree.

Wamuhu and the warrior with the wooden eyebrows approached, along with another, whom Amarinthine guessed might be the tribe's chieftain. They had been conferring whilst the trio caught their breath.

'Here comes Wamuhu and Eyebrows,' she said.

The chieftain said in his foreign tongue, 'Een van julle moet bewys dat julle.'

'Chief says one of you must prove yourselves,' explained Eyebrows. 'We know you claim Alchemist sent you, but still you must be tested.'

'How must we prove ourselves?' asked Seb.

'One of you fight. One of us fight.'

The three of them looked at one another.

Bantas volunteered. 'I'll do it,' he said. 'They're all skinny runts, anyway.'

Amarinthine watched as Eyebrows relieved Bantas of his weapons and demanded he remove his chain mail. Steam rose from his body as his muscles bunched and flexed.

'Hauli!' announced the chieftain. A giant of a man dressed only in a loincloth emerged from a nearby shack. He almost had to bend double and turn sideways to fit through the doorway.

'Bloody hell, trust me to get pitted against a bloody grizzly bear!' said Bantas.

'Use your advantage of speed and agility,' advised Seb. 'And use your brain.'

Bantas gave him a reproachful glare. 'Why don't you bloody fight him, then? Or perchance you could challenge him to a game of chess, and we could all sit around a nice warm fire and drink tea whilst we talk strategy. Send me to the fiery pits of hell, but he's a big bugger! And I thought I was big. What is he, an ogre or something?'

Just then, Hauli charged him.

***

Bantas – a giant himself – had the wind knocked out of him as the even bigger giant crashed into his diaphragm.

Picking himself up out of the muddy puddles he bent over to catch his breath. His opponent's giant foot swung towards his head and he straightened quickly, grabbed Hauli's leg and sent him sprawling. 'We've got ourselves a fight!' he said.

His opponent regained his feet cautiously and appraised Bantas, now a little more wary of his foe. Then he roared and charged again.

This time Bantas sidestepped, grabbed his arm and used his momentum to throw him towards a large pool of mud. With his opponent slipping in the muck, Bantas did not afford him the chance to turn about, but ran at him, jumping feet first through the air. His heels rammed into Hauli's back, and the great giant fell sprawling in the quagmire. He leapt in after him and dealt him a heavy blow to the back of the neck, receiving a strong elbow to the ribs for his trouble. Winded, Bantas tried to get him in a headlock, but with the rain and mud, his grip was slippery on his opponent's bare skin. Instead, Hauli lifted Bantas overhead and hurled him towards more solid ground. And yet again the air was knocked from him.

He staggered to his feet as his foe approached only to be knocked to the ground by a heavy right hook and received three thunderous kicks to the ribs. Each breath became a sharp influx of pain, and Bantas rolled from the gargantuan warrior to escape those awful kicks. Sparing a glance at Amarinthine, he saw the fear in her eyes. Fear for his safety. Fear for what the warrior tribe would do to her should he fail this test of worthiness on behalf of he and his two companions.

He rose from the mire and pain seared his lungs. He had no time to react as a monstrous fist crushed his nose. Somehow he remained standing, though the world teetered as he took another blow to the head. One more and I'm down, he thought. And it came, a right hook that made the ground rise up and hit him in the face. He could hear the larger man exclaiming, knowing victory was his. Tasting soft, watery mud in his mouth, Bantas drank, and it tasted good. It seemed to make his world stable again and allowed him to focus on something other than the spinning darkness.

'That all you got?' he managed to say as he struggled to his feet. It was time to change tact.

The great giant approached, shock registered on his features at the durability of Bantas and his refusal to accept when he was beaten. Bantas swayed on unsteady legs. He allowed Hauli to get close, then swung a clumsy left that was well off its mark. The huge giant laughed, but pity etched his humour. Then all apparent dizziness fleeted from Bantas as he grabbed his opponent by the hair and rammed his head into his nose, which gave way with a sickening crunch. As Hauli held his face in pain, Bantas followed up with a punch to the throat. Not allowing any respite, he wrapped his arms about the great man's neck and leapt atop his back. With all his remaining strength he gripped the tribal warrior in a chokehold. Already not able to breathe from the blow to his throat, Hauli now also lost his flow of blood to the brain. In the space of a few heartbeats he toppled in an almighty splash.

Lying next to his defeated and unconscious opponent, Bantas looked into his face and said, 'You're a big, dumb brute. And you're an ugly sucker. By the way, you need to get your nose looked at. In fact,' he added, feeling at his own face, 'I think I do too.'

***

Earl Vlar Llundenberg was in a good mood. He had managed to slay a boar that morning whilst out hunting with his general, Cannick. The Champion of the King had, of course, allowed his lord the honour of claiming the kill despite first having had the chance himself, but nonetheless, it was a good feeling to take the life of another, albeit an animal. Vlar Llundenberg had also seen to the execution of a witch that had dared scratch his neck as he made love to her. Overall it had been a good day.

Then Ver'bane entered.

'My lord,' announced a flustered servant hot on his heels, 'the good merchant Ver'bane has arrived, along with another. He insisted they enter at once. I said that –'

'That will do,' said Earl Vlar Llundenberg, demanding silence with a gesture. He stroked his black curling moustachio nervously. 'You may take your leave.' Then, turning to his uninvited guests as they entered, he said, 'My good lord Ver'bane. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

Ver'bane – which was not the man's real name – was quite a nondescript character, looking well into his forties. He was balding and could do with losing some weight around the waist. From outward appearances the rich merchant seemed harmless enough, but Vlar Llundenberg knew better than to trust outward appearances.

Once the servant had left, the merchant took off his travel cloak and transformed into his usual form. This always unsettled Vlar Llundenberg to his core. He was sure the man did it on purpose. But Kem Kecha – for that was the so-called merchant's real name – had promised wealth and power, so he would tolerate the vile man.

'I hear tell of the escape of a witch,' said Kem Kecha, softly.

Earl Vlar Llundenberg was already nervous, but now broke out in gooseflesh at the sound of the man's dispassionate voice. The merchant was now much more pallid of skin. He had transformed before Vlar Llundenberg's very eyes into a sickly pale man with long, greasy jet black hair, and the vile man peered at him with unforgiving sunken eyes beneath prominent eyebrows.

'What of her?' said Vlar Llundenberg.

Kem Kecha did not reply but indicated to his companion that he should approach the earl.

'What is this?' he demanded as the stranger approached him.

Still he received no reply. Kem Kecha's companion took his hand.

'Can you recall her face?' came Kem Kecha's softly spoken question, sending shivers up his spine with the intensity behind the words.

'Yes,' he said.

'Then do so.'

Kem Kecha's silent companion kept hold of Earl Vlar Llundenberg's hand a moment longer before letting it go, then produced a parchment upon which he now began to draw.

Earl Vlar Llundenberg watched as the face of Amarinthine sprang to life upon the page. 'Yes, that's her. The little bitch burnt me when I tried to lie with her,' he complained.

'She used an Ability?'

'Of course she did. How else would she have been able to burn me?'

'It must be her then. Get more sketcher portraits of her. Lots more. I want them spread amongst every village, town, city and hamlet around the land until she is caught. You hear me?' said Kem Kecha.

'I hear you all right. And it suits me fine!' said the earl.

'Good. In that case it shan't be too long before I put you on the throne.'

Earl Vlar Llundenberg tugged on his moustachio and of a sudden chuckled giddily. 'Yes. The throne will be mine.'

***

Amarinthine was overcome with relief. She had been through so much turmoil recently that she wept from the exhaustion of it all. She had been terrified at what the Na H'Basi might have done should Bantas have failed this test. A stupid test anyway, she thought. It proved nothing. Then a thought occurred to her. Perhaps they were going to kill her anyway, for being a witch. Had Wamuhu and Eyebrows witnessed her use of an Ability? What was the tribe's take on such things? They had already called her a witch...

Wamuhu nodded to Eyebrows, who then led her and Seb away whilst healers tended Bantas and their huge champion. He led them through what she thought he called streets – though Amarinthine thought grass and churned up turf would be a better description; perhaps he was being ironic – past a series of huts. Others too now made their way indoors after having rushed to see the spectacle between the newcomer and their champion.

They arrived at a squat hut and in the moonlight Eyebrows beckoned them to enter through the open doorway. A thin partition bisected the room. Pale light clung to his frame as Eyebrows pointed from the doorway indicating that Amarinthine should take one side, Seb the other. Then he said, 'Your friend. He will join you later when healer finished.'

Seb dipped his head and said, 'Thank you.'

Eyebrows left. Amarinthine ran through her mother's breathing exercises and concentrated, and was soon using her Ability to make her hand glow. Inspecting their two small rooms, she spotted dry bedclothes.

By the time Bantas arrived they were already changed.

Amarinthine sat cross-legged next to Seb. Bantas dumped the chain mail and sodden apparel he had been carrying and collapsed on his pallet in Seb's half of the shack.

'I feel like I've just raced a thousand sharks underwater, and then had a boxing match with them all, one after the other,' he said.

'An interesting analogy,' said Seb. But Bantas was already snoring. 'How does he do that?'

Amarinthine shrugged. 'I hope you're not planning to take turns at sentry. When it comes to his turn – well, you may as well try and awaken a rock, I'm thinking.'

'Don't worry, we're safe here. We won't need to take shifts at sentry,' said Seb. He had a look of disgust on his face as he dressed the comatose Bantas in bedclothes. 'I think you're right about him though,' he added with a nod towards Bantas. 'I'm sure I'd wake up if another man started dressing me in my nightclothes.'

***

Izlim dropped the important cargo at the feet of the Knife, who was operating from a merchant's warehouse. His face under that heavy hood was deep in shadow. It was said that none came to know the face of the Knife and lived. The knowledge of this always bounced around in Izlim's head on the rare occasions he found himself in the presence of the infamous assassin. He noticed, however, that no matter how much light poured into the room, the face under the hood remained in blackest shadow. How then, could anybody ever come to know his face? he wondered.

They were in the privacy of an office within a warehouse belonging to a moderately wealthy merchant, who no doubt had received coin for his discretion. Not being the type to trust others and perhaps not wanting them to see his face under the deep hood, the Knife had not permitted Aldo and Namal inside the room. Namal, the fat driver, had made a full recovery from his head injury after his fall from the wagon.

Izlim watched nervously as the assassin prised open the crate, threw aside the reams of silk within and rummaged through the portraits hidden beneath, some on parchment, some on cowhide, some on fabric. He knew what was in there; he had already rummaged through it all himself when nobody was watching. He had nailed the box shut again of course, so there was no reason for the assassin to suspect that he already knew the contents. But what did make him nervous was not knowing how the assassin would react upon seeing them.

Holding a fistful of portraits in his left hand and a single portrait in his right, the assassin's head remained fixed upon the one in his right.

So quietly that Izlim had to strain to hear, the Knife said, 'Tell Ver'bane the price will be one hundred thousand golds.'

Izlim was not surprised at the large sum demanded. He knew who was on that portrait: the target was King Oaken himself.

'Erm, there may be another two or three portraits to add,' he said anxiously, more asking the Knife if this was okay than telling him.

'Nobles?'

'No, a mere girl and a mercenary – a giant of a man. And possibly another who chanced along, probably just another mercenary.'

'Yes, I have been informed of them. Have you seen them with your own eyes?'

'I have.'

'You know their location?'

'Roughly.'

'Well, I would not call them mere mercenaries,' said the assassin before calling in a sketcher. 'Tell Ver'bane I will include them. But it will cost him.'

CHAPTER NINE

THE NA H'BASI

The sun rose majestically and set the sky on fire. Red-rimmed clouds sailed through yet more reds and oranges. Behind him the sky was dark. Ahead there was light, but it was crimson, and as yet he could feel no warmth from it. He had trekked up to the top of the hill by the faintest of light from the beautiful stars, but his eyes had beheld no beauty. Now his eyes rested on the wondrous sunrise, but they beheld no wonder.

Having woken early, Seb left Bantas and Amarinthine behind in their hut, asleep. He knew they would be safe back at the Na H'Basi village, especially since Wamuhu had looked into their hearts as Bantas fought Hauli and judged that they harboured no ill intention.

Seb had only come to this vantage point to find solitude.

Now the giant ball of flame rising from the horizon, splashing all the colours of the spectrum across the sky and illuminating the land only served to remind him of how grey and cavernous his soul felt. He used to take pleasure from the splendours of the sky, especially from daytime's glorious death at dusk, and its rebirth at dawn. But all he felt now upon witnessing sunrise was malignant despair worming its way through his being as he battled against a sense of anomie with all his inner strength. He questioned how long he could keep going through the motions of living life. And keep fighting this mental battle. It gnawed at him knowing that this was one fight he could never win. How could he, when he had lost so much? No matter how many victories he could ever take from life it would never even get close to making up for the losses already suffered.

Because his wife and daughter had been murdered.

He recalled telling Bantas that they were back home, which was only a half-truth, but telling the half-truth had hurt just as deeply as admitting they were dead.

He needed to find his family's killers. He had to. Ever since that most dreadful day, Seb had searched for them, but to no avail. Even after one whole year, still he had no clues. What kind of gods would allow for such an atrocity to go unpunished? He often told himself that no such deity would ever again receive his prayers.

And the thought of now allowing Amarinthine and Bantas – whom already Seb felt he could rely on – into his life scared him. Especially if Hag was right and he would have to choose which of the three of them should die.

He could never choose for a friend to die over himself; ever had he been selfless and unafraid of sacrifice. Paradoxically, however, he could not allow for death to take him before first exacting revenge on his family's murderers.

Perhaps it would be best if he left Amarinthine and Bantas behind, safe here with the Na H'Basi tribe.

Absently he rolled his three dice. He rolled a one – and two sixes. But two of the dice always rolled sixes.

He looked up again and saw a speck of black appear in the red sky. Slowly it approached. Its body seemed too bulky for any bird that he knew of, though it was too distant for him to discern. He put the dice in his pocket. As he squinted at the growing speck, his legs and arms seemed to react of their own volition and he rose, his body somehow knowing what his mind did not.

His brain told him that he was foolish for standing and drawing his sword. He knew that the albatross had one of the greatest wingspans of the flying birds in Ehronin, but they were no threat to humans. His brain told him that this must be an albatross. But the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end and told him otherwise.

Whatever it was, it was heading straight for him. He could see now that it was not white like the albatross; it was too dark.

It looked like a terra tsal. The very thought sent a chill up his spine, just as it had when he saw one feasting on an elk. But they could not fly, for they were too large and cumbersome. They could merely glide from treetop to treetop.

They could not glide the distance, nor or at the altitude, that this creature had flown. But as it neared he saw that his fears and instincts were correct. High above him it descended at furious speed. It was a terra tsal.

Seb retreated away from the hurtling predator, down the steep slope of the hill. He had only ever known of a handful of men to stand against a terra tsal and live to tell the tale – and those terra tsal had not had the ability to fly.

This one adjusted its flight with an unnatural adroitness and Seb thought that dark magic must be at play. And despite his attempt to slow its progress by retreating down a steep slope, it was still on a direct collision course with him, closing fast.

At the last instant he rolled to his right, away from its strong narrow jaws and sharp pointed teeth, but the terra tsal had quick reactions. It grabbed his trailing ankle and lifted him into the air. Not managing to get a good grip, it lost hold of him and he fell to the ground. The ten-foot drop caused a grunt of pain as he landed on his shoulder.

Righting himself, he picked up his dropped sword and sprinted towards the trees. The terra tsal swooped for him before he could get there. Again he rolled, bringing up his sword to shield himself. The creature flinched from the blade, sensing the threat that it posed. As it arced in the air, Seb resumed his race for the relative shelter of the wood. It shrieked, and he heard the whoosh of its long wings close behind him. He angled away slightly and dived between two trees. The terra tsal gave a great beat of its wings to slow its flight but could not avoid crashing against the bole of an old oak. But it was not dead. It was not even stunned.

Seb slashed at its wing, slicing through leathery skin. It swung to face him and screamed as he danced back, away from its deadly teeth. It folded its wings and used them as legs to stalk towards him, hissing and screeching.

Using its fear of the blade to his advantage, Seb gave a few threatening stabs to slow its progress, but was still forced to walk backward at pace.

Then it stopped. It looked up and extended its wings. To Seb's amazement he saw that the creature was healing itself – rapidly. The slash in its leathery wing knotted back together again. Then the flying terra tsal once again took to the air.

Now understanding what its ploy had been, Seb acknowledged its intelligence; it had been leading him away from the trees, and now that it was healed he could no longer make a dash for it. He would have to stand his ground out in the open.

It flew away a short distance, veered round and came hurtling back towards him.

He planted his feet.

His two overlapping hands gripped the hilt of the short sword as he watched the terra tsal arrow right at him. It did not slow.

At first, he braced himself for impact, but then, whether out of instinct or inspiration Seb himself did not know, he leapt forward to meet the attack.

His blade rammed into its shrieking mouth. The impact jarred him violently and sent him from his feet. For a moment he thought the terra tsal had not stopped and that he was flying through the air. Its razor teeth perforated his arms, its jaws clamped about them, the teeth biting deep into flesh. They landed in a heap, the terra tsal atop of him.

A steady stream of crimson flowed from his arms, and he knew then that he did not have much time. He was bleeding to death.

Both his arms were still within its jaws, and he looked at the creature. It was unmoving. His sword had gone straight through its gaping maw and out the back of its head.

***

The tribesman danced lightly on his feet, awaiting an opening in Bantas' defence. Bantas seemed to grow tired and allowed his guard to drop. Amarinthine gasped as, quick as a viper, the tribesman dealt him a blow to the head with his sword.

'You bloody little puny runt, that hurt!' cursed Bantas.

The tribesman grinned, his smiling mouth seeming to take up most of his face, showing the gap between his front teeth. Ben, he had asked her to call him. His real name was Enobakhare-Benjana. One of the other tribesmen had told her he was the Cheetah of the Battle Charge, and also Wolf of the Dusk, but despite his titles, he himself said that he was merely a warrior of the Na H'Basi. Amarinthine found his name too hard to pronounce, but he was happy with the name Ben anyway.

Bantas returned the compliment with a blow to Ben's ribs, bringing more smiles from the agile tribesman as he held his hands in mock surrender and dropped his wooden sword.

Amarinthine had been watching Bantas and Ben spar since early morning, her thoughts drifting to the increasing numbers of kreresh and terra tsal throughout the land. Ben had not long since returned from venturing out with five others, trading furs for metals or weapons, from what she could gather. Of the six that had set out, only Ben returned. Upon their return journey they had been attacked first by two terra tsal which had killed three of them, then, having caught scent of their wounds, they were attacked and killed almost to the last by three hungry kreresh. And Ben had been hailed a hero by the tribe upon hearing the modest account of his survival story.

The warrior tribe had given Amarinthine and Bantas a warm welcome that morning when they emerged from their hut. Amarinthine worried where Seb had disappeared to. The Na H'Basimen had offered them their choicest food with which to break their fasts, and reassured them that Seb was fine; he had merely wanted to be alone for a while.

Ben had also told her that the tribe were now going to increase their patrols of the surrounding forest. And Bantas even volunteered to assist them in this, much to her alarm.

'There you are, you big bugger! Just got out of bed, Grizzly-bear? And I thought I was lazy,' said Bantas as the giant Hauli approached.

The weariness lifted from Bantas and he looked invigorated at the appearance of his mighty rival of the night before. Amarinthine marvelled at how good a job the tribe's healers had done on them both in such a short space of time. Each of them was full of vim and vigour. Hauli smiled in return and flexed his muscles. Then he picked up a wooden practise sword.

Ben laughed, saying, 'Ben will not get in way of such a big fight!' He picked up his own sword and gave the two ample room to bout.

Soon thunderous blows were dealt between Bantas – who was almost twice the size of Ben – and Hauli – who was more than twice the size of Ben. Still laughing, Ben said to Amarinthine, 'You are more my size. Come, take up practice sword.'

'Don't be stupid,' laughed Amarinthine. 'Even I am bigger than you are! You may be able to face hoards of kreresh and terra tsal, but you cannot face me.'

Smiling, Ben coaxed her, 'No, come. I will show you how to fight. Never know when you may need to.'

Amarinthine was overjoyed. This was exactly what she had been hoping for. Making a show of giving in to his disarming personality, she took the proffered sword. She had never before held a sword, not even one made of wood. If only the other maidservants back at Castle Nydar could see her now!

Ben showed her how to stand. He demonstrated the importance of footwork and how to manipulate the momentum of one's opponent.

He was running her through effective defence techniques when Seb came through the trees.

They stopped sparring. Everybody stopped.

Covered in blood, Seb returned from his lone venture carrying a terra tsal upon his back, which he dropped to the grass with a grunt.

'I'll need a healer,' he said.

***

Bantas watched the heavy snow as it fell softly from the sky. They had been with the tribe five weeks now, having decided to lie low until things quietened down. They were sure there would be people searching for them – for each of them – and sketcher portraits would most likely be pinned up in all surrounding towns and cities, offering reward for their capture. His plan was to escort Amarinthine over the mountains to Ar'enth, then onward from there to Laerdes where an old family friend of hers, Samson Ward, lived. Aside from her mother and brother, Ward seemed to be the only fond memory from her past.

'If the snow keeps up like this, which I think it will, the pass through the Sark Peaks over to Ar'enth will very soon be impassable,' observed Bantas.

'Looks like we're holed up here until spring,' agreed Seb.

'We? I thought you were heading south?'

'I couldn't leave Amarinthine on her own whilst I gallivant off south with no real aim in life, could I? Especially not if that pedlar is right and we've got an earl hunting us down.'

'She wouldn't be on her own; I'd be escorting her.'

'Exactly,' joked Seb with a rare smile that touched his eyes. 'In fact, come to think of it, I'll have two people to protect. I don't know if I could manage that, all the way to Ar'enth, let alone Laerdes.'

'Very funny – hold on... I'm going to split my sides any moment now...'

A few chuckles went around the campfire at the exchange between the two – from those who understood what was said, at least. They sat around a large fire as they dined on venison that Ben had brought back earlier that day, slung over his shoulder after a successful hunting expedition.

Later – and not for the first time – the tribe made Seb recount his story of how he killed the terra tsal of dark magic. Immersed in his recounting they were very solemn, for they fully understood the severity of the situation should there be any more of the magically-enhanced terra tsal like the one that could fly with such nimbleness – and could even heal itself. The implications played on their minds.

Seb ended his narrative with his sword sticking out the back of the terra tsal's head.

Once his translator finished translating, the chieftain rose and threw a bone at the dead terra tsal for good measure. It stood on display, impaled upon a spear driven into the ground. Then he applauded Seb for his valour. Following their chieftain's lead, the whole tribe rose to their feet in a show of appreciation.

Then Ben made an announcement.

'Let us not forget. Today is special day for another reason. Today is Midwinter's Day, and Amarinthine is one more winter closer to full womanhood.' Walking over to her, Ben offered her a simple gift. It was an enamelled wooden ring with a scorpion etched into its face. 'From whole tribe, zawadi,' he said, meaning gift, and indicated all of the smiling faces around the campfire.  
'Thank you! It's lovely. But I have nothing to give in return,' said Amarinthine.

The chieftain spoke in his native tongue and all eyes turned respectfully towards him.  
'Chief says, "Do not worry,"' translated Ben. '"But remember Na H'Basi by it."'  
'And I will. Always. Thank you,' she said, holding the ring close and treasuring it.

'Seb, did you know it was Midwinter's Day?' asked Bantas.

Seb replied in the negative.

'Erm, Amy. I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you,' he told her.

'Nor I,' said Seb.

'That's okay,' said Amarinthine. Her voice betrayed a slight tremor as she added, 'You two have done enough for me already. Without you, either of you, I don't know what would have become of me.'

'Happy times,' beamed Eyebrows, as the tribesman with the wooden eyebrow piercings had come to be known. He turned to watch his three children as they played, re-enacting Seb's feat of slaying the terra tsal. His real name was Elimu, but the name Eyebrows had quickly caught on. It did not seem to bother Elimu. In fact, he took it as a compliment, being very proud of his wooden eyebrow piercings.

***

Spring drew nearer and already many birds had returned from migration. It would soon be time for the trio to leave. The thought saddened Amarinthine. Time had flown so fast that it seemed they had only just arrived. And she would miss Ben's lessons with the sword.

Yesterday more travellers came across the Na H'Basi. Their strongest faced the towering Hauli, as was customary. This time Hauli won the bout comfortably. The travellers had still been offered shelter for the night – and a healer for the unlucky contestant – but they were then sent on their way the following morning. Wamuhu had looked into their hearts and judged them with ill favour, saying that they were likely bandits, or worse. Bantas complained when he saw the generous treatment the scoundrels were given. He said that had he known he would have been offered shelter without having to get beaten near to death by the bloody giant Grizzly-bear, he would most certainly not have bothered. The comment was received with much amusement from the warrior tribe and Wamuhu explained that he could more easily see into the heart of man during combat.

Amarinthine had grown very fond of the warrior tribe and had formed close friendships with a number of them, Ben and Lubaya included, whom she currently accompanied on their way to fill a few buckets of water from the river. It was a duty that the women of the tribe carried out, but Ben had volunteered to help, not being the type to remain in idleness for long.

'I will miss you,' she told them both.

'We will miss you, too,' said Lubaya, placing an arm around her. She had grown especially close to Lubaya, who had a very good grasp of her language, speaking perfect Ehronian.

Ben gave her one of his gap-toothed smiles. 'Not time yet,' he said.

'No, I suppose I shouldn't sadden myself with thoughts of leaving just yet,' she said as she played with the ring that the tribe had given her back on Midwinter's Day. She was fifteen winters old now. 'Seb said we will be leaving soon and that I'll have to dress like a boy tomorrow, so that I can start practising to act like one. He said there will be sketcher portraits of the three of us all around the land and a price will be on our heads. It would be safer if I travelled in disguise.

'Thanks again for not turning us in,' she added.

'You know that is not our way,' said Ben. 'We know that you are honest and pure of heart, and that you have each been wronged by your people in different ways.'

Amarinthine toyed with the ring on her finger. 'Does the scorpion symbolise anything?' she asked, indicating the ring. She had been meaning to ask the question for a while now but had somehow never got round to it.

'Of course,' explained Lubaya, 'every person has within them in essence the spirit of an animal. Yours is the scorpion.'

'Oh.' Amarinthine was not sure if she liked the idea of being a scorpion.

Ben sensed this and laughed. 'It not so bad. The scorpion does not attack others. Not without good reason. When it does attack, it prefer to wait, luring prey until it close enough to sting.'

'How do you know I'm a scorpion?'

Lubaya replied, 'Wamuhu can see into the heart of any man or woman, and tell us the animal that lies within.'

'And what animal spirits are the two of you?'

'I am the lioness: sociable and a good hunter, Wamuhu says. Though women do not usually hunt, I sometimes join the men and show them how it is done,' said Lubaya, and chuckled.

'I will not disagree!' Ben laughed along.

'So what are you?' she asked of Ben.

'I am two animals. First is the wolf: Happy to settle down with mate and have pups, though usually it end up living alone. It at the top of its food chain. It rarely killed by other creatures, except on occasion when lone wolf is caught out in territory of kreresh or terra tsal. Or tiger, though usually they all avoid each other and respect the threat each poses.'

'Tigers live much farther south, in a different land, don't they?'

'Yes, but that where our tribe is originally from.'

'You recently moved north?'

'Yes. Only about one hundred years ago.'

'Oh. One hundred years sounds a long time to me.' Then a thought occurred to her. 'Do you know of anyone who can talk with wolves?'

The question startled Ben. 'Why you ask?'

'I met a boy, Lonnie, who claims to have the Ability.'

'Interesting.'

'Well, can you?'

The smile left Ben's face for a moment. 'I trust you, Amarinthine. Your heart is pure. If I tell you, you must vow never to tell another soul; there are those outside of this community – where I journey many times – who would gladly see death of person with Ability. Whether witch or heretic.' A heretic was a male with an Ability.

'Of course I promise.'

'Good. Yes, Amarinthine, I can talk to them, and they to me.'

'Does your community accept people with Abilities?'

'Of course. We are not barbarians.'

When it seemed to Amarinthine that Ben was not going to carry on with his explanation of animal spirits, she pressed him. 'And what is the second animal that lies within you?'

'The second animal within me is cheetah, for I like to roam and do not like to stay in one place too long.'

'And he is fast!' added Lubaya. 'It helps, because when he is scared, he can run like the chicken!' The girls laughed, and Ben laughed along with them. Amarinthine had heard stories about the cheetah from the distant lands to the south, and its remarkable speed.

'What about the others?' she enquired. She was intrigued, and keen to know what Seb's and Bantas' animal spirits were.

Lubaya explained, 'Wamuhu himself is the hawk, for he sees everything, except he sees more than the hawk.'

'That's why he has earrings with hawks carved into them!' said Amarinthine.

'Yes. Elimu – or Eyebrows, as you call him – he is the crocodile, another creature from our homeland, for he is protective of those he loves, especially his children. The giant, Hauli – or Grizzly-bear as your friend Bantas calls him – he is, believe it or not, the brown bear, for he is big and strong. And like Ben, he feels the urge to roam.'

Amarinthine wondered what a crocodile was, but did not ask this question yet. Instead she asked, 'What about Bantas and Seb?'

'Bantas is the dog, for he is loyal and makes a very good friend. He is formidable when working with fellow pack members.'

'And Seb?'

'Seb,' said Lubaya, looking at Ben. 'He is a little bit similar to Ben, yet different in many ways. He is the Wolf.'

***

Seb had woken early and crept out quietly as he was wont to do. Amarinthine heard him leave and tried to get back to sleep, but could not. And the thought of listening to Bantas snore loudly did not appeal to her. She rose from her pallet and pulled on the boys' clothing that the tribe had acquired for her upon Seb's instruction – along with her new short hairstyle, it was her disguise for when they eventually reached a large town – but she did not bother to be overly quiet in doing so. In fact, she thought, a stampede of bulls could probably charge right by and still Bantas would not wake. Then she amended the thought: he could sleep through pretty much anything until the very moment there was trouble. At the first sign of danger he would spring up with axe in hand as if he had been waiting for it the whole while. Not for the first time she wondered at this knack of his, especially the way he could fall asleep at will. She wondered if sleeping was some sort of Ability of his.

She stepped outside. It was still dark, and snow covered the ground. Wrapping her cloak about her and breathing a few misty breaths into the air she enjoyed the crunch of the fresh snow beneath her boots – she followed a different path than the one Seb had taken, for she knew that he often wished to be left alone.

Despite the coming of spring, one last and sudden deep freeze had befallen the land. Wamuhu said that it brought with it bad tidings, but she enjoyed the snow. She decided to give somebody a pleasant surprise by saving them the job of fetching buckets of water from the river. She trudged along the hidden path towards the River Leagues, just over two miles distant. Dawn had not yet broken, but the blanket of pure white upon the ground reflected the moonlight. She felt a thrill of excitement, fully aware that this was the farthest she had strayed from the warrior tribe's village by herself.

The sun began to rise. It cast brilliantly intense light through the clean air, mirrored and magnified by the reflective surface of the snow so that she had to shield her eyes with one of her buckets as she progressed forward. Somewhere out there, a few miles away, Ben and Hauli were out patrolling the forest, hunting kreresh or terra tsal, or both. She marvelled at their bravery. They were such an honourable people, and life was far more simple and peaceful in their presence. Home seemed so very far away – another world away – but she found that she did not miss it so much here with the warrior tribe. She wondered why they were even referred to as a warrior tribe; they were so peaceful that she could never imagine them starting a war with anyone.

Reaching the River Leagues, she leaned over and used the bucket to smash a hole in the frozen water. It took her a few wallops, but eventually the thin surface of the frozen river gave way with a crack. She filled the two buckets. Standing, she heard someone shout a shrill warning through the erstwhile quiet and peaceful tranquillity. She turned, and she saw it.

A terra tsal beat its wings through the still, cold air, keeping low, flying right at her.

***

Seb reached the top of the hill and again watched the sunrise without pleasure. Regardless of having been attacked once already by a flying terra tsal at this very spot, he remained unperturbed. He remembered the joy and delight that he used to feel from seeing the miraculous ball of flame rising up from the ground. He just didn't feel it any more.

Hearing a clacking, he looked out towards the river, a little way off in the distance. He was surprised to see Amarinthine repeatedly striking the ice of the frozen river. He heard a crack as the ice shattered. Hairs rose on the back of his neck as he saw a flying terra tsal swiftly approach her from behind. He shouted out to warn her, his arms outstretched as though he could save her by force of will. The flying terra tsal scooped her up in its talons, shrieked and carried her away. He stood frozen, helpless. With a sour knot in his gut, all he could do was watch to see in which direction the terra tsal headed.

Tempering his panic, a cold rage took hold and he set off at a run back towards the village. He and Bantas needed to form a search party, but at the speed the terra tsal travelled, it could take months before they caught up with it.

If they caught up with it.

CHAPTER TEN

CAPTIVE

The creature's talons squeezed her in a vice-like grip. The world sailed by beneath her and Amarinthine had long since lost her bearings. Exhausted from trying to wrestle herself from the terra tsal's clutches, she gave up and allowed her body to sag into its grasp, and wept. She was unable even to draw one of her daggers as the terra tsal prevented this with its tight grip around her waist. To overcome her terror she ran through her mother's breathing exercises. With lethargy slowly came rational thinking, tinged with dread. She looked down. Butterflies fluttered in her chest and ran down to the tips of her toes. The terra tsal rose to a good height, beating its wings of dark magic. Who would create such a creature? The answer came easily to mind, for it could only be Earl Vlar Llundenberg, she thought. He wanted her captured alive, wanted to torture her for supposedly being a witch. Now he had her – almost. Amarinthine could not allow that to pass. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the drop below. But even the drop would be better than capture.

Deep, slow breaths. Clear the mind of distraction. Focus. That was what Mother had taught her. She focused on crackling flames and searing heat, just as she had when she set the campfire ablaze on the outskirts of the Forest of the Na H'Basi with Seb and Bantas.

The creature's grip tightened. Determined not to be captured by Earl Vlar Llundenberg, she did not allow it to distract her. But the terra tsal was not made of wood as the campfire's fuel had been. And she could almost feel the dark magic of the unnatural creature resisting her. She felt the power that had welled up within her now begin to slip away like an eel in murky waters, and the creature's grip tightened yet further. She could no longer breathe.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Something snapped into place in her consciousness, giving her a moment of total clarity. Grabbing the fading power within her, she hurled it at the terra tsal with all her mental and physical strength – and smashed through its magical resistance.

The creature shrieked, and Amarinthine fell suddenly from the sky.

Although falling, she continued to attack the creature with a barrage of heat, allowing the power within her to flood from her until she was spent. She did not want the creature to swoop down and grab her again.

Of a sudden, what little resistance of the terra tsal's dark magic remained seemed to crumble. The terra tsal burst into flame, screaming. But its shrieks melted away as Amarinthine lost consciousness.

And she plummeted.

***

When she awoke she panicked, grabbing hold of anything that might stop her fall. But she was falling no longer. A rickety wagon bumped her along on a dry mud road, and she was hot. Had it not been snowing? Looking to her clothes to see which items she could remove she remembered that as part of her disguise she was dressed as a boy. She recalled calloused hands forcing water down her throat, and seemed to remember drifting in and out of consciousness, bone tired having spent all her energy fighting the terra tsal.

'He's awake!' barked a gruff voice. Rough hands dragged her from the wagon. 'Pretty little boy, aren't you?'

Amarinthine looked into the eyes of the sneering bull-necked man who grabbed her. He was tanned and had dark brown hair that looked like it had been hacked at with a knife by a drunkard. As he spoke Amarinthine could smell his reeking breath.

'Let's see what you're made of – you can walk from now on. Besides, I want my wagon back.'

Scores of shackled men and boys were being marched in single file, following a caravan of ruffians. She was dragged to the end of the line and shackled with irons hand and foot, and tied at the waist with rope to her fellow captives.

'Not far to go now till we camp. If you fall, this lot will drag you along. You've had enough rest in my wagon,' said the bull-necked man.

Her head was throbbing, and she had never felt so weak and delirious, but she willed herself to keep pace, fearing that to slow the train would incur the ruffians' wrath. At the front of the line the tormentors shouted insults and spat at their captives, all the while swigging wine and making lurid remarks. She was thankful to be at the back, out of their way.

She soon needed to pass water but was too scared to ask if she could stop and pee. She got the impression they would sooner she wet herself than bring the caravan to a halt – which is what she must have done whilst unconscious in the wagon, she thought. She took a little comfort knowing that all the slaves must smell bad, and not just her, but she couldn't continue to pass water in this way! The trouble was, she couldn't go in the manner that males did, and she did not want them to discover who she was and hand her over to Vlar Llundenberg for a reward. Better they think her a boy until she could escape somehow. But where were they leading her? She dared not think.

They had barely covered a mile, but already Amarinthine swayed on her feet. She was desperately dehydrated and the throbbing in her head was incessant. The old, wiry man in front of her turned and with shackled wrists extended his arms to offer her a waterskin. He gave her a concerned smile and squinted at her. She gulped down the remaining contents of the waterskin, warm and salty with the sweat and saliva of the hundred or so captives in front of her, but refreshing nonetheless. Those in front seemed to be faring much better than she.

Still thirsty, she closed her eyes and savoured the memory of water on her already dry tongue. Why is it so hot?

'It's the heatwave,' said the old man, as though reading her mind. He spoke quietly. 'That's why it's so hot, like. And why we're so damned thirsty. Those in front usually gulp down the offered water before it gets far enough down the line to reach us.'

Amarinthine now wished she were at the front, being spit at and abused. At least then she would get some water. 'How did I get here?' she asked. She forgot to put on her male voice, but the old man did not seem surprised at how she sounded, or at least did not let it show.

'These villains saw you being dragged out of a lake by a young lad in the small town of Speakeasy, about a month since now. You've been out for a good while, like. In and out of consciousness. Thought you'd be dead by now. Rumour is they've been feeding you some potion or other to keep you alive. And I think the lad got you breathing again when he found you. But when he tried to scamper off, that scoundrel Bull-neck ran out and caught him. Think the lad would have got away, but most like he was tired after rescuing you. Anyway, he slashed Bull-neck with his knife. Big mistake, brave though it may have been. He took a beating. Now he's in the wagon in front of the one you were in. Looked pretty bad, like.'

Speakeasy. That was en route to Nydar and the evil earl. The terra tsal must have been taking me to him, she thought. Like as not Seb and Bantas would head back through the Sark Peaks to Ar'enth and then north to Nydar to try and find her – if they came after her, that is.

'I hope he's okay,' she said, referring to the young lad who had rescued her. She tried to sound more masculine and also spoke quietly, fearing their captors would not allow conversation. But they did not seem to be taking any notice.

'Aye. I hope he wakes up. Must be a good lad, like.'

'Where are they taking us?' she asked in slightly too deep a voice. I need to get better at acting like a boy, and quick.

'You don't know? Well, I hope you're good with a sword, lad. They're taking us to Mori Voh.'

'But that's south. Not to mention outside of the kingdom. It's an empire! We're heading in the wrong direction! Why are they taking us there?'

The old man nodded gravely and replied, 'We're to be trialled – as fighters for the Arena.'

***

In the fading light the press gang stopped. They were to sleep outside in the cold. Amarinthine only had to walk for the tail end of the day but could not have been more relieved to stop. She was bursting for a pee, but still did not want to give away the fact that she was a girl. She would rather die fighting in the Arena than be handed over to the earl of Nydar to be tortured and murdered for witchcraft. Vlar Llundenberg was a lewd and evil man whose actions had torn her away from her family and destroyed her life. She had to stay here. Being murdered for witchcraft was the only alternative. Seb and Bantas would never find her; they would be heading in the wrong direction. She had heard stories of what happened to the women and girls taken by gamers. She would rather them think her a boy.

Hopping from foot to foot, she was struck with inspiration. Still tied to her fellow captives, most of whom had already relieved themselves whilst standing, she dropped her trousers and squatted. Of course, she could just pretend to excrete and hope that nobody noticed she had merely urinated. Why would they notice, anyway? she thought. When finished, she rubbed her red-raw, blistered wrists and ankles as best she could under the irons.

'Next time you need to piss, do it on your blisters, like,' advised the old man.

'Will it help?' asked Amarinthine.

'No, but it'll give me something to laugh about! Ha! No, no, I'm only kidding you, lad. Yes, it will help. It'll help heal and toughen up your skin. You listen to old Randall, he'll see that you get by.'

'Thank you. Pleased to meet you, Randall.'

'Likewise. Pleased to meet you...'

'Am... er, my name is Puce,' she said, giving the name of her brother.

'Puce. Suits you, like.'

***

The next day Bull-neck, dragging along the boy who had saved Amarinthine from drowning in the lake, brought him down to join her at the end of the train and snapped closed a pair of shackles. Bull-neck then spat on the boy's cheek before heading back to the wagon. The 'boy' was perhaps a winter or two older than Amarinthine and seemed to her more man than boy. If looks could harm, his vengeful stare would have rent Bull-neck's torso to a bloody pulp.

'Thank you for saving me,' said Amarinthine.

'Aye.'

He continued to glower at Bull-neck.

'My name is Puce.' She decided that from now on she would keep the name, for as long as she remained a slave at least. 'Pleased to meet you...'

'Jak,' was the curt reply. They did not talk again for many months.

***

Hood drawn up, the assassin ghosted through the dark streets of Laerdes, awaiting his opportunity. When it came a passer-by slumped into his arms and he disappeared into the shadows without anybody's noticing. Opening a door, he slipped through into the room beyond ever so quietly with the passer-by slung over one shoulder.

'I have come for the portraits,' his deathly voice intoned as he let fall his victim.

The sketcher's crude wooden chair tipped, and he all but grappled with it as he lost his balance and bumped against the rickety pine table trying to stand in haste. The portrait he had been drawing slewed to the dirt and reed floor, alongside the unconscious man. 'What in the name of...?'

'The portraits,' the hooded man in black repeated as he brought his victim back around with smelling salts.

'Are you the Knife?' asked the sketcher nervously.

'Aye. Now hand me the portraits before I tire of your company. Do not try to peer through the shadows of my hood, sketcher, or I may kill you.'

'Yes, of course. Right away.' The sketcher knew exactly which portraits the assassin meant. He also knew that to speak of this to anyone could mean his very life. With a cold knot in his gut he crossed the room to a set of drawers and removed the bottommost. Bound in leather and strapped to the underside were portraits drawn upon parchment. The sketcher handed them over.

'Good. Next you will need plenty more parchment.' Turning to the man he had kidnapped, the assassin said, 'Recall to mind the faces of the Cumberland family: the duke, the duchess, and their son, Lonnie, as well as any of the duke's bastard sons too. And any others of importance currently in the duke's household.'

'What... what do you want their portraits for?' asked the frightened unfortunate. He was a slender man sporting expensive clothing. The sketcher mused that, like as not, the man had lost an air of importance since being held under duress; no doubt in fear of his life, the well-dressed man now appeared subservient. But his words belied his manner when he added, 'Lonnie is just a child – he cannot surely have been involved in whatever it is...'

'Just do as I say, or I will give you a very slow and painful death,' interrupted the hooded man in black.

Then he took a slice of the unfortunate's ear.

'Okay, okay! Please, stop!' shrieked his terrified victim.

The hooded man stopped and nodded once towards the sketcher as his prisoner tried hard to hold in his snivelling sobs.

The sketcher reached out and took the poor man's hand. As he did so, faces flashed in his mind's eye – and he began to draw.

As each line and curve met the parchment, the ink sprang to life in vibrant colours that appeared to rise up above the surface. When a sketcher drew a portrait of a man, to look upon it would be as to look upon the man himself.

Once done, four more portraits brimmed with lifelike trueness upon the sketcher's desk.

Without warning, the hooded man in black snapped the neck of his prisoner. He slung the warm corpse across both shoulders, picked up the fresh portraits and without another word left as taciturnly as he had entered.

Alone now, the sketcher released a suppressed shudder. It was the first time he had met the assassin, and he hoped it would be the last. Gods help those upon the parchments which the assassin now carries with him, he thought. For they would need the gods' protection right now.

***

Amarinthine wiped away the blood. She knew not from where it came exactly, just that her face was bleeding. She received another punch to the head and fell when her opponent's practise sword struck her in the ribs.

Their day had started at first light when they were roused and made to leave their respective cells for the night. Fortunately, thought Amarinthine, at least she only shared her cell with old Randall. And at least they had a roof over their heads since arriving at what would now be their new home. They were into their second week here.

'You fall too easily!' rebuked Bull-neck. His real name was Sorkam, but whenever out of earshot all the new recruits called him Bull-neck.

The slaves were the property of their new master, Lord Kuithatril, whose previous fighters had been killed to the last in a fierce competition between rivalling Lords of the Arena, or so the rumour amongst the slaves abounded. They had yet to meet Lord Kuithatril. He was due to arrive soon, and this was Bull-neck's idea of a gentle warm-up before meeting him for the first time.

Amarinthine was allowed a welcome respite as another took her place to get pummelled by one of Bull-neck's underlings. Her heart was not in this at all.

Then Lord Kuithatril arrived. And he was not in a very good humour himself.

'Let's see what we've got!' said their new master. 'Sorkam, I want them paired off in fights to the death. That should give us some idea of whether or not any of these scum can fight. Any that refuse to kill their opponent shall either take twenty lashes or report directly to me for punishment.'

Randall leaned over and said furtively to Amarinthine, 'If they pair us together, I will let you kill me. I wouldn't want to see you die, lad. You're far too young.'

'I couldn't kill you!' whispered Amarinthine.

Bull-neck called up Jak first, to fight the biggest of all the captives – a grim-faced Ar'enthian. Amarinthine could see by the gleam in his eye that Bull-neck was hungry to see Jak suffer for the knife wound he had given him.

Jak's opponent was almost twice his size, and Amarinthine thought to herself that Jak had perhaps not grown into full manhood yet. It was an unfair pairing.

They kept their bucklers, but the wooden practise swords were taken from them. In their stead, Jak and his opponent were handed swords of iron.

The Ar'enthian wasted no time and charged Jak, who parried a downward blow and skipped behind the larger man. The reverberating clang of ringing metal sent a shiver up Amarinthine's spine and the hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end as she watched.

The fight was over in a flash. Jak hamstrung his opponent before swinging his sword at the Ar'enthian's temple. He struck the Ar'enthian with the flat of his blade.

'Finish him!' snapped Bull-neck.

But Jak turned and walked away, leaving Bull-neck fuming.

'Very well,' Lord Kuithatril chuckled, 'give the boy twenty lashes when we are finished here. Call up the next pair.'

The barbaric fighting went on with more victors choosing to ruthlessly end their opponents' lives than spare them, preferring, unlike Jak, to avoid twenty lashes.

Now came Randall's turn. Amarinthine's friend was pitted against a short, mean-looking man who appeared to be the type to have no scruples about killing anyone. They squared off, circling one another. The short man moved first, his attack swinging in from Randall's left. Randall's reactions were a flawless sequence of combinations: First, the old man blocked with his sword and elbowed his opponent in the face in one movement. Then he dealt the short man a knee to the groin and swept his legs from under him, and the short man found Randall holding a blade to his throat.

'I'm no murderer. And no coward. I'll take the twenty lashes,' said Randall, dropping his sword before trudging away.

Amarinthine once saw a man take just ten lashes back home at Castle Nydar. His back had been a ruined mess of flesh and blood and he had cried like a child. It had taken him two full days before he could carry out even the most mundane of tasks. That was just ten lashes. She was sure that she did not have the strength to face that, let alone twenty lashes, and she was very concerned for old Randall.

Bull-neck called her up to fight next, against a lean, blond man of average height. Trying her best to look and act male, she tried to remember everything that Ben had taught her back with the Na H'Basi. It is all about footwork and how to manipulate the momentum of one's opponent, he had said.

The blond attacked. On the defensive, Amarinthine tried to memorise any pattern in her opponent's technique. Conscious of her footing, she was determined not to allow her defence to become compromised. She found this an easy task at first as the blond was not very good and vastly inexperienced. Still, he had greater strength than she. Her plan was to wear him down, but then what? She couldn't bring herself to kill him!

Blocking an overhead attack, her ringing sword sent a shock down her arm and she took a step back, trying to open up a little distance between them. Her sword of iron felt so heavy.

Again they circled. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she looked into those of her antagonist. She saw fear there. He attacked, and again she defended.

Sure enough, the blond grew tired. His fear turned to anger, and his attacks became desperate flails. But somehow he managed to cut Amarinthine's forearm, and she lost grip of her buckler.

The blond went for the kill by swinging with all his might – which was his mistake. His clumsy attempt to deal a heavy blow gave Amarinthine the instant she needed to roll out of reach of the biting blade – just. She came up with sword in hand, and before he knew it she'd slashed him across the stomach and struck him in the head with her pommel.

He lay on his back with a lump on his head, clutching his belly. Amarinthine needed to be sick. It took all of her will to keep her composure and carry on with her male masquerade. Had she screamed? She couldn't recall.

Grim of face, she stepped towards the blond to see if he was all right, sword still in hand. Lord Kuithatril must have mistaken her intent for he chuckled and said with glee, 'Very good! This young lad has potential!'

She looked at the blond. Though she was no expert, his wound seemed superficial and she thought he would live – or at least she hoped he would.

'I cannot kill him,' she said meekly, still remembering to sound masculine.

'Ah! Perhaps I spoke too soon of your potential. I think we need to talk, you and I. Sorkam, have the lad brought up to me after this lot have been fed. No lashes mind, you hear? I'll decide his punishment.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

REVELATIONS

Prince Richard laid his head to rest and waited for sleep to take him. Two of his trusted guards kept watch outside the door, along with another two of the king's own. Being King Oaken's nephew now meant that he was the last remaining heir to the throne; all others had mysteriously died in recent months. King Oaken had pleaded with him to take extra vigilance and he was not a man who needed to be told twice about such matters. He was the king's guest in Castle Laerdes for the next couple of nights, having visited to discuss important matters political and of the state, not least the matter of how and why heirs were dropping like flies. The most recent death had been that of the king's last remaining son, Prince Orville. This had almost unhinged King Oaken, who loved his son – had loved both his sons – dearly. Now they had each met with death, murdered by an assassin, he believed, though Orville's had been made to look like a hunting accident.

Seeing as how the great Samson Ward, previous Champion of the King and Protector of the Realm, was old and retired, Prince Richard and King Oaken had searched for the legendary Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin, keen to enlist his help against this mystery assassin. The king was certain that the Saviour would prove to be again just that – a saviour – but they could find him nowhere, nor even did they hear rumour of his whereabouts. It was as if the man had vanished from the face of the land.

Prince Richard was concerned for his king. But he was even more concerned for himself.

***

The hooded man in black stepped smoothly from shadow. A throwing knife flew through the air. It struck one side of Prince Richard's neck, parting the flesh as though it were warm butter, and came out the other side to nestle into the soft, plush mattress. A heartbeat later the hooded man's hand covered the prince's mouth to smother any potential cry.

Another knife ran across the prince's neck to make certain the deed was done, leaving a path of trickling crimson. The assassin lifted the prince's head by the hair and extracted his throwing knife from the mattress, then rolled the body on to the floor with a thud. A moment later the door opened a crack.

'My lord?' called a voice from the hall.

When there was no answer the guard entered. Nearing the opposite side of the bed where the prince's body lay, of a sudden the guard slumped to the floor. A throwing knife protruded from the base of his skull.

The assassin stepped into the doorway, both arms raised. Two blades flashed through the air and the farthest two guards fell. The fourth stood in shock. A yell began to form on his lips, but a hand, fingers outstretched and stiff, rammed into his throat. The terrified guard had not even drawn a weapon when the blade punctured his heart and killed him.

Calmly the assassin dragged the three corpses into the prince's room one after the other, then eased the door closed behind him. The chore tired him, and he caught his breath again as he retrieved and cleaned his throwing knives. Once done, he exited through the window, carefully descended the sheer wall the thirty or so feet using tiny cracks and gaps for hand- and footholds, then crossed the long courtyard like a wraith in shadow.

Again feeling for hand- and footholds in the dark, this time to ascend the king's tower, the assassin scaled ten stories like a lizard. Since the death of his eldest son the king now slept in the top of the tower, believing it to be safer. The assassin slipped through a window, sparing a glance down as he did so. Below him was a drop of one hundred feet. This was the Knife's riskiest ever assassination. And his most dangerous. The king slept in a bricked-up room with a single door for access and egress, so it would not just be a case of slipping in through the window as he had done with the prince.

He made his way to the stairwell, and another guard fell to his blades. He dragged the body away and hid it in a nearby room. Gliding up the stairs he stopped at the top to peek around the corner.

Six more stood in the hallway. This high up, nobody else should hear any commotion, thought the assassin – unless one of the guards yelled in warning, perhaps. That could not be allowed.

He picked up a stone and threw it down the stairs. Hearing the sound, one of the guards approached and he slunk back around the curving wall of the stairwell. The guard took a few steps down, rounded the corner and met with a knife lodged up under his chin and into his brain.

Looking at the dead man in disgust, the assassin wondered if all the guards were this stupid. Another came to check on the first. The Knife could not believe his luck as the second met with the same fate as the first. Now only four remained. Alerted to potential danger at the disappearance of two of their comrades, the remaining guards perked up and held ready their swords.

'Look lively, lads,' said one, 'it's probably nothing, but you never know. And be quiet; we don't want to alarm His Grace needlessly. You remember what happened last time.'

The assassin waited for the four to approach. As they neared, he leapt round the stairwell and two of them fell to his throwing knives. He took up the sword of the nearest and rolled beneath a searching blade. Rising, he disembowelled the guard.

Only one remained. The man shouted out in warning to his king as their swords clashed. The assassin heard the king exclaim in fear. He allowed the sword in his right hand to clash with the guard's once more, as with his left he thrust a knife at his throat. At first the blade scraped the bone of the guard's chin, meeting with a little resistance, but soon enough it sank smoothly into the soft tissue of the man's neck.

Now only King Oaken remained.

'All is well, my lord,' called out the assassin. The irony that the king had arranged for his window to be bricked up was not lost on him; had the window still been there, the king could have called down to any guards in the courtyard for help. 'The intruder has been dealt with.'

'Truly?' came King Oaken's reply.

'Absolutely. Just a misunderstanding, sire.' The hooded man in black lowered his hood and held a hand to the cold stone wall to steady himself.

The king's bedchamber door cracked open. At sight of the assassin, the king looked confused.

'My goodness. What are you doing here?' said the king as he swung the door fully open and took a step forward almost as though to greet an unexpected visitor.

A flash of metal hurtled through the air and embedded itself into King Oaken's forehead.

'Now you have met the Knife,' said the assassin.

The king died with surprise etched on his face.

Later, when his body was found by the King's Guard, they found not a single trace of the killer.

***

...nor could Seb hear shouts of 'Daddy! Daddy!' And his wife was not stood in the doorway smiling at him, gladdened at his return.

Then he spotted Flute, lying amongst the reds and yellows of the tulips. Poor boy, he thought. Mustn't be well. Perhaps that was why his wife and daughter had not yet come to greet him: the dog hadn't barked.

But the dog was not just unwell. Flute's ribcage had been smashed in, and bone jutted through the open wound. But if someone had done this to him, thought Seb with dread in the pit of his gut, why wasn't Rose here to tend to him?

'No!' Seb awoke with a start.

Keeping watch as sentry, Eyebrows turned to him. 'Are you okay?' he asked.

Realising that he had been dreaming, Seb answered, 'I'm fine. Don't worry about me. The sooner we find Amarinthine, the better.'

Since her abduction Seb's nightmares had returned. He had managed to escape his recurring dreams of the past during their stay with the Na H'Basi, but now they were back as vivid as ever.

'What's all the commotion about?' asked a grouchy Bantas, rubbing his eyes with huge hands. 'I was having a great dream. I was just about to bed the finest whore in the land, and for free! Why did you have to wake me?'

'Sorry, my friend, but my dreams were not so pleasant.' Seb splashed his face with water from the nearby stream. 'Anyway, the sun is about to rise. It is time that we do, too.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Bantas. He rose and stretched, arching his back. 'It feels like I'd only just gone to sleep.'

'You always feel like you'd only just gone to sleep.'

'What are you laughing at?' Bantas said to Eyebrows. 'Just because you skinny runts never need to rest!'

Eyebrows laughed even harder.

Seb looked across the rolling green land towards their destination. The weather was much more clement now; they had been travelling for just over two months. When he had raced back to the warrior tribe's village, he and Bantas immediately readied themselves to set out after Amarinthine, ignoring the Na H'Basi chieftain's warning about the Sark Peaks at that time of year. Upon hearing Seb's account, Eyebrows and six others joined them too. Braving the treacherous and unforgiving Sark Peaks, they found themselves trapped and came close to freezing to death in the snow-covered mountains. They dug holes in the snow to sleep in, before the next day fortune led them to a small, confined cave, which they crammed into. A whole week they were holed up there, until at last the weather began to abate. But even then they thought it prudent to abandon their current route and cut back on themselves before turning east, then around the Sark Peaks and eventually north and west to Ar'Enth – the same route that the Na H'Basi chieftain had advised in the first place. They stopped at Ar'enth only to resupply and were now heading north to Nydar.

But it felt like a long shot. Not for the first time Seb wondered if they were headed in the right direction. Surely it had been the earl of Nydar, Vlar Llundenberg, who had sent the terra tsal. Still, he could not shake the feeling that they were headed the wrong way...

He toyed with his wife's necklace and scanned the horizon, and spotted activity on the outskirts of a small village ahead.

'Those people,' said Eyebrows, pointing. 'Wamuhu looked into their hearts and in them he saw no good.'

'They are the ones that passed through your village?' asked Bantas.

Eyebrows nodded. The mob appeared to be a press gang. They were gathering male villagers whether they liked it or not.

'Let me do the talking,' said Seb. 'Hello!' he hailed them.

'Ah, look here, there's more come to join us in the earl's name,' said the leader of the mob. 'Congratulations, you're now part of the earl's army. Now get in line!'

'As much as we would love to, we have other important matters at hand,' said Seb coolly.

The mob approached, most of them hefting weapons. Those unarmed, and who like as not had been recently press-ganged, milled about to one side, too scared to take any form of action. They serried together seeking safety in numbers.

The leader of the mob spoke again. 'In the name of the earl of Nydar, lay down your weapons and join us, or die.'

'As I said, we have other pressing matters at hand,' repeated Seb.

'Looks like we're going to do our talking with our weapons,' said Bantas.

Including the Na H'Basi tribesmen they totalled nine, whereas the press gang totalled upward of thirty armed men.

One of them rushed forward without warning, mace in hand. Bantas swung his fearsome axe and batted him aside, opening a gash across the man's chest.

'Kill the treasonous scum!' shouted the mob's leader. More men pushed forward to fight the small group.

Seven arrows flew from the bows of the Na H'Basi tribesmen, and seven men fell.

Seb and Bantas stood side by side to face the storm, Seb giving Bantas plenty of room to swing his axe. But the seven Na H'Basimen raced in front to meet the onslaught. Numerous bodies of the mob fell to the ground, groaning or dead. For a moment it looked as though the tribesmen might charge right through the mob from one side to the other.

One shaven-headed Na H'Basiman blocked two swords one after the other with his spear then struck the head of his first attacker. In a flurry of moves his second attacker fell also. But then an axe sank into the back of his head and the tribesman collapsed.

Seb and Bantas were close on the heels of the remaining tribal warriors, but the Na H'Basimen were swiftly surrounded on the open ground. More of the tribesmen fell. Bantas bellowed his rage at the gang, and his axe clove and chopped. Seb sliced open the throat of one and thrust his sword into the abdomen of another.

The remarkable skill and determination of the tribesmen, the crazed and berserk axeman, and the proficiency of the cool and deadly swordsman shattered the morale of the mob. In their fear, the members of the press gang immediately in front of Seb's and Bantas' sudden fury turned and fled. The leader of the mob, also fleeing, hacked at a Na H'Basiman's exposed back as he passed, ending the tribesman's life.

The retreat gained momentum and soon those remaining of the mob were sprinting for all their lives were worth. Seb noted that the unarmed who had serried together had now disappeared.

He dashed after the leader, determined not to allow his escape, and slashed his short sword across the man's hamstring, felling him. The man's comrades did not stop to offer him any aid.

'Silent,' snarled Seb as he disarmed the wailing mob leader and held him at sword point. 'Why are you gathering an army of people against their will?'

'I was ordered to... please...' the man gasped in pain and exhaustion.

'By whom?'

'Our future king... Vlar Llundenberg.'

This took Seb by surprise. 'Does King Oaken not live?'

'No. Some say it was... an assassin. Please... children... hiding nearby. Save them.'

'Whose children?'

'One of... soldier's. Had nowhere to live. Followed us.'

'You sicken me. You forced a man to join your pathetic rabble and left his children to follow you like strays? And now you lie here, trying to sound like you actually give a damn.'

The mob leader could only cough in reply.

'Listen to me,' whispered Seb intensely. 'About a year and a half since. In Sett Whistle. A woman and her daughter. Murdered at their farmhouse. Do you know of this?'

'I have never been there.'

'Do you know of this?' bellowed Seb.

'I do not know... please.' Tears streamed down the mob leader's face as he sensed the raging man looming over him would soon end his life.

'You are the worst kind of villain. You hide behind the orders of others. You presume to claim honour, telling me about the children, but you have no honour. You sold your soul. You are the worst kind of scum, for scum like you are slippery bastards, hard to find, and readily pass blame to others.'

Seb ripped his blade across the man's throat.

Storming past Bantas, he said, 'There are children hiding nearby.'

He made his way over to a nearby river to wash away the blood stains, but no matter how much he scrubbed, the stains on his soul would never go away.

Heavy of heart, Bantas watched him as he stalked off. 'There was no need to kill him, Seb,' he told the air between them.

'Too many have died this day,' stated Eyebrows, seeing to his fallen comrades.

'I am truly sorry, my friend,' said Bantas. 'It may not be much consolation, but your fallen friends' honour and bravery will never be forgotten.'

They were down to four men. Five of the Na H'Basi tribesmen had given their lives in defence of he and Seb in their search for Amarinthine.

***

Nursing her injured forearm, Amarinthine followed one of Kuithatril's servants out across the courtyard and through the entrance hall. She had eaten with the other victors in the mess hall – at least those who were not being lashed – and she felt a sense of guilt. She imagined that the victors who, like her, had refused to kill their opponents would look upon her with scorn and jealousy at her apparent good fortune in avoiding twenty lashes. But what punishment was she to face? Guilt gave way to anxiety and she began running through her mother's breathing exercises.

Vivid memories of her encounter with Vlar Llundenberg assailed her. She hoped fervently that Kuithatril had not called her to his rooms for the same reason as had the earl. What if he had seen through her disguise? If my body is going to be taken advantage of after all that I have been through, she thought, I would rather it have been Vlar Llundenberg. At least then I would still have been able to see my mother. She looked at the scorpion ring on her finger. Memories of living with her mother, and even memories of her stay with the Na H'Basi, seemed a lifetime ago.

Her hands began to tremble at the prospect of meeting Lord Kuithatril and it was an effort to keep down her food, which had been a dirty wooden bowlful of slop.

The servant led her into the great hall. Usually, from her experience, great halls were strewn with straw. The floor of this one, however, consisted of neatly-laid, clean stone squares with a few large sheepskin rugs dotted about.

Kuithatril was finishing off his meal in solitude, except for two servants who stood to the rear awaiting his command. At the end of the hall was a raised dais, similar to the one in Vlar Llundenberg's great hall, where the earl would sit at table, everyone else seated below him. Kuithatril, however, did not sit on the raised platform. And he sat alone.

Not sure what to make of her new lord, she decided that he was of a different ilk to Earl Vlar. Different in what way, she was uncertain. But he did not seem to take the same enjoyment from the abasement of others as did Vlar Llundenberg. And he certainly appreciated a finely-decorated room, judging by this one.

She waited in the finely-decorated room as her lord ate his meal in silence. Strangely, now that she was in his presence, her nerves began to settle. Her dry mouth started to water at the sight of the hunks of ham, chicken legs, bread, cheese, vegetables, and assorted fruit – all for just one person, and mostly uneaten.

Lord Kuithatril rose from his chair and the two servants at the back of the room almost raced forward to clear his table, swooping up large dishes and platters to carry away. The servant who had brought Amarinthine here turned and left without a word. For the moment at least, Amarinthine found herself alone with Lord Kuithatril.

He strolled over to her. He smiled, and yet again Amarinthine's mouth dried up.

'You are young,' he said.

'Fifteen winters, sir,' she said.

His look hardened. 'You will call me lord.'

'Yes, my lord.' Her heart beat thunderously in her chest and her palms were slick with sweat. The two servants re-entered the room and resumed their task of clearing the table.

'You have much potential. I would see that it is not wasted.' He placed his hand on her shoulder and circled her, appraising her. He leaned into her from behind and whispered into her ear, 'Take off your clothes. All of them.'

Please, no, she thought. She squeezed shut her eyes and held back a sob. 'Yes, my lord,' she said. She delayed until the two servants again left the room before baring her underdeveloped breasts. Kuithatril raised an eyebrow. She dropped her trousers. 'Please, my lord, allow me to continue fighting.' She did not want to become a whore, anything but that.

Kuithatril had one hand on her backside as he circled again to the front.

He did a double take before shouting, 'What in the seven depths of hell?'

Amarinthine flinched, but her lord merely stared at her naked body.

'Put your clothes back on,' he hissed.

She did not bother with a yes, my lord, but hurriedly obeyed, relieved that he did not seem interested in defiling her body.

The two servants re-entered as Amarinthine pulled on her boots. If they were surprised, they did not show it. Kuithatril narrowed his eyes at them.

'Come,' he said to her, and strode from the great hall.

She followed him through a series of more finely-furnished rooms. One particular ornate bench seemed very eloquent to her. It shocked her to find that she could even admire its beauty at such a moment as this. It was not painted red or green, as most of the benches she had seen back home were, but the natural colour of the wood seemed to shine and glow in the light cascading through the arched stone windows.

Opening an elaborately carved mahogany door, Kuithatril beckoned for her to enter his bedchamber.

She surprised herself at how resigned she felt. She was deflated and would accept whatever it was that fate decided to throw her way. She was too tired and weary now to resist the hand of destiny. It seemed that whatever action she took only made matters worse for her and for others anyway. First, she had spurned her earl, which resulted in her being branded a witch and thrown out of home by her very own father. Then she had joined the brave merchant, who died trying to protect her. Then, because he had saved her, Bantas was now an outlaw. And Seb too. They could easily have lost their lives for her, first with the bandits, and then again when they refused to give up their search for her when she was taken by a creeper. Even by using her Ability to kill the terra tsal that had carried her away, because of her, Jak, in dragging her from the lake, was now a prisoner to the gamers and would end his days in the Arena. Yes, it would be better for her to give up now, to accept her lot in life, before she caused yet more death and suffering. Head bowed, she stood humbly by her lord's four-poster bed.

Kuithatril closed the door gently and crossed the room to seat himself on a divan. 'Have you ever bedded a man?'

She was still looking at the plush carpets and rugs, trying to remain resigned towards her fate. 'No, my lord.'

'Have you ever killed a man?'

'No, my lord.'

'And yet here you stand having survived a fight to the death – well, he didn't die, but you are the victor nonetheless.'

It was a statement, not a question, so she remained silent.

'What were you, before you came into my possession?' he demanded.

'I used to be a maidservant.'

'For whom?'

She hesitated, again fearful of being turned over to Vlar Llundenberg for a reward. But she could think of nothing else to say, so decided to tell the truth. 'Ah, well, for Vlar Llundenberg.'

'Really? The earl of Nydar? He is to be crowned king of Ehronin, despite the incertitude of his claim to the throne – it appears that all direct heirs have suddenly expired,' he said, as though it was of little importance; he was after all a Mori Vohan and was not from Ehronin.

Amarinthine looked up in shock. 'King!'

'Ah, you did not know? The news is still fresh, I suppose. Judging by the look on your face, perhaps you were even on the run from him? Yes, I thought so,' he said, reading the fear of being caught that was written on her face. 'But do not concern yourself; you are my property now. The future King Vlar will no doubt be too busy to concern himself with the misgivings of a petty maidservant, more to my gain.' Little did he know of the bounty upon her head.

Amarinthine tried to bore a hole in her lord's bedchamber floor with her intense stare, wishing that the ground would swallow her up. Her face burning, she knew she must be blushing bright red. She hoped fervently that Kuithatril would not learn of the reward that would be offered for her return, as was customary for the escape of a witch.

'What shall we do with you?' her lord mused. 'I thought I saw great fighting potential within you. And I have had my financial problems this last year; I had hoped you could earn me a little extra coin before you died on the sand. What is your name?'

'Puce, my lord,' she said, still keeping the name of her brother.

A smirk broke across Kuithatril's face. 'And your real name?'

'Erm, I...' she stammered.

'No, I only jest. Puce you are, and Puce you shall be. That is, if you still wish to try your hand at fighting in the Arena? I still think you may prove a worthy fighter if given enough practise and sufficient training, and as long as we can keep your sexuality a little secret, of course. I think you could make me plenty of coin. But no one must know, you understand. They do not permit for a woman to fight in the Arena.'

'Yes, of course, my lord.'

'Good. Then we are done.'

Amarinthine turned to leave.

'One other thing,' said Lord Kuithatril, stopping her in her tracks. 'My servants know of my little pleasures – and my dislikes, too: that is to say, my tastes in the bedchamber – as now you must surely, too. If anyone asks, we did not do much in the way of talking, if you take my meaning. Let's say we preferred a more, ah, hands-on approach. It will also explain why you have managed to avoid twenty lashes, which, by the way, you will receive if ever you disobey me again. You should have killed your opponent, as I expressly ordered you to.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And Puce. You will attend my bedchamber every night after your evening meal.'

'Yes, my lord.'

***

Later that night, Kuithatril could not get the thought of the young and vibrant Puce out of his head. Thinking of her – or him, as he liked to think of her – somehow stirred his loins. He had never thought of any woman in that way before, but Puce was different. He could not stop thinking about her – no, him – and he eagerly looked forward to their next meeting.

CHAPTER TWELVE

STRUGGLE

'You are too defensive, you useless scum! You must learn to attack. Your crowd do not tolerate risk-fearing cravens. Lose the crowd, lose your life,' said Bull-neck.

'Yes, sir,' said Amarinthine. Bull-neck kept a military discipline amongst the slaves.

'Win the crowd, however, and you have a chance; you will feel the buzz and take energy from their cries and adulation. Now start attacking – before I give you a lesson!'

'Yes, sir!' Amarinthine hurled herself at her larger opponent. The grey-haired man was much older, being in his forties. He was about as experienced with a sword as she was. But, as usual, Amarinthine was faster. The trainees oft flailed about with swords high and wide, exposing themselves to counter-attacks. But not Amarinthine. Her attacks were always accurate. All that stopped her from going on the offensive against this and most of her opponents was that they were so much stronger than she. Her grey-haired opponent could easily shoulder her to the sand, or else smite her with elbow, fist or head. Amarinthine had been on the receiving end of many such blows and was no stranger to black eyes and thick ears and swollen lips.

But she had to go on the offensive this time, else face Bull-neck and his wrath, and she knew that Bull-neck would not hold back on her much younger and weaker frame. So she went on the attack.

Her practise sword caught the nearly-exhausted man on the chin, sending him to the ground momentarily. But he bounced back to his feet and connected a solid right to her jaw. Amarinthine found herself sprawled on the ground, in a daze.

'Bloody useless! I swear I've never had such a useless bloody fighter. Get off the sand and rest up in the shade before I decide to give you a pummelling myself,' fumed Bull-neck.

Amarinthine obeyed.

If Bull-neck had not forced her to go on the offensive she would have won, she knew it. She had not yet won a sparring match since her first fight, but she had been so close to winning this one. All she had needed was another few moments to exhaust the grey-haired man and the match would have been hers. It was not fair. All the other slaves, older and more experienced men – fully grown men – held no bars against her – a girl – thinking her a young man. Although one benefit, if any were to be had, was that she was getting much tougher, and fast.

'You were unlucky. Had Bull-neck not forced you into pressing the attack you would have won. The old guy was almost spent, you had worn him out so much.' It was Jak.

Jak had not spoken to her since she thanked him for saving her life in Speakeasy, where he had dragged her from the lake and revived her before being captured by Bull-neck and brought here. Amarinthine looked into his eyes and, not for the first time, thought that he was remarkably handsome. He had sandy hair and deep blue eyes, and she thought he had a perfectly-shaped face. His skin had become tanned from all their exposure to the harsh sun. She looked at her own skin, which was no longer the sunburnt bright red that it usually was after exposure to the sun, but like Jak's, it too had become a tanned brown – though not as nicely tanned as his, she thought.

She looked into his deep blue eyes again, drawn to him. Was it her imagination, or had he sensed her feelings towards him? Suddenly looking uncomfortable, Jak moved away from her without another word.

Why do I have to be so stupid – I can't even bring myself to speak with him.

– Wouldn't do any good, anyway; he thinks I'm male!

That night she lay back on her pallet, idly throwing a pebble at a small black patch of mould on the ceiling about an inch in width. She spoke with her cellmate, Randall.

'I'm getting closer to picking up my second victory,' she said in her husky voice. The smooth round pebble struck the same spot each time.

'I agree, Puce. Before you know it, especially when you're fully grown, like, you'll be kicking all their arses,' said Randall.

'Yes – when I'm fully grown. It feels as though we'll live out the rest our lives here, fighting stupid sparring matches and allowing men to use my nose as a punch bag,' she said. 'I'm glad we've not had to fight one another yet, Randall.'

'Aye. So am I, like. But the time will come. Just you wait till that bastard Bull-neck has grown bored with bullying Jak. When the thought occurs to that thick-headed dimwit to pair us off together he'll get off on it, I reckon.'

'I feel sorry for Jak. It's not fair on him,' she said.

Randall nodded and looked thoughtful.

'How long do you think we'll be kept here?' She started to throw the pebble more aggressively now.

'They've had us here now for months, but they'll keep us training here until Bull-neck reckons we're ready to fight at the Arena. Couple more months I should imagine. Though I hope he gives you longer, like. You're not fully finished growing into a man yet. Lorgh forbid they should ever make you fight in the Arena whilst you're still just a pup! The sick buggers though, I wouldn't put it past them if it meant making coin out of it. Kuithatril should be back soon, I reckon,' he added. 'Trips from here to purchase more slaves shouldn't take more than a month, I would think.' Soon after Kuithatril had discovered Amarinthine's secret of her sexuality he had left his house to purchase more fighters for the Arena.

'We'll probably die in the Arena,' she said.

'Now don't talk like that, lad. Fill your head with despair and it will seep into your heart. Don't give in to despair. It'll make you dead inside, then before you know it, you will be dead. It applies to the outside world too, but even more so in this place.'

'But how can I remain positive in here?' She looked around the inside of their cell. Cold, grey, oppressive stone pressed in on them from ceiling, floor and walls. Only the dark brown of the wooden door broke up the grey of the interior – that, and their two thin, straw-stuffed mattresses lying on the floor, along with a slop bucket the two of them shared.

'Listen to me. These bastards have already plucked you from your previous life. They have deprived you of your basic human needs. But don't let them win, lad. They want you to give up on your life, to feel as though you have lost everything. Then, if you win for them in the Arena, they will praise you and make you feel alive again. They will use that feeling of exhilaration within you to their advantage, to make you theirs. Don't give in, Puce. Keep hold of your past and hold it close to your heart. It is not lost. Your past will always be with you. Don't let them win. Anything could happen: the bastards could be killed; they could set you free; somebody could come and purchase you from them – just make sure you keep hold of your sanity.'

'I will try,' said Amarinthine, despondently. She no longer concentrated on hitting the black spot with the pebble any more, but she kept throwing it, lost in thought. And unerringly it kept striking its target. She had felt much more in tune with her Abilities since her experience in the cave with the creeper. She found that she could hurl objects with astounding precision, just as the pedlar had done when he killed the terra tsal outside the caves within the Sark Peaks. Moving targets such as beetles and spiders could be tricky though, as she could not always predict which way they would turn next.

And of course, she could create fire, though this always drained her energy fast, especially when she attempted to set alight anything other than dried wood. A fat lot of good my Abilities will do me stuck in here, except maybe to kill a few men before I die in the Arena, she thought.

'You'll always have two fights to face, Puce, so long as you're in here. First, there's your mental battle against captivity. This all slaves must face. And second, there'll always be your next fight in the Arena. Just remember these words a great general once told me: "The desire to win is a powerful thing, more powerful than fear itself. Use it."'

Amarinthine liked the sound of the words and repeated them to herself.

Then Randall said, 'See that bit of mould on the ceiling that you keep hitting with the pebble?' Amarinthine stopped and turned to the old man, who continued: 'I know that you have more than just skill and speed. There's much more to you than meets the eye. For example, nobody can throw a pebble like that and keep hitting the exact same tiny spot ten feet away.' Then he added in a whisper, 'Not without an Ability.'

'I thought you said your eyes were failing you?' said Amarinthine, shocked.

The old man chuckled. 'Yes, that's what I tell everyone. But do you believe everything that people tell you? Like what they say their name is, for example?'

Amarinthine did not reply. She was too nervous that the old man was on to something. He knew far too much.

'Don't worry,' he whispered with a smile, 'I know about the little magic secret that you keep, but it's safe with me, with old Randall. Keep it just that, though – secret. You can't trust anyone in here.'

***

Bantas found the children hiding in amongst some redberry bushes.

Upon discovery the eldest – the boy – advanced on him with a small knife in hand. Bantas let his axe drop to the ground and held up his hands. 'Don't stab me,' he said. 'I mean no harm. In fact, if you wish, my friends and I can take you back home.'

'We have no home,' said the boy, red-rimmed eyes glaring angrily at him. 'We were following our old pa to his new home in Laerdes. But those tribesmen with you killed him!'

'I understand. And I am deeply sorry for your loss. I bet your father was a brave man. He was following his orders as any good soldier would – but he was following the wrong man. Your father's leader was press-ganging people into joining his army against their will. No doubt your father was forced to join them too?' he guessed.

The boy looked like he was ready to take his vengeance on Bantas. 'Yes, he was. They weren't proper soldiers. They were cruel! My father was more a soldier than they ever were, and my father was a blacksmith.'

'I'm sure he was a good man, and an honest one. Most blacksmiths are. And I bet he was a good pa. My parents were killed, too. But you don't want to take vengeance on us, we were merely defending ourselves against that cruel leader who took your father away. The cruel leader is dead now – it was he who killed your father just as much as the man who ordered him to form a press gang.'

The boy seemed to struggle with an inner turmoil.

'How old are your sisters?' added Bantas. The boy was protecting two younger girls.

'Amiah is seven and Molly is six. Why?'

'You are a brave man,' he told the boy, who was no older than ten winters. 'We would not see you, Amiah or Molly sold into slavery. What is your name?'

'Pick.'

'Well, Pick. Put down your blade. I promise, by the warrior's code, I will protect each of you with my life until we can see you brought to safety. Do you have any family, or someone that you could live with?'

The boy shook his head no.

'Well, that's okay. There's a monastery in Laerdes where I was brought up after my parents died. They look after you well and even teach you to read and write. I can take you there, if you wish.'

Pick swelled his chest and pointed his small knife at Bantas. 'You better not be lying.'

'No, Pick, I swear it. Now please put away your blade, before one of my friends sees that you have me at knifepoint and gets the wrong idea. They may not realise that we are friends.'

The boy tucked his knife into his belt. 'We're not friends. I'm only doing what's best for my sisters.'

'Of course. That's all any man can do, Pick.'

Bantas led the three children out to his companions and they soon resumed their journey to Nydar with the little ones in tow.

He kept one eye on the frightened children as he and his companions trudged their way through the wood. Seb stalked off ahead wordlessly. Eyebrows and his fellow tribesman, Akeyo – who did not speak Ehronian – followed in silence. Despite having just won a small battle against all reasonable odds, a foreboding sense of depression hung over their heads.

Eyebrows broke the enchanted silence. 'Where do you intend to take the children?'

'There's a monastery in Laerdes where I spent a part of my childhood,' said Bantas. 'Good people. They take in orphans and set them to work. Teach them to read and write, too. I'll take them there. They also teach that there's only one god. I could never get my head around that, though. Surely there's too much work to be done for just one god.'

Eyebrows nodded with seriousness. 'Sounds good,' he said. Then he turned to Akeyo and spoke briefly in their native tongue before he dropped back to guard the rear.

'My feet feel like I've been walking across jagged stone for days on end whilst carrying a horse on my back,' Bantas told Akeyo, who looked at him blankly. 'I could do with a horse.' The tribesman could not understand a word he said. Akeyo gestured behind and made a sweeping motion. Bantas took this to mean that he was going to join his friend to guard the rear.

The day wore on, with the lone Seb still scouting ahead. Morning turned to afternoon. Evening descended with the arrival of ominous rain clouds, though it was humid. The children had kept very quiet, thought Bantas.

'Where's them tribesmen, anyway?' he said to the boy, Pick. 'Thinking about it, I've not seen their scrawny butts in bleeding hours!'

'They were guarding the rear, but I ain't seen them since late morning,' said Pick.

Bantas called ahead to Seb, who after a moment returned. 'Have you seen Eyebrows?' he asked.

'Not since this morning, but I've been scouting ahead,' said Seb.

Bantas called out their names but received no reply. They spread out and searched behind.

The tribesmen were not to be found.

'They've gone,' he said.

***

Eyebrows waited for the kreresh to come to him. Blood flowed freely from his left wrist where he had cut himself deeply. Elimu was his name. It meant knowledge, and he knew that death was coming. He also knew that had he continued to follow Seb and Bantas, the children would have been the first to die. Like most pack animals hunting a herd of prey, the kreresh would have homed in on the little ones first. Like wolves to a buffalo calf. Despite the skills of he, Seb, Bantas and Akeyo, he knew that they would not have been able to stop the approaching kreresh without casualties to the children. So he had drawn them away, leaving the children in the care of Seb and Bantas.

Sinking the point of the spear into the earth at his feet, Elimu waited.

Nine kreresh stalked into sight. Elimu found it difficult to make out details at this distance in the fading light, but he had never seen so many together at one time before.

He and Akeyo hid behind a rock that jutted over a ledge. Looking down, they pulled back the strings of their bows.

Drawn to the scent of his blood, the kreresh came within range, but Elimu resisted the temptation to let loose his nocked arrow just yet. He waited a little longer. The wind suddenly changed direction, carrying their stench to his nostrils.

The first went down with Elimu's arrow through its eye socket. Akeyo's arrow followed an instant later and took another in the head. Before the kreresh could work out where the attack had come from, Elimu shot another through the neck. Akeyo's second arrow took one in the side, merely wounding the beast. The remaining kreresh dispersed and took shelter in the trees, abandoning their injured pack member, but not before Elimu felled yet another with his bow.

Without warning, Akeyo hefted his spear and dropped off the ledge to attack the injured kreresh.

Elimu was unable to stop him in time.

The beast launched itself through the air. Elimu could only watch as his comrade tried to twist away from, and at the same time impale with his spear, the powerful kreresh. The spear snapped inside the beast's body, but it was still alive, and its teeth found exposed flesh. Akeyo's throat was torn out on the spot.

The tribesman fell dead. The creature was mortally wounded and hunkered off to die alone. Elimu allowed the tension on his bow to ease.

Even amidst his grief, he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. On instinct he rolled to his right, dropped the bow and drew his dagger. The sixth kreresh took the blade in the throat yet still managed to maul his chest with its paws. As it tried to bite him, he wedged the blade into the roof of its mouth. Gurgling a growl, it at last slumped to the ground.

The three remaining night predators approached. Ripping his blade from the maw of the creature he had just slain, Elimu hurled the dagger at the foremost of the three. The blade took it between the eyes and it collapsed, causing those behind to stumble.

Spear in hand, Elimu dropped off the ledge. He angled the spear point as another followed him down. The creature realised its error too late and could not alter its course. It crashed into him, knocking him from his feet. Rising, he saw that the spear had entered through the beast's chest and exited through the base of its back. There was no way he could retrieve the weapon in time.

He had just achieved what no other man had done before. He had dispatched six kreresh one after another by his own hand, and as of yet had even managed to avoid serious injury. But all he could think about was his fallen comrade, Akeyo.

The last remaining kreresh approached. Aside from three small yet powerfully poisoned darts that he kept securely tucked away in his belt, he had no weapon to hand.

Elimu dropped his shoulder and tried to sidestep the beast's lunge, but sharp teeth ripped across his stomach and his blood sprayed the weeds at his feet. With a cry of pain, he toppled on to his back. The momentum of the kreresh carried it away from him slightly and, regaining his feet, he hurriedly retrieved his comrade's dagger, adrenaline masking any pain he may otherwise have felt.

The creature leapt. A canine-like paw raked across his chest, again knocking him to the ground. As he fell, he rolled and thrust with the dagger, taking it just above the hind leg. It landed atop of him and pinned him by the shoulders. Unable to reach the dagger, he fumbled at his belt to withdraw the small darts.

Suspended in time, for an instant his gaze locked with its reflective eyes. It snarled as though savouring the moment of victory before claiming its prey. He knew this was it. This was how he was to die.

Elimu did not want to die. He wanted to go home and see his wife and children again, to share in their laughter, and to grow old – very old, he told himself.

The kreresh bit into his face with remarkable strength, and Elimu thought his skull must be crushed, yet still he lived. He exhaled in pain as the creature ripped out one of his wooden eyebrows. With a final farewell to his wife and children that they would never hear, he sank the poisoned darts into its neck.

The kreresh was strong and it clung to life for a remarkable amount of time, biting and chewing the human as it feasted on him. But its powerful body eventually succumbed to the poison within the darts. There was not much left of its mighty prey when, at last, it settled down to die beside him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BEREAVEMENT

The next day, not caring that the children should see their protector reduced to tears, Bantas wept.

First, he had come across the body of Akeyo, whose throat had been torn out. Then, next to the corpse of a huge, bloodstained kreresh, he saw what must have been Eyebrows. There was not much left of him, though it was clear that his left wrist had been slashed with a dagger, likely to draw the kreresh.

Having looked around, Bantas could see that a total of nine kreresh lay scattered about, dead. He could not believe it.

The air was humid, and he could feel sweat dripping down his back. He and Seb had toiled to dig graves for Eyebrows and Akeyo. The brave and honourable Na H'Basi tribesmen had given their lives to protect these children, whom they had barely even known. Such bravery should never be forgotten.

They rolled the tribesmen into their respective graves as sedately as they could manage, then set to filling the two holes back in again. The toilsome work gave Bantas something to focus on. Right then nothing seemed more important than giving them the burial they deserved. He had grown very fond of Eyebrows and Akeyo. And he had only ever had the greatest of respect for them.

After a prolonged sideward glance at him, Seb took it upon himself to say a few words.

Bantas was still unabashedly in tears, but he listened attentively to Seb's eulogy.

'I once knew a squad of soldiers. There were ten of them. They were ordered to scout their army's flank and were waylaid by three kreresh. By the time help arrived, the three kreresh had already killed every last one of the ten fear-stricken soldiers. They are deadly predators. Never have I seen or even heard of a mere two men slaying nine kreresh. It is truly remarkable. And a bigger testament to a man's bravery I cannot think of than to willingly stand against such numbers.

'These men died standing and fighting. Elimu – or Eyebrows, as Amarinthine fondly nicknamed him – even slashed open his own wrist to lure the kreresh away from the children. And stoically by his side, Akeyo of course was equally as brave. They did not run. Their courage was colossal. Their honour was such that they laid down their lives to give these children a future. To give them a chance. What could be more honourable?

'The whole world should mourn the loss of such men.'

Bantas nodded and said, 'The whole world should aspire to be just like them.'

***

Amarinthine stood in line, awaiting her turn to be served a wooden bowlful of slop. It was their customary evening meal. It had worked out that Randall, getting here amongst the first, had joined near the front of the queue, not too far from Jak. However, Amarinthine had been held back on the training ground longer than usual, and now joined at the back of the queue. This meant that she would not be able to get a seat on any of the worn wooden benches in the mess hall. Her feet and legs were sore, and her heart sank at the prospect of having to stand whilst she ate; the guards claimed there was not room enough for slaves to sit upon the floor, which Amarinthine thought was stupid.

She toyed with the scorpion ring the Na H'Basi tribe gave her last Midwinter's Day, which seemed to her a lifetime ago. Apparently, they did not celebrate Midwinter's Day here in Mori Voh. Not that they would have afforded the slaves any such luxuries, but she pondered that next Midwinter's Day she would turn sixteen.

'That's a nice wooden ring, pretty boy,' said one of the other slaves in the queue as they stood waiting to be served. The man was over six feet tall and heavily built. He had established himself as leader within his small clique of friends.

Amarinthine put her hand behind her back to hide the ring and tried to ignore the other slave's comment.

'Here, don't hide it away now! I rather like the look of it, I reckon it'd fit nicely on my little finger. What do you think? You want to give it to me?'

'I couldn't. It was a gift,' she muttered.

The other slave barked a laugh and turned to his friends, imitating her sarcastically in a whining voice. They laughed along, pleased to have something to break the monotony of the day.

'Listen, you,' said the bully, 'maybe I'm not making myself clear enough. Either give me the ring on your finger, or I'll cut it off!' He again turned towards his friends. 'You never know, finger might just be the extra ingredient these bowlfuls of slop need!'

His friends again laughed along. Then he reached out and grabbed her arm.

From out of nowhere Jak stepped forward and planted a solid right hook on the bully's jaw.

Jak was not the tallest of people, but he towered over the large man now sprawled on the floor before him – and said nothing.

The bully's friends stood still and did nothing.

The bully rubbed at his jaw, and said as though it was of no matter, 'Jak, my friend, I only jest. You know that, right, Puce?'

Amarinthine said, 'Right,' and gave Jak a wry smile. Jak beckoned her towards him, then made his way again to the front of the queue. Amarinthine followed.

No one complained.

***

Lounging on their hard, lumpy pallets with nothing else to do, Amarinthine and Randall discussed training and strategy. Randall had been true to his word and had not told any of the other slaves about her Ability. Fortunately, he was the only one in this accursed place who knew. So far, she had not done well at all at keeping her secrets, she reflected. Firstly, Kuithatril had learned of her gender. Then of course Randall had worked out that she had an Ability. She had naively hoped that she could prevent anyone from finding out either of these things. She was still paranoid somebody might work out that the future king of Ehronin, Vlar Llundenberg – likely already king – had wanted her for witchcraft.

Their conversation was disrupted when the transverse bar that held fast the door to their cell was slid out of its place from the outside. The door opened with a moaning creak and bumped against the wall. A servant entered. He came with a message that Lord Kuithatril demanded Puce attend him at once.

Stepping out into the corridor, Amarinthine waited whilst the servant fastened the cell door behind them with the heavy transverse bar. She felt slightly dizzy, a sensation she often felt when leaving her cell after being cooped up in there for hours on end.

She followed the servant at a brisk pace along the musty-smelling corridors, out of the complex, across the courtyard in the slightly humid but fresh air, through the manor and eventually up to her lord's chambers where the scent of freshly cut pine greeted her senses. She noticed a new chess set laid out on a small new table and wondered which of them was the cause of the fresh scent.

She toyed with her scorpion ring nervously, glad that she had managed to keep hold of her treasured gift from the Na H'Basi. If only she had managed to keep hold of the pedlar's pendant. The pedlar had said it would keep her safe. Maybe if she'd not been so careless in the caves she would still have it, and none of this nightmare would have happened.

There was a rumour that Lord Kuithatril, having scoured the slave market, had returned today empty-handed. None had met his standard, which was low if the slaves were free, or very high if he had to pay for them. As a result, he had returned frustrated. And in such situations, he would oft crave for certain desires to be satisfied. Or according to the rumours, at least.

'Good evening, Puce,' Kuithatril greeted her.

'My lord,' said Amarinthine, averting her eyes from his feverish gaze.

Kuithatril dismissed his servant with an impatient gesture. Once they were alone, he came up behind Amarinthine and savoured the scent of her short red hair, which she wore in the style of a male. It mustn't smell very pleasant, she thought, not after a hard day's fighting on the training ground.

The way Kuithatril was acting made her nervous.

'For some reason I have not been able to get you out of my head,' he said. 'I have needs, and do not have time for niceties. Now bend over my bed, slave. You're going to take this like a man.'

***

The door opened and Seb entered, hood drawn up.

'Any luck?' asked Bantas.

'I found out where her parents live,' said Seb. 'I'm going to head there now, it's about two miles away – past the tannery. Probably best though if you stayed here with the children.'

Bantas grunted in reluctant agreement. Seb could tell that the big man did not feel like sitting idly by, but it would be safer for the children to remain here. The day after Eyebrows and Akeyo had sacrificed their lives to save the children they had arrived at Nydar and found an inn to stay at. This gave them the opportunity to talk to the locals. Vlar Llundenberg no longer dwelt in Nydar. He had been crowned king and now ruled from the capital of Ehronin, taking up residency as the king should in the city of Laerdes – the Golden City – and had taken his substantial army with him, led by the scar-faced Champion of the King, General Cannick.

Nydar still awaited a replacement earl, along with soldiers to garrison the castle, and riots had started to break out as murderers, thieves and bandits could roam the streets without requital.

With a few carefully asked questions they had been aiming to find out where Amarinthine's parents lived. And now Seb had had some luck.

'Meet you back here,' he told Bantas.

He left the inn and set off down the road of hard-packed mud. Thoughts of Matilda's prophecy entered his mind unbidden. Were her predictions truly coming to pass? Vlar Llundenberg was known for his cruelty, and indeed was now king of Ehronin. And Seb found himself accompanying an axeman in search of a girl. Next, he told himself, he would be heading for Laerdes, the Golden City, to slay the king. He wasn't sure about the powerful allies bit though, or the part about becoming a great and accomplished champion of the sword.

The tannery was just up ahead. Already he had passed a piss-pot; each day one of the tannery's workers would retrieve the clay pots filled with the piss of passing folk, which they used for the treatment of hide.

He did not notice, however, the hooded man in black that followed.

Seb passed the tannery and its awful stench and headed downhill. Soon the home of Amarinthine's parents was well within sight. Approaching, he saw whom he presumed to be Amarinthine's mother. She was gathering together into a bundle some clothes that had been left out to dry on the bushes.

'Evening,' he said. 'You must be Amarinthine's mother. Judith, is it?'

'Evening. Yes, that's me. And who might you be?' she asked.

'My name is Seb,' he said, pulling down his hood.

'Do you know how she fares?' she asked, full of hope.

Seb could see the concern for her daughter in her eyes. She mustn't have seen her and probably knew nothing of her whereabouts, he realised with disappointment. Instinctively he wanted to reassure her, but then again, he could not offer her false hope. 'She fared well when last I saw her, about four months since now,' he decided to say. 'But I have reason to believe that Vlar Llundenberg had her kidnapped.'

Judith cast about to ensure no one had overheard. Then she said, 'You'd better come inside.'

Seb followed Judith through the door of her plain and simple abode. Amarinthine's father sat by the fire. Seb gave a basic account of how he, Amarinthine and Bantas had all met and outlined how he suspected that the king had their daughter kidnapped. He omitted much, such as the pedlar, the creepers, the kreresh and the terra tsal. After all, he wanted them to believe him. However, upon mention of the king, Amarinthine's father began to look uncomfortable.

'So what do you plan?' asked Judith.

'To find your daughter,' he said. 'I had my own daughter taken away from me, and I would not see the same happen to another. You know, she has the same eyes as my Rayne.'

'I can see how your daughter may look similar, judging by your dark red hair,' said Judith with an empathetic smile.

'Well,' said Amarinthine's father, speaking for the first time, 'it sounds like you and your friend are capable fellows. I'm sure you'll find her. But we have business that cannot be left unattended.'

Seb turned to Amarinthine's mother, but she was looking to her husband. When eventually she met Seb's gaze, she immediately averted her eyes again. She would submit to her husband's will.

Seb left the house, alone. And although he did not know it, he was being watched.

He got ten paces up the road before Judith called out to him: 'We have an old family friend. He loves Amarinthine as his own. He is Samson Ward, and he would go to the ends of the world for her. He lives on the outskirts of Laerdes.'

***

Amarinthine stood frozen in shock. For a moment her lord's words did not register. Now bend over my bed, slave. You're going to take this like a man. Were they the words he had really said?

Kuithatril grabbed her and threw her over his bed, pulling down her trousers and stepping in close, panting loudly. Her head buried in the covers, Amarinthine was consumed with panic. She closed her eyes tight as she felt a small yet searing heat in her brain.

'You will not defile me!' she found herself yelling.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Kuithatril fell back.

Amarinthine stood, pulled up her trousers and turned to face her lord. Behind her the bed was alight. Flames licked the covers and were spreading fast.

'Fire!' bawled Kuithatril. The door opened, and a guard poked his head inside before cursing and running to bring help. Before any more guards or servants arrived, he turned to Amarinthine. 'If you want to survive this night, Puce, I suggest you wipe that look off your face and unclench your fists, or I will strike you down, you bitch,' he hissed. But she ignored his words. Kuithatril gripped the dagger hilt at his belt, and she prepared herself mentally for a fight to the death with her lord.

Recognising that his slave was unmoved by his threat, contempt dripped from each word as he added, 'Heed what I say, else you will hang! I have devoted too much time and effort to your training for you to die now. You hear me? Unclench your fists and defy me not, else you will be branded a heretic, and will hang.'

She wanted to burn him alive. Fury consumed her, heart, mind and soul. Power welled within, ready to unleash upon her lord. She was so very tempted. But something in the back of her mind told her that it would be wrong, that she was no murderess. Her lord had not threatened her life, merely her innocence, so she could not call it self-defence.

She unclenched her fists.

The door burst open and guards hurried in carrying buckets of water. The rapidly growing fire hissed as the contents were emptied. Amarinthine stood watching the work of the guards, and now the servants too as they formed a chain, swiftly passing along buckets of water to be emptied on to their lord's bed.

All the immense power that had infused her now withered and died, and she fidgeted with her scorpion ring. Looking into the flames she remembered how she had set the campfire alight in the Forest of the Na H'Basi with Seb and Bantas just before Eyebrows and Wamuhu found them. She again wondered if any of this would have happened had she not lost the pedlar's pendant.

She concentrated her efforts on making the fire die down – she did not think it would help at all if she allowed Lord Kuithatril's bedchamber to turn into a conflagration.

Then, unexpectedly, her memory brought her back to Vlar Llundenberg's chambers. He threw her on to his bed and climbed atop of her, groping her, rubbing the strong-smelling perfume on her underdeveloped breasts. And she remembered. Vlar Llundenberg had been propelled away from her very suddenly. She did not ever remember hitting Vlar Llundenberg before, because she hadn't: in her panic she had struck out at him with a wave of heat. That was why he called her a witch and demanded that she be strapped to the wheel, not because she had rejected him, but because she had used an Ability.

She looked anew at Lord Kuithatril, who stared back at her. She realised that like her, he too seethed with anger, and struggled to control it.

The guards killed the fire and the bed was now a charred, smoking mess. Only two of them remained in their lord's bedchamber, awaiting his command, suspecting that they may have to hang the young redhead standing guiltily to one side.

'Have the insolent slave flogged,' said Kuithatril. 'Fifty lashes.'

She was escorted from the room by the two guards and led to the training yard to be lashed. She shook with fear. She had never heard of anyone receiving fifty lashes before. Twenty lashes left a mess and permanent scars, but she was unsure if she could even survive fifty.

The guards thrust her up against the whipping post and bound her with rope. The younger of the two ran off to retrieve the flailing whip. Returning, he handed it over to the elder guard. He was a soft-featured, gentle-looking soul, but his look hardened when he stared into Amarinthine's auburn eyes.

The whip cracked.

She was determined to be as manly as she could possibly be in receiving her punishment. At least I am still alive, she told herself. But she could not help crying out in pain as the lashes struck. With each further crack of the whip it felt as though the soft-featured guard struck her harder and harder, and she thought her back must already be full of bleeding lacerations.

Tears streamed down her face. It only then occurred to her that she cried openly, perhaps very femininely, but she could not help it. She could only hope that the guards and anyone else within earshot thought her cries effeminate, those of a young boy, and did not take them as those of the girl she truly was. Either way, shouldn't the guard lashing her take pity and crack his whip with a little less fervour? But he did not.

The pain became too much to bear. Delirious now, Amarinthine felt that all of the world's pain and suffering mustered and converged and infused her very being.

Thirty lashes remained when she passed out.

***

Randall sat back against the wall of stone in his cell and took pleasure from the coolness it offered. He had to take pleasure from the small things. They were all he had left. He had started out his adult life as a merchant, a long time ago. It had been the happiest time of his life. But somehow he had got caught up in the Battle of Nydar, fighting as a soldier. Probably a good job, he told himself with an ironic smile, else in this place he would now be dead. But he would never have made anywhere near as good a fighter as Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin, he told himself, recalling with a huge amount of respect the skill and speed with which the hero had wielded his blade.

Sighing, he picked up Puce's pebble, then lay back on his thin pallet. 'Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin,' he said to himself. 'What I wouldn't give to see him come here and kick Bull-neck's arse.'

Then he began to throw the pebble at the ceiling, just like Puce liked to do. The old man was surprised at how hard he found it to throw the stone up straight and then catch it again. Puce had an Ability, he knew, despite her best efforts to keep it secret. And she hid the fact that she was female remarkably well, too.

He heard footsteps approach the cell door. The transverse bar was slid from its place, and the door opened to bump against the wall.

Two guards dragged Puce into the room before dropping their prisoner on the empty pallet. A third followed them. Puce's back was a mess of flesh and blood. The third guard slowly emptied a clay jug of alcohol over the wounds, then the guards left, closed the heavy cell door and slid the beam back into place, locking their prisoners inside.

Once alone Randall crossed the small cell, but Puce was unconscious.

***

Stalking along the dried mud path, Seb could not believe how spineless Amarinthine's father was. Were it his daughter, he most certainly would not trust her fate to anybody else, let alone a stranger. And how could her mother accept his decision so readily, so meekly?

Amarinthine deserves better, he thought. He recalled her eyes. So much like his own daughter's. So much like Rayne's.

Toying with his wife's necklace, he decided an ale or two wouldn't hurt before heading back. He turned and headed away from the street he had been following, towards a group of alehouses. That was when he noticed he was being followed.

He darted down an alley, hoping to give his tail the slip. Using a window ledge as leverage, he leapt and gripped the next one above. Jumping again, he heaved himself up to the slated rooftop of the tannery and put from his mind the terrible odour that accompanied all tanneries; dung and various putrefied animal parts and pots of piss had a tendency to smell bad. Then he hunkered down and waited for his tail to present himself.

Nobody came.

His knees started to ache. He grew impatient but held his position. Impatience killed many a man. Then he heard someone shouting in a strange fashion. Straining his ears, he thought it sounded like somebody making a clumsy attempt at the call of the greylag.

Then it dawned on him. He immediately rolled to his left and spun to face behind. A throwing knife clattered off the slates where he had been but a moment before. Drawing his short sword, he ran at the hooded figure. Another throwing knife hurtled towards him as he brought up his sword to protect his neck and face. That was where the knife, spinning through the air, had been aimed, and miraculously it clattered off his blade. He lunged, but his legs were cramped, and the thrust was wild. The hooded man evaded the attack with ease on the uneven surface and spun. As he did so, a dagger slipped smoothly from the folds of his cloak.

Knowing that he was up against a formidable foe, Seb braced himself for a knife thrust. Not able to get out of the way he angled his body to take the blade in the ribs. Using his momentum, he accepted the knife thrust and crashed his head into the assassin's face. Strangely, he could not make out any facial features beneath the dark hood.

Luckily the assassin's blade deflected off his ribcage and failed to penetrate fully. As the hooded figure stepped back, he tried to knock the dagger from his grip, but the man would not be so easily beaten. The assassin's eyes must be streaming with water after that headbutt, thought Seb. He pressed the attack, but his opponent flipped backward in a remarkable show of agility. As the assassin landed, Seb did not notice yet another throwing knife fly through the air. It took him in the side.

He hunched over, and his assailant stepped in for the kill.

Ripping out the throwing knife, Seb took a backward step towards the edge. Then, pretending to fall, he spun and hurled the throwing knife back at the cloaked figure. The assassin dodged and stepped slightly closer.

Knowing that a thrust of his short sword would be evaded, Seb simply charged, drawing his dagger with his free hand as he did so. The assassin was swift. In a swirl of his cloak he stepped aside. A dagger reached for Seb's neck, but he had anticipated this and blocked with his sword. Simultaneously he sank his own dagger into the assassin's ribs. In return he received an unexpected backhanded blow to the head and stumbled.

He needed to plant all of his weight on his back foot, but it met with thin air.

He fell off the edge of the roof and grasped wildly for something to hold on to, managing to cling desperately to the brim. His sword fell to the hard-packed mud road below and shattered the tannery's piss-pot at the corner of the building.

The assassin approached slowly, holding his wounded side. Refusing to give in, Seb tried to heave himself up to the rooftop, but his grip slipped. Still, he clung on to the edge.

Then he saw Bantas.

***

Having made the awkward climb up to the rooftop, Bantas saw the hooded man in black, one hand holding a bloodied blade and the other his wounded side as he loomed over Seb.

Fearing for his friend, Bantas did not even unhook the axe from the baldric on his back but charged at the assassin. The black cloak swirled as the hooded figure spun to face him. Bantas stumbled on the uneven surface, and as he did so a throwing knife struck his shoulder. He ploughed on, slowing not at all, and threw his weight into the assassin.

The hooded figure disappeared off the edge and, heart in mouth, Bantas almost went over with him, but managed to cling to the brim next to Seb.

They each hung off the edge of the tannery roof, side by side.

'Well, this is an unlikely circumstance,' said Bantas.

'I thought you were staying with the children at the inn?' said Seb.

Bantas looked down, but the assassin had vanished. Then he said, 'I got bored. They'll be safe, anyway – I told them not to leave the room. And there's only so much of hand clapping games a man can put up with.'

'Well, I think you had better get some practise at climbing,' said Seb. 'It took you an age to get up here.'

The throwing knife jutting from his shoulder meant that Bantas struggled to pull himself up. 'Huh. Well, you took your time reacting to my call of the greylag.'

'Is that what you call it? I thought it was the call of the strangled ostrich.'

'What's an ostrich?'

'Never mind.' At last, despite his wounded side, Seb heaved himself up to the rooftop. Bantas took the proffered hand and joined him.

'That assassin has disappeared with my dagger – and it was a good one too,' said Seb. 'It was stuck in his side.'

'How inconsiderate of him. Here, have this one.' Bantas pulled out the throwing knife from his shoulder and handed it to Seb, but Seb threw it away in disgust.

Retrieving his axe, Bantas said, 'It bloody stinks up here. Anyway, how do we get back down?'

***

Later that night, filled with anger, Rayston made his way to the alehouse. He was angry at his daughter, who was nothing but trouble. He was angry at his wife. And he was angry at the stranger, waltzing into their home and acting as if he was some knight in shining armour.

Of a sudden his brooding was interrupted when a hand snaked out to smother his mouth and he was dragged into an alley. His anger turned to fear when a blade pressed against his neck.

'The man who came to your home earlier,' a voice hissed into ear. 'His name.'

'What – what do you want?' he asked.

'Tell me,' the voice demanded.

He felt the blade's edge press into his throat. 'Seb! His name was Seb!'

'What did he want?'

'He – he's looking for my daughter. But I'll have nothing more to do with her, she's naught but trouble!'

'Your daughter's name.'

The sharp edge caressed the skin of his neck. 'Amarinthine.'

'Does she have an Ability?'

'What?'

'Does she have an Ability? Tell me!'

'Probably,' he squealed. 'She was accused of witchcraft. But I'll have nothing of the sort! I'm a straight and narrow, law abiding citizen.'

'Is this her?' A portrait was held before his eyes.

'Yes, that's her. Why do you have a sketcher's portrait of my daughter?'

The blade bit deeper, drawing blood. 'I am asking the questions.' Another portrait was held up. 'Is this the man who came to your home? Is this Seb?'

'Yes, that's him.'

'What are his plans?'

'I swear, I don't know.'

'And I swear, if you do not tell, you will have a very long and intolerable death.'

'Okay, okay, but I swear I don't know much. Only that my wife told him to seek out my friend in Laerdes, Samson Ward.'

Rayston could not see, but the assassin smiled grimly. Samson Ward. The old hero, former Champion of the King and Protector of the Realm. Now there would be a challenge. The assassin looked at the contrast of a man in front of him. So pathetic.

He sliced the throat of the tiresome coward and limped away.

There was of course other business to attend to before leaving for Laerdes, which was just as well. Should he meet with Samson Ward, he would most certainly need time to heal first.

***

'You okay, like?' said Randall, showing concern as Amarinthine began to stir from her long, deep slumber.

She had dreamed that she was stuck in quicksand and although there were people around her, they did not see her and could not hear her cries for help. Her mother and father stood not ten feet away with their backs to her, but no matter how loud she shouted they did not turn to face her. The quicksand had slowly, inexorably drawn her towards its bottomless depths until at last she was fully submerged and her face was smothered. Then it was a creeper's suction cup that suffocated her, and her mother's voice carried to her: 'Chirurgeons sometimes make suction cups from gourds to suction bad blood from human organs.'

Then she was back at home, in the kitchen with Mother as she prepared some vegetables to make a soup. She looked through the window, and there was the quicksand, just outside, but now it was Father that was dragged into its depths. He screamed for help, but she heard no words. Next to her, her little brother held up a broken chair leg and said, 'It is important in carpentry to pay close attention to detail.'

She told Mother that Father needed help, but she did not listen and carried on chopping vegetables.

It had been a horrible dream and she was at first glad to awaken, but then the pain from her back made her wince and she gasped when she tried to raise her head. She was back inside her cell, she realised glumly. Then, seeing that her ever-present scorpion ring was missing from her finger, she burst into tears. It was not just the fact that a guard had stolen the ring from her – for it was surely a guard, who had likely traded it for something as trivial as ale or wine – but it was an accumulation of everything: she missed her mother and little brother; had been branded a witch by her earl; had been carried away from her new friends and the caring Na H'Basi by a terra tsal; and now found herself training to fight grown men in the Arena – in Mori Voh, of all places! Previously she had only ever ventured but a few miles outside her home city of Nydar with her father, and even then, it had only been on a handful of occasions. She felt so lost and alone, a thousand miles from home, and in a foreign land.

Randall was taken aback. 'It's okay, it's just old Randall,' he said. 'What happened?' She was so upset that it appeared to unnerve him.

'It was Kuithatril,' she said. 'But I didn't let him... didn't let him...'

'It's okay, it's okay. Old Randall's here, now. What didn't you let him do?'

'It's my own fault. I should have let Vlar Llundenberg have his way with me back in Nydar! And none of this would have happened. He branded me a witch, and I ran. That's how I ended up here, dressed like a boy! I have dishonoured my family. I took no heed of what might happen.' She looked at Randall now with panicked delirium in her eyes.

'Shh, it's okay,' said Randall, and he put his arms around her and gave her a hug, careful not to touch her wounded flesh. 'Take a few deep breaths. I know already that you're a lass, but don't worry, I won't tell anyone.'

'You... what did you say?' she said.

'It's okay, don't worry. Of course I know you're a lass; we share a cell together, and although I try not to make a habit of watching, I've noticed that when you use our bucket over there, you don't pass water whilst standing. There, now. All right? So, what happened?' He now held her gently by the shoulders.

'Kuithatril. He... tried to rape me. He pretended that... that I was a boy. But I didn't let him – didn't let him go there. I'm still a virgin.' She looked up into his eyes and saw the vexation there.

'He already knew you're a girl?' he asked, calmly.

'Yes. But please don't tell anyone, will you?'

'Of course I won't tell, lass. But I thought Kuithatril's tastes lay elsewhere.'

'They do. He likes men. He says that seeing me dressed up as a boy does something for him. In my panic I set his bed on fire.' She burst into tears again and felt stupid that she was being so emotional. 'I am a witch,' she sobbed.

'No you're not, you're no witch. You were simply acting on instinct.' Randall put a hand to her forehead. 'You've got a fever. That swine. I swear, if I ever get the chance... Come here, lass. It's over now. It's over.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HOPE

The sky was grey. The clouds were a jumble, an overcast barrier that blocked any sunrays from shining through. Although it was midday it could have been evening. Amarinthine did not care about the weather though. She didn't care about anything any more. Any emotion that tried to rise, other than hate, she quashed. Fear, pride, guilt – all slipped off the surface of her current frame of mind. She ignored the burning pain from the scabbed and scarred skin on her back as she moved, merely allowing it to remind her of the injustice in the world.

It had taken her a full two weeks to recover from the fever that ensued her lashing and her back still caused her pain just to move about. She knew that Bull-neck had pushed her into resuming practise matches too soon for her wounds, but right now she did not care. Like the fear, the pride and the guilt, pain was not acknowledged by her numbed and deadened mind. Everything had got on top of her, all of it becoming too much to bear any more. It was as though her capacity to cope with turmoil had overflowed, spilling over beyond the point of sanity to a place where she refused to have feelings any more. It was safer if she didn't have feelings. Then she couldn't be hurt any more.

Practise sword in hand, she stood ready to face her opponent. He had pale, blond hair, but the dirt and grime the slaves were subjected to darkened it somewhat. He was in the prime of his life. He hefted his wooden sword eagerly and nodded that he was ready, evidently looking forward to what he thought would be an easy practise match.

Amarinthine strode towards him. She did not charge, she did not shout, and she did not edge forward as she had been taught. Her opponent stepped forward in attack and swung viciously with his sword. She blocked with her buckler and countered with a blow of her own. He too blocked with his buckler before punching her with his sword arm. Amarinthine fell, rose quickly, and darted back from his pressing attack.

With space now between them, she pirouetted and flung her buckler like a discus. Not waiting for it to connect, she set off sprinting towards her target. The shield of wood met with a solid thud as it glanced heavily off his head, and he staggered. With his guard now lowered she thrust her practise sword into his gut, then, as he fell, hammered down against his skull.

Gripping her wooden sword with white knuckles, her back wet and red from her reopened wounds, she strode off to await her next training bout.

Blood seeped into the sand from the man's injured head. The pale blond was lucky to still be alive, but would not be fit to fight again for many days.

Jak watched her as she stalked towards the shade. He looked disappointed.

***

'Hello, husband,' said Matilda, happily. She hadn't seen her husband for months. And she hadn't been home in almost a year.

Connavar Rydden embraced his wife, holding her close. 'We have been apart too long,' he said. He too had not been home for a similar amount of time.

He was no longer disguised as a pedlar, preferring his robes when at home which were more befitting of the alchemist he considered himself to be. Similarly, Matilda had transfigured back to her normal self; she was no longer posing as an old hag. Conn's disguises were merely clothes and a change in demeanour. Matilda's transformations, however, were much more physical.

'Yes,' said Matilda, 'I will be glad when all this is over, and we can go back to spending each and every day together.'

'As will I,' said Conn, drinking in the sight of his wife at arm's length. She had long, silky, flowing brown hair, and was gorgeously stunning, sumptuous from head to toe. 'But I suspect things won't be quite so straight forward for some time. Kem Kecha is behind all of this, I know it. Something is not right.'

'What isn't right, my love?'

'Everything,' the alchemist said, exasperated. 'People have been going missing in Nydar – even children; magically enhanced terra tsal and large numbers of kreresh are threatening to overrun the land; King Oaken has been murdered; and Vlar Llundenberg has his lecherous hands on the throne.'

'And you suspect Kem Kecha?'

'I do. People tend to go missing when he's around, because of his misguided sense of what an alchemist should be, and because he considers himself to be one. He believes that an alchemist should unravel the secret of immortality, and does not hold back on the cost of his obsession, even when that cost is the lives of innocents. Also, I do not believe that anybody else could have fashioned flying terra tsal that can heal themselves.

'As a precaution, and because I fear for the boy's life should Kem Kecha ever find out what he's capable of, I have left Lonnie Cumberland in the hands of Baron Mason up in Brearton Forrit. The boy can talk to wolves, and I fear that if Kem Kecha discovers this, he may attempt to manipulate the boy's Ability, to drain his and the wolves' life energy in one fell swoop. Also, after the murders of all those nobles, Lonnie is now the rightful heir to the throne. I fear that his life is in peril for this reason too. Better that the people think him missing or dead.'

'You did well, my husband,' said Matilda. 'It was a wise decision. This way the boy may reclaim the throne from Vlar Llundenberg once he comes of age.' Then she chuckled to herself and added, 'In the guise of the old hag I prophesied to Seb that he will become a great and accomplished champion of the sword with much renown, and will have powerful allies. You should have seen the look on his face.'

'But that is not true –'

'I know, which makes it all the funnier,' she said, leaning into him.

'Sometimes, Matilda, I don't get your sense of humour.'

'I know, my love. It's such a shame for you.' She patted her husband on the shoulder and he swept her into another embrace.

Matilda soon found herself making love to her husband for the first time in months. But despite Conn's Ability with being able to reassure others, it seemed to Matilda that her husband had his mind on other things.

***

...bone jutted through the open wound. But if someone had done this to him, thought Seb with dread in the pit of his gut, why wasn't Rose here to tend to him?

Unable to move, Flute looked up at him with sad brown eyes. There was a slight wag of the tail, but a muted yelp was evidence that even this slight movement caused pain. Seb dashed over to the loyal family guardian, his dear friend. 'Easy, boy. Easy. It won't hurt for much longer.' He drew his dagger.

The dog gave a sharp yelp.

Finishing his act of mercy with tears rolling freely down his cheeks, Seb wiped clean his blade. Cold, blind terror for his family now gripped his heart, seizing him to near delirium, and he hurried into the house.

What he saw next was much worse.

Seb awoke with a start. He rolled, reached for the waterskin and poured its contents over his head to try and wash away the nightmare, inadvertently waking one of the children. He saw that it was Pick.

'Are you okay?' asked the boy.

They had left the inn at Nydar one week ago and now journeyed to Laerdes. The trip could be made in two days if one was to journey by boat along the River Leagues, but Seb and Bantas did not wish to risk being recognised before they could get the children to safety, so they journeyed by land, avoiding encounters where possible.

In the light of the campfire, Seb held his wounded side and gave the boy a weak smile. 'I'm fine. Go back to sleep and get your rest. It is the dead of night.'

Bantas ambled over quietly and asked Seb, 'Is it your turn already?' He referred to sentry duty.

'I make it about that time. How is your shoulder?'

'Not as bad as your side,' replied Bantas. 'Sure you don't want more kip? You'll need your strength with an injury like that.'

They had used only sparingly the pedlar's healing salve that Bantas still carried with him, conscious that they were very likely to need it again at some point.

'I'll be fine, it is not that bad. You go ahead and take your rest.' Seb rose, careful not to reopen the knife wound. He shivered, now wishing that he hadn't poured water over his head. His nightmares had taken on a more bloodcurdling insanity since receiving the wound courtesy of the assassin.

Just who was the assassin under that shadowy hood? He knew it must be the Knife, but there was something about the man's gait, something about the way he had approached Seb just before Bantas came to the rescue...

Bantas began to snore, already. Seb wished that he too could fall asleep at will the way Bantas could.

He also wished that he could sleep as peacefully.

***

The next day, tired and nursing their wounds, the group came within sight of the Gates of the Golden City. There were five gates in total but of course not all of them were within sight. Each had its own name: there was Monarch's Gate, Noble's Gate, Merchant's Gate, Quarry Gate, and Dead Man's Gate – where criminals were hanged, boiled, quartered, strapped to the wheel, stoned, drowned, set afire, flayed, stretched until limbs tore asunder, and maimed or killed by all manner of methods. The gate they were approaching was the Noble's Gate. Fortunately, one did not need to be a noble to pass through it.

'There might be less chance of the guards recognising us from sketchers' portraits if we split up before entering,' Seb told Bantas. He pulled up his hood to cover his face. 'I'll take the girls, you stay with Pick. Your beard has grown considerably since those rogues last saw you and Amarinthine. Just keep your head down and smile at the boy and you should be all right.'

'Oh yes, I'm sure a smile will make all the difference. You'll be fine if you smile; that never bloody happens.'

Seb ignored the comment and, Amiah and Molly in tow, set off towards the Noble's Gate with trepidation. He hoped that his plan would work and sensed that Amiah and Molly had picked up on his nervousness. If caught, he would likely be hanged – or worse – for such was the fate of those found guilty of murder in Laerdes. And what fate the children might come to, he would not like to guess.

'It will be okay,' he assured the girls.

Spotting a large crowd approaching at the same time, they stuck close. The guards seemed bored and only one of them bothered to go through the motions of carrying out his duty, waving a throng of people through the city's busy gate. The other lounged on a barrel. Occasionally they glanced at a portrait from a bundle of parchment, but put no heart into it. They seemed dejected. Must be because of the new king and his rash-handed approach to governing the realm, thought Seb. He had heard that King Vlar had reduced his soldiers' pay, which was probably why he now resorted to press-ganging people into joining his army. And probably why these guards looked anything but enthused.

Seb and the girls reached the gate. The guard lounging on the barrel who received payment from those meeting the toll did not avail himself of the opportunity to scrutinise their faces, but the other guard did, and now squinted at Seb. Sweat trickled down his back and his hands grew clammy through anxiety. He bowed his head and laughed at an imaginary joke as he pulled a coin purse from his pocket.

'Very good, Molly, very good. Did you learn that from Amiah?' he said to the young girl, hoping that he appeared at ease and perfectly at home. The little girl looked up at him as if he was bereft of his senses, and he ruffled her hair. 'What was that story you told me again, Amiah? About the boy who thought he could fly?'

Despite Seb's fears, the guard had not yet made him pull down his hood but continued to wave people through impatiently. But as he drew level, the guard did take another look at him. His heart skipped a beat. He had to stop as he tipped the coins into the other guard's cupped hands, who counted them swiftly before dropping them into the barrel. Seb continued to talk with the girls, expecting a shout of alarm any moment now as he passed under the high stone archway of the Noble's Gate.

None came.

'We did it!' he told the girls once they were clear. They smiled up at him, not fully understanding exactly what the consequences of capture may have been. The relief he felt was immense. Being captured himself would be one thing, but not knowing what may happen to the girls would be completely another. More than anything right now he wanted to see them, their brother and Amarinthine all brought to safety.

But he could only watch as Bantas approached the gate with Pick at his side.

A warning went up between the guards. Of a sudden, the one lounging on the barrel picked up his bundle of parchment and stood almost to attention as he now scrutinised each face of those who paid the toll. After a glance around, Seb realised why. The guards' sergeant approached.

Away to the opposite side of Seb, the sergeant stopped and inspected the work of his guards. Bantas was next in line to pay the toll.

'Damn,' muttered Seb under his breath.

He saw Bantas whisper something and Pick raced through towards him. The boy made it past the guards.

'Halt!' one of them ordered Bantas whilst the other rummaged through a bundle of parchment.

'He's one of 'em!' the other guard exclaimed, holding up a sketcher's portrait. Then he hit the ground from Bantas' thundering fist.

As the first guard began to shout out, Bantas punched him too, taking him in the mouth. With the two guards down, he ran through towards Seb and the children.

Not waiting for Bantas, Seb set off at a run as fast as the children could go. They turned down an alley. 'Keep running,' he told them, 'and stop when you reach the inn at the end of this alley. Pretend you're beggars.' He watched them go, then turned back. Seeing Bantas he beckoned him over and urged him down the alley too. 'Stay with the children. I'll follow shortly,' he said. He did not have long to wait before the pursuing sergeant caught up.

As the sergeant sprinted down the alley, Seb stepped into his path. His elbow struck, and the sergeant's head snapped back and he collapsed in a heap. Seb leapt atop of him, but he was already unconscious.

'That was close,' said Bantas.

'Do you never listen? I said stay with the children,' said Seb as he took from the sergeant a dagger to replace the one he had lost.

'Last time you said that, I found you dangling from a rooftop with numerous stab wounds and an assassin looming over you. No, no, it's okay, there's no need to shower me with your words of praise and deep-rooted gratitude.'

Seb rolled his eyes. 'Numerous stab wounds? I have one stab wound; the other was only superficial. And I had the situation under control anyway. Come, we had best be moving.'

'I see: you're feeling inferior. It's okay, people often feel inferior around me. I get that all the time,' said Bantas. 'Oh, and well done knocking the sergeant unconscious. You didn't need my help, this time.'

'You're so kind,' muttered Seb.

They rejoined the orphans and set out in search of any information on the whereabouts of Samson Ward, or even better, Amarinthine herself.

***

They decided to stay at The Gaping Gate, an inn near the poor quarters that provided surprisingly cosy and comfortable hospitality. It was close enough to the poor quarters that the accommodation was cheap, but not too close that standards were low. This was just as well because Seb's and Bantas' coin was not unlimited.

The cheery innkeeper was a buxom woman well into her thirties with a constant smile and genial manner. She led the group up to their room, which the five of them would share.

'Looks a lovely room, miss...' said Bantas.

'My name is Gwen,' said the landlady with a beaming smile.

'It looks a lovely room, Gwen. All seems perfect. All that I'm missing is a fair maiden to snuggle up with at night,' he said with a wink.

'Why thank you, Mr...'

'You can call me Bantas.'

'Thank you, Bantas. I have the same problem since my late husband passed away.' She winked back at him.

'Ahem,' interjected Seb. 'Shall we and the children get something to eat first, before you two decide to change our sleeping arrangements?'

Gwen gave Seb her beaming smile. 'Of course, sir. If you would like to follow me,' she said.

They left their packs in the bedchamber and followed their hostess back downstairs to supper on vegetable soup and hunks of bread.

Wolfing down his third large portion, Bantas asked Seb, 'Will we need to take turns at sentry?'

'Not here. I'll sleep against the door with my short sword and dagger close by,' replied Seb.

'Good, I'm going to go and ah, have a chat with our lovely hostess. Oh, that's it – I'm going to ask her if she knows where Samson Ward lives,' he added brightly.

'Yes well, don't forget to ask her, will you, wherever you end up sleeping. If you need to return to our room, knock twice, then three times. That way I'll know it is you.'

'Sure. Good night Molly, Amiah, Pick. See you in the morning.'

As the children bade Bantas good night, Seb watched the big man with a shake of the head. No matter what transpired around them, he always seemed care free.

If only, thought Seb.

Sleep was a long time coming for him that night.

If only.

***

The night sky was clear, and the stars shone bright. Looking down at the moonlit home of Amarinthine's mother, Judith, Connavar Rydden daydreamed of the past. It was not often that he got moments like this to simply reflect on life. He was usually kept busy in his studies, trying to bring balance and order, ever countering the evil of Kem Kecha's machinations.

He hoped desperately that Seb and Bantas would succeed in finding Amarinthine. He would be with them now, assisting their search, but Kem Kecha was keeping him occupied with other matters. His arch nemesis, whom he had trained with to become an alchemist many, many years ago, had abused his knowledge of alchemy to create flying terra tsal and huge kreresh, as well as other evil and preternatural beasts. Conn's enemy was up to something, and he knew that whatever it was, it was about to come into fruition. The omens, which any alchemist could have read, had told him so. He suspected there would soon be war and that dark magic would be at play. This, he would do everything in his power to prevent.

His thoughts turned to Amarinthine again – his daughter. Amarinthine did not know, but Conn was her real father; he'd had an affair with her mother many years ago. When Judith discovered she was with child she told him that she never wanted to see him again, saying she wanted to save her marriage.

He too was now married, though he found that upon hearing of the death of Judith's husband from a talkative horse trader, old feelings again stirred. He now found himself looking upon her home with nostalgia, but it was not his intent to meet with the mother of his child this night, for he still loved his wife, Matilda. Only chance found him here.

Then Judith opened the front door of her home and headed up the road.

After all these years Conn's heart still skipped a beat. He stepped out into the street and smiled at her, but she could not make out his features as he stood with his back to the moon.

'Hello, Judith,' he said. 'It has been too long.'

She stopped and looked at him, moonlight illuminating the hope that shone in her eyes. 'Conn? Is that you?'

'Yes, my love. It's me.'

It was the first time they had seen each other since she had ended their affair. But instinctively they each responded as though nothing had ever happened. Before he knew it, she was kissing him deeply, and tears ran down her cheeks. Abandoning whatever it was that she had originally set out to do, she led him back to her home.

***

Stalking the city frustrated and angry, impatient to be done in Nydar, eager to move on to more interesting matters in Laerdes, the Knife stopped. The assassin stood and watched as Conn and Judith kissed each other deeply. The pair held hands as Judith led Conn into her house, closing the door behind her.

***

What Seb saw next was much worse.

Just inside the doorway lay his reason for living, curled up in a circle of crimson: his daughter, Rayne. 'No,' he breathed. 'No.'

Seb awoke with a start and dragged his sword to hand in the pitch dark.

He could feel the draught on his arms and neck coming through the gap at the bottom of the door he guarded. Reassured by the rhythmic breathing of the three children fast asleep, he again lowered himself to the floor and hugged his cloak about him.

Unseen tears rolled down his cheeks.

***

That morning Seb, Pick, Amiah and Molly broke their fasts with porridge, served by Gwen. Bantas was still fast asleep in the landlady's own chambers. She was very forthcoming about the fact, and not at all abashed. 'He has a very kind heart,' was all that she said about him, with a beaming smile.

Seb did not want to risk having any of the inn's customers recognise him – not any more than he absolutely had to – knowing that sketchers' portraits would have been distributed around the city and would be posted in the main square and at each of the city's gates. Extra guards would be on patrol too after their little encounter at the Noble's Gate. Once finished with their food he and the children went back upstairs.

Eventually there came a double knock on their bedchamber door, followed by three more knocks. 'Come in,' said Seb.

Bantas entered with a sheepish grin.

'Have a good night's sleep?' asked Seb. 'Or didn't you do much sleeping, and perhaps that's why you slept in.'

'Oh, I had plenty of sleep. It doesn't take me long to, er, well, to get to sleep,' said Bantas, casting a quick glance at the children.

'I see.'

'And I found out where Samson Ward lives –'

'Hopefully he knows where Amarinthine is,' interjected Seb.

'– but that landlady is amazing; she's more than just a big pair of breasts,' continued Bantas with a big grin. 'It'll be a while before I forget about, umm, the landlady.

'Anyway, what's for breakfast? I'm starving.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DISORDER

Matilda sent a throwing knife spinning through the air towards her husband, but it was a poor shot. Connavar Rydden dodged out of the way with ease and his throwing knife flew from his fingers in retaliation with unerring accuracy, striking Matilda squarely on the chest. Matilda responded angrily and let fly with another knife. This time the throwing knife struck and bounced off Conn's head. Another followed straight after, aimed for the midriff, and bounced off his leather armour.

'Ouch!' shouted Conn, rubbing his head furiously. 'I really think you ought to improve your aim! All this time that I've spent training you, really, I do wonder when you will make some progress.'

'Oh, I'll make progress all right – as long as you keep letting me hit you on the head,' said Matilda with a chuckle. 'You know, as incentive.' They had been training since sunrise with practise knives, expertly made by Conn's own hand, balanced just like a normal throwing knife, but blunted. They wore light armour to soften the blows but did not wear any sort of head protection.

'I have a bloody great big lump on my head!' said Conn, checking his hand for blood. 'I'll have to put cold water on it.' Tending his injury, the alchemist continued to lecture Matilda. 'Fighting evil, as we have found ourselves doing, one of these days you might come face to face with the sorcerer, Kem Kecha. He is very knowledgeable – and powerful – and you would not want to bump into him unprepared. Or his assassin, the Knife; he is fast, deadly and elusive. I do not know if he has any sort of Ability – namely like mine, a throwing Ability – but nonetheless he is very dangerous. I would not want any harm to befall you, my love. If it ever comes to pass that you should fight Kem Kecha or the Knife, I do not think your Abilities will come in handy. By then it would be too late for soothsaying to get you out of trouble, and unless when you change form to the old hag you take on the strength of a griffin, I do not think that would help you, either. So you must work at your training.'

'Yes, yes. You're such a nag. I know; I am practising with the bow, the sword and these bloody throwing knives, aren't I?'

'Yes, but I'm just saying please keep at it, Matilda, and keep working hard. You won't regret it.'

'I know, you've harped on about it before, remember? Anyway, I shouldn't need to practise anything, not when I've got a mighty alchemist of my own to protect me. How's your bump, anyway? Not incapacitated you, I hope.'

'Very funny. And for your information it bloody hurts. I think we'll practise at archery next. Then I've got some business to attend to and I might not be back for a few weeks. I have a feeling Kem Kecha is going to make a move soon. He has managed to get Vlar Llundenberg on the throne and civil war is just around the corner. He has something up his sleeve, I know it. And I'm sure he's trying to raise a dremn from the dead.'

'A dremn?' asked Matilda. She winced in pain as she held her side where she had been struck by one of Conn's practise knives.

'Yes, that's my hunch from the fleeting glimpse of the future that I had.'

'You had a glimpse? What was in it?'

'I saw a huge creature of death,' he said. 'What could only be a dremn, I think, judging by its size and strength. The person who raised it – Kem Kecha, no doubt – set it loose on a village. Such an act would require great knowledge of – and misuse of – alchemy. When it appears, I must needs find it.'

'Do you want me to come with you?'

'No, you stay here, my love. Give it a few days, then look into the future again. I want Seb and Bantas to find Amarinthine safe and secure, so see what you can ascertain and give Seb a few words of comfort and friendly advice from the old hag. Don't worry about the dremn, I'll handle it,' he said. He recalled a story about a dremn that he had been told many years ago now – by the Master Alchemist. It was Master who had taught him the art of alchemy. He had said that a lone dremn living amongst the mountains had been injured when an army chanced across it. Scared, it had attacked them. Quite a number of men died in this initial attack but the army of men, vast in number, quickly fought it off. Beating its mighty wings, it took to the air in a clumsy fashion and fled from the army – right into the centre of a well-populated town. The dremn took out its fury on the townsfolk, who made their way indoors in fear of the colossus. But the dremn charged wildly through the town in a fit of rage, knocking down their wooden buildings, ripping bodies apart with straight, giant square teeth as easily as a farmer might pull the neck of a cockerel. When eventually the army caught up with and at long last slew the mighty dremn, the town's population had been decimated.

Conn did not want Matilda with him when he faced the dremn brought back from the dead, as he had no wish to place his wife's life at risk.

This time there would be no army to slay the creature. Conn would have to do it alone. And he was not without doubt. He felt the icy touch of fear and wondered just how much of a chance he stood against the giant abomination.

***

They left the children at the monastery where Bantas had spent part of his youth. The children would be much safer here and well looked after. But it was still an emotional farewell, for the orphans had endeared themselves to the pair of warriors.

'Wow, Sister Mary,' said Bantas, 'you defy the ravages of time itself; you have grown ever more beautiful since last I saw you. And your breasts look sublime.'

'Now Bantas,' replied Sister Mary sternly. 'I see that you have not matured since we looked after you as a child. We always did have to keep an eye on you.' Despite her words, Seb could see that she enjoyed the compliment paid to her by the big axeman and a smile threatened to beam through on her features. She looked even younger than Bantas, though Seb reasoned she must be at least a few winters older to have once helped look after him as a youth.

'My apologies, Sister Mary. I always enjoyed your caring affection, especially the hugs.' Bantas winked at her, but Sister Mary reasserted her austerity.

'Now that is enough. I always knew you'd be trouble.'

'Why can't we come with you?' asked Amiah.

'I've told you before, floral leaf,' said Bantas. 'We're going to rescue a girl from some bad men.'

'Will you fight them?' asked Pick.

'If it comes to that, yes,' said Seb, with a glance at Sister Mary. 'But if there is any way around it we would prefer not to.'

'I hope you kill them,' said Molly. Pick patted his youngest sister on the back with a proud smile, ignoring the raised eyebrow and stern stare from Sister Mary.

'Someone once told me,' said Bantas, 'that life is no longer empty and meaningless if you can find a cause worth dying for.' After a pause he added, 'I think he might have been a bit depressed when he said it, but he could be right. Anyway, rescuing Amy is a good enough cause for me. Actually, receiving pay is usually good enough for me, but killing bad guys and rescuing an innocent girl are two even better reasons to die – erm, though I'm sure it will not come to that, of course,' he added hastily, now backtracking and trying to reassure the children who looked at him with consternation.

'I am sure it will not,' said Seb confidently, signalling for his friend to stop talking. 'Here,' he said to the three children, 'I have a little something for you, as parting gifts from Bantas and me. It's not much, but then again, I don't have much. For you, Molly, and you, Amiah, I have for each of you a dice that will bring luck. No matter how you roll them they will always land on a six. Like the dice, may your circumstance in life always result in the best possible outcome. For you, Pick, I have a third dice. But this one is not weighted. You will need to make your own luck in life, I'm afraid.' He smiled. 'But I'm sure you will do fine, and you are a brave lad, which will help. Look after your little sisters and try to make sure they always have good fortune. Listen to what Sister Mary and the other nuns and priests teach you.' The orphan boy nodded solemnly and gave a brave smile. Seb turned to Bantas. 'Come on you, before you scare the children again.'

Bantas gave Sister Mary a very big and very close and personal hug, and then the pair said their goodbyes to the children and set off to find Samson Ward.

Seb wondered how the big axeman got away with some of the things he did.

If I went about molesting nuns, I'd soon find myself locked up.

He couldn't help but wonder at how compassionate it made him feel, leaving the orphans in the care of the

monastery. Especially when he thought of little Molly and her big brown eyes.

***

'So, what's a law-abiding citizen like your good self doing with a set of weighted dice, anyway?' asked Bantas as they made their way over the rolling hills. Gwen, the landlady of The Gaping Gate, had informed Bantas that Samson Ward lived a short way east outside of the city walls. He and Seb had been forced to pay a shifty-looking character to show them a way over the city walls without drawing attention from the City Guard.

'Oh,' replied Seb, 'I took them from the body of a cheat I accidentally killed – hence why I was chased out of Winderbrook. They wanted me hanged for his murder.'

'If it was an accident and somebody saw it – which I presume they did, else they wouldn't know it was you – then why brand you a murderer? I know people who've killed others accidentally, but they weren't branded murderers.'

'That is a good point. I suppose the guy must have seen me retrieving my necklace and the dice, put two and two together and come up with five. The thing is though, I did kill him – or I think I did. He ran at me with a dagger when I caught him lifting my necklace. I redirected him into a wall, he banged his head, and that was how I left him.'

'Just banged his head?'

'Yes. Don't get me wrong, I would have killed him eventually anyway, once I'd proved what I suspected. He liked to win farmers' daughters from them.'

'Hmm. Did you see the person who claims to have witnessed this murder?'

'Yes, but he was in shadow.'

'Hood drawn up?'

'Yes, why?' asked Seb.

'Could you make out anything beneath the hood?'

'No, but he was a good twenty paces away and it was dark.'

'Perhaps it was the Knife. You remember on the tannery roof? We couldn't make out any features under that hood. Or even if it wasn't the Knife, the guy probably finished off the thief himself, then blamed you.'

'You know, Bantas, you may be right. I thought that bump on his head should not have proved fatal.' What Bantas said made perfect sense.

And in his mind, he thought something else clicked into place too.

***

'I think they're camped up ahead,' said Bantas.

'Be careful not to get spotted,' said Seb.

'I know, you don't have to state the obvious. I reckon Samson Ward's home is about half a mile down the road. I think we should skirt around to the left of this lot. The lay of the land should mean that we won't be silhouetted against the sky as much on that side.'

Seb nodded and said nothing. Earlier they had come across the charred remains of a farmhouse, its owners nowhere in sight – another example of the kingdom coming to wrack and ruin. The thought occurred to him that those ahead may well be those who had scorched the farmhouse.

The pair made their way towards their left. Here the cover that the trees provided would end. Seb and Bantas got ready to rush down the hill. Then they would turn towards the cottage.

But Bantas stopped.

'What are you doing?' whispered Seb, but Bantas did not answer. He was stood stock still. From out of nowhere a grizzled old man had materialised and held a bastard sword to Bantas' neck.

'It is I who should be asking what you are doing,' said the old man quietly.

Now that Seb had a better look at him he did not seem very old after all, just a grizzled warrior with many years of experience. He stood body facing Seb, eyes fixed on Bantas. He exuded confidence and Seb had no doubt of the man's skill with a blade.

'Well,' Bantas said to Seb, 'shall we tell him the truth, or make something up? Like we were out looking for strawberries?' He looked at the grizzled warrior, but if the stoic expression was anything to go by, his attempt at humour had not yielded the desired effect.

'I think the truth might be better,' said Seb, keeping his eyes on their ambusher. 'It would be more than ironic were we to be slain for something we didn't do. Or for angering the very person whose aid we seek.'

'Ah, so you seek my aid?' said the warrior.

'We do.'

'First you will disarm yourselves, and then, I think, we will take a walk to my home. Throw them over here,' he said, indicating a spot by his side, and waited for them to lay down their weapons.

With no other choice left to them, they were forced to comply. The grizzled warrior picked up Seb's short sword and Bantas' double-headed battleaxe, as well as their daggers. Then he prodded and herded them towards his home, around and out of sight of those making camp.

Seb received the prods and jabs without protest and knew that Bantas would do the same; the warrior was only guiding their direction and did not want any noise, perhaps not wishing to let those making camp know that he had two visitors. Seb noted that the cottage had once been surrounded by trees, which at some point had all been reduced to stumps – no doubt to lend the cottage a panoramic view of the vicinity. Not to mention of course that they would have yielded plentiful fuel for the fire.

Arriving at the cottage, the grizzled warrior entered first and propped their weapons in a corner, indicating that they should sit at the opposite end of the room. It looked a cosy home, thought Seb. A sheepskin rug bedecked the wide floorboards before a crackling hearth, and several trinkets adorned numerous shelves. The trinkets had gathered dust.

'My apologies for disarming you, but one can never be too cautious,' said the grizzled warrior with a smile, though his eyes narrowed at the pair and the smile seemed superfluous. 'Now, why do you seek my aid?'

After giving their names, Seb asked, 'You are Samson Ward?'

'Correct. You can call me Ward, all others do.'

'We seek Amarinthine – we believe she was kidnapped. Do you know her whereabouts?'

Ward was clearly taken aback. He pulled out a chair, reversed it and straddled it. 'I did not know. When did this happen?'

'Quite a number of months ago. She was taken by a flying terra tsal, if you can believe that. I suspect it has something to do with Vlar Llundenberg.'

'Couldn't say I would exactly be surprised if he wanted to kidnap a young girl, but what makes you think this?'

Bantas answered: 'I was travelling with some mercenaries to deliver an important cargo for Ver'bane. He has connections with Vlar Llundenberg. But I turned coat to rescue Amarinthine when the bandits wanted to rape her. Since then they've been after us. We saw each of our portraits up in the city square in Laerdes.'

'But a flying terra tsal?' asked Ward.

'Aye, you heard right,' replied Seb. 'We had fled to the village of the Na H'Basi tribesmen. I managed to kill the first terra tsal that came. It could fly like an eagle. And it could heal itself! Aye, again you heard right. Dark magic was at play, and Vlar Llundenberg is the only one I can imagine rich enough to pay for such sorcery. Maybe he fears we know something of his important cargo. Whichever way, one of the flying terra tsal carried Amarinthine off towards the north, presumably towards Nydar. Vlar Llundenberg of course was earl in Nydar but is now king in Laerdes, hence we are here.'

'This is troubling news, but I am afraid I may not be of much help. Though help I will, in whatever way I can,' said Ward.

'We thank you,' said Seb. 'But tell me, who are those making camp nearby, and do they pose a threat?'

'They are troubled soldiers. They have been ordered to form a press gang and have had their pay reduced, but have no desire to start press-ganging people. They would rather start a demonstration against such a thing. They are good people, I suppose, who wish to stand up against King Vlar. But they are few, merely twenty in number.'

'So why are they here?'

'They aim to persuade me in joining them, saying that if I join their cause, others will flock.' Ward sighed and for the first time looked tired. 'But I am old – too old. And too weary for such lofty ambitions. I have served my time and had my fill of fighting and death and war. Such things are for the young.'

'But you're the mighty Samson Ward,' said Bantas, 'Champion of the King and Protector of the Realm.' He was clearly awestruck.

'Former Champion of the King and former Protector of the Realm, Bantas, but no more. I am retired.'

'Still, it would be no wonder if the people did flock to your side to rise up against the king,' said Bantas. 'Personally, I think it would be very fitting should you take the throne.'

'Ha!' barked Ward. 'Not I. As I said, I am tired and old now, and too weary of the world. Perchance you should try and find Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin. Though Lorgh only knows where he is, if he yet lives.'

Seb and Bantas looked at one another but said nothing at first. Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin, was well known as the best swordsman in Ehronin, but any man, woman or child old enough to talk knew that he had not been seen or heard of since winning King Oaken the war against the Empire of Mori Voh over ten years since.

Then Seb said, 'What Bantas and I are concerned with right now is finding Amarinthine. Will you help us in this?'

'Of course I will. I have known that lass since she was a babe in arms. She is like a daughter to me.'

'Thank you,' said Seb. 'But you might want to know that Bantas and I are fugitives.'

Ward gave a wry smile and replied, 'Aren't most?'

'I would like to think not.'

Bantas scratched his itchy beard and asked, 'So what do we do now?'

'Isn't it obvious?' answered Seb. 'We sneak out, away from that lot camped over there, and we go for a drink.'

As if on cue Ward and Bantas said simultaneously, 'That's a damn good idea.'

***

Miles had always shown great promise as a soldier. His scouting abilities had been most appreciated by his superiors in the battle between the then Earl Vlar and Duke Richard II. Since then Miles had been told he was considered a trusted soldier and liked to fancy that he had a good chance of one day making Vlar Llundenberg's personally hand-picked soldiers, the King's Guard.

King Vlar had brought with him to Laerdes almost all of his soldiers from Nydar, an army vast in number led by General Cannick. This left many disgruntled people back in Nydar. They had been stripped of their protection and now crime was rife in Miles' home city, a fact he could not pretend to be indifferent about. And here in Laerdes where the king now reigned, things did not seem to be much better.

Except for the King's Guard, whose pay had increased, the soldiers were all perturbed by their reduction in pay, and certainly not many agreed with press-ganging people into joining their army. And what for? Did King Vlar plan on invading a foreign land? In Miles' opinion, soldiers needed to be well trained, professional and disciplined, not forced against their will and treated like the enemy. It was a recipe for rebellion. If he could, Miles would stop it. The people needed their morale back. But there was nothing he could do. It was out of his hands. They needed to fight against a common cause, so that they may band together again. Like those he was now with, too many soldiers talked of rebellion and refused to form press gangs. Miles did not want to disobey his king's orders – quite the opposite – but at present, he had no choice; he was the only one of the group who had expressed his doubts about trying to persuade Samson Ward to be their new leader and revolt. He could not leave by himself to inform the king of what had happened, as his friends would know what he had done. But Ward apparently wanted naught to do with a revolt, anyway. Or maybe Ward suspected the soldiers of trying to catch him out, and secretly did support a rebellion. Miles wanted to find out; he did not want to be drawn into a mutinous uprising. Maybe after all of this, if he could uncover the truth about Samson Ward, he may yet find promotion and a place in the King's Guard.

From a safe distance he followed Ward and the two strangers. He couldn't help feeling he had seen the sleek swordsman and the big axeman somewhere before. Then it came to him: he had seen their portraits in the city square!

They were wanted men.

***

Bantas belched loudly and called for ale to be brought over for his new friends, two locals who had expressed their opinions on King Vlar. They were not happy, but Bantas had already managed to cheer them with his promise of ale.

The one with the square chin, Dirk, resumed his narrative: 'So my wife and I had worked the land for over a decade. It was our way of life and we depended on it. Our children depended on it. Then, well, that's when it happened. All thems dukes and earls and members of the royal family were murdered – mark my words, they was murdered – along with all thems other heirs. Vlar Llundenberg comes along and claims the throne – well, who's to stop him with a bloody massive army behind him? He planned this all along, so he did. Then he says we either pays him half our earnings, or forfeit the land! Well, we couldn't afford it! So he took the land from us! And he took the lands and farms and houses from many other good, hard-working folk too!' Dirk shook with anger.

'Here, my friend,' said Bantas, 'have this ale on me. You deserve it. Tell me, either since or before the coming of Vlar Llundenberg, have you seen or heard anything of a young red-headed girl? She was kidnapped, and we reckon Vlar Llundenberg wanted her for reasons foul.'

'I'm sorry, I've not.'

Dirk's companion also indicated in the negative.

Bantas returned to seat himself alongside Seb and Ward.

'No luck,' he said.

They were counting on not being recognised by anybody hoping to cash in on the reward on Seb's and Bantas' heads, which was made more difficult with all the sketcher portraits dotted about the city. Bantas hoped his beard would help disguise him sufficiently and Seb sat with his hood drawn up. Ward had taken up a seat at their table such that he would be the first and most easily noticed, so as to draw attention away from the pair.

'So, still no luck as yet,' said Ward. 'Keep heart lads, I know we have been at this for two days now, but I am sure that something will crop up.'

'I certainly hope so,' said Seb. 'Though I've been thinking.'

'Uh oh,' said Bantas.

Seb ignored the jibe and asked Ward, 'Are you sure that you do not want to get involved in a revolt against the king?'

'I am sure. I am too old for that. I'll not give up looking for Amarinthine, though.'

'Okay. You carry on frequenting the alehouses then – and whorehouses; everyone knows that whores hear all kinds of gossip – and I might give those soldiers outside your home a visit. I grow tired of waiting for some bounty hunter to recognise me from a sketcher's portrait. If I am going to be branded an outlaw, I think I may as well start acting like one. What do you think, Bantas?'

'So let me get this straight,' said Bantas. 'We still don't know where Amy is, but we suspect Vlar Llundenberg may have something to do with her abduction. As a result, you want to be the one to start a rebellion against the king?'

'Correct.'

'Okay, for the moment I'm in. But if it turns out that Amy is elsewhere, I'm leaving.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

RECRUITS

'I know who you are.' Miles levelled his blade at the big man as he stepped outside. 'I reckon you're wanted,' he said. 'Reckon there's a reward on your head. And your friend's, too.'

'Trust me, you don't want to find out the hard way. Now put down your weapon. There's not enough of you,' said the big axeman.

'There's only me,' said Miles.

'Exactly.'

'I'm enough. Anyway, what's the great Samson Ward doing with the likes of you and that other scoundrel?' He was biding time, waiting for his two companions to sneak up behind the big man.

But before they could make a grab for him the big axeman turned and struck one with the haft of his axe. He swept the other's legs from under him before rapping him on the side of the head.

Miles was just one step away from the big man's turned and exposed back – but he was brought up short. The one with the drawn-up hood had followed his friend out and now held a short sword to his throat.

'Okay,' said Miles, 'you two are clearly better than I gave you credit for.'

'Thank you,' said the big axeman with a grin.

'But you're wanted for turning coat against the king,' he accused.

'He was only an earl at the time,' the big axeman protested, feigning hurt.

'Crimes against the king are punishable retroactively,' said Miles. Then he turned to the man holding him at sword point. 'And you're wanted for murder.'

'Actually, he didn't do it,' the big axeman said as he checked on the two guards.

They were both unconscious, but at least they were alive.

***

'We will be within sight of them soon,' said Seb as he herded the downcast and unarmed Miles towards his fellow military men. Seb was unable to discern his age, but he was still young. 'Once there, we will give you back your weapons. You may tell them we are wanted men if it pleases you, but personally I think they will want to hear us out.'

His captive merely grunted. The wilful soldier had said little since they'd disarmed him, but Seb could tell that the lad would be blind to reason and hoped that his companions outside of Ward's home would be more receptive.

'Hello, Miles! Everything okay?' called out a large man with a shaven head. Most like, it had been shaved to hide the fact that he was balding. Behind him was their camp, where near a score of men lounged about. Upon seeing Seb and Bantas they rose and watched, pleased to finally have something to distract them from their boredom.

'Aye, hello Gus,' said the soldier, looking galled. 'I've been taken captive by these two bandits. They say they wish to speak with us all.'

Seb gave Miles back his sword and said to an amused-looking Gus, 'It is true, we are wanted as outlaws. But for crimes we did not commit. And for actions that any warrior with a shred of decency would gladly have undertaken.

'Now, with that out of the way, if it pleases you, I would like to address you all because I have a proposition.'

Seb recognised one of the soldiers amongst them. He had been one of those press-ganged against his will and set free when Seb, Bantas, Eyebrows, Akeyo and the other Na H'Basi tribesmen had fought against the press gang numbering over thirty armed men. This might go in our favour, thought Seb, if he recognises us and tells of our small battle against the odds.

He decided to make them wait for the little speech that he had planned. 'Let all amongst you know that we will return two hours hence. We will talk then.'

He and Bantas headed towards Ward's cottage – as far as they knew, Ward was still in the alehouse – and he glanced behind, noting that the man who had witnessed their battle against the press gang now talked animatedly amongst his companions. Good, thought Seb, let him exaggerate the story of how a handful of us won victory against over three times our number on open ground.

Not for the first time, nor indeed the last, he prayed to Phrayden, Lord of the Afterworld, for the souls of the Na H'Basi warriors who had given their lives. Without them, he reflected, he doubted if he and Bantas would still be alive. Ironically, he wondered if his praying to the Lord of the Afterworld would help; the Na H'Basi did not worship the same gods as the Ehronians.

***

Having waited the said amount of time, Seb and Bantas trudged back towards the camp.

'I hope you're right, Seb,' said Bantas. 'I hope they've not decided to turn us in for a fat reward, like that Miles fellow wanted to.'

'They wanted to persuade Ward to help them stir up the soldiers and form enough of a voice to petition against the king, so I don't think they will. Hopefully not, anyway. Soon enough we will find out exactly where they stand.'

'Well, I hope you fill them with more confidence than you have me.'

The soldiers had all gathered.

'Greetings,' called the bald-headed Gus. 'We are all of us here. And eager to hear your words.'

Earlier Gus' men had mostly seemed bored and hapless, thought Seb, but they now appeared hopeful, eager to hear what he had to say. They seemed to look upon him and Bantas with respect. The press-ganged escapee, who had evidently ended up joining the army by choice in the end anyway, must have spoken of them with reverence. After all, they had defeated a small army with the help of a mere handful of Na H'Basi tribesmen.

Repressing the nerves he felt, Seb took a breath. His cloak billowed in the breeze. He was standing on a raised section of ground as if on a plinth, which gave him an aspect of importance with the huge and imposing Bantas by his side.

'What have you to say for yourselves, outlaws?' scoffed Miles.

Seb hated giving speeches. But as with everything else in life, when faced with a challenge he rose to it. 'I say that any king,' he answered, strong of voice, 'who forces good, honest people to join his army like condemned slaves does not deserve our respect. And does not deserve our loyalty. If it is indeed true that the king himself has sanctioned press-ganging – especially during a time of relative peace – I say that he is no king of mine.

'An innocent girl has been kidnapped and my friend and I search for her. We have reason to believe that Vlar Llundenberg is responsible for her kidnap. I for one will not follow him. The people of Nydar have grown disillusioned with him, as now the good people of Laerdes grow disillusioned too. And all too soon his harsh laws will be implemented throughout Ehronin.

'Farmers who have lived and worked their whole lives on their farms, handed down to them through the generations, are now forced to give up their land because they cannot pay his infeasible taxes. Good people find themselves and their families driven from their homes. I say we should not allow Laerdes – the Golden City – to befall the same fate as Nydar: turmoil and ruin. Good soldiers who have spent lifetimes of loyalty in their king's service now feel compelled to leave because of Vlar Llundenberg's cruel new laws. Not only that, but there's his greedy reduction in pay to all those within his army not of the King's Guard. And what can the King's Guard do that you cannot?'

'Aye!' came numerous shouts of appreciation.

'Yes!' shouted another. 'Those King's Guards are just arse lickers!'

'But what do you propose?' asked Miles with a look of contempt.

'I propose that we band together, and hit Vlar Llundenberg's supply wagons. We can question those loyal to him upon the whereabouts of our friend Amarinthine, the young girl. And in the process, we can give back to those in most need – the poor – a little of what Vlar Llundenberg has taken away from them.'

'You mean to steal from the king to give back to the poor?'

'Yes, I do. And if he sends out his King's Guard in retaliation, well, we will teach them a lesson. We will show them that they are no better than us!'

He was greeted with even more cheers of approval, before Miles said with no small amount of sarcasm, 'And I bet you'll benefit very nicely from this stealing from the king.'

'It is not coin I seek, Miles. I just want to find our friend who is dear to us both –' he indicated himself and Bantas '– and then perhaps I will move south to warmer climes. Try and escape the madness of the world. If I can bring about a little justice along the way, then all's the better.'

'So, you're going to kick up a fight, then leave us in the mire?'

'It does not matter what I plan for my future. Yes, I would like to move away from everything that I know, and that is because my family and I were victims of injustice to the worst possible degree. At least I am lucky enough to still be alive, I suppose, though I would trade places with my wife and daughter in a heartbeat if I could. I would not see a repeat of that happen to anyone.

'No, what matters is the here and now, and right now the king is already losing his people through wayward ruling. I say that the time has come to do something about it.'

Except for Miles perhaps, Seb knew that he had won over his audience. The press gang escapee who had witnessed he and Bantas win their unlikely battle was gyrating wildly with excitement. He had most certainly spoken highly of them, likely exaggerating the story somewhat, which Seb was glad of because his excitement was proving infectious amongst the other soldiers.

Even Miles appeared to give a reluctant smile at seeing his friends so jubilant. 'What about Samson Ward?' he asked.

'He will not fight, but assists in the search for our kidnapped friend, as she is dear to him. Maybe once he sees how well we fare he could be persuaded to join us.'

'Come,' announced Gus to everyone. 'We will feast on venison. Then we will talk of what lies in store for us all.' The idea was met enthusiastically.

The troop's bald sergeant entreated Seb and Bantas, and they followed him into his tent, each looking forward to the prospect of venison.

Bantas said, 'Just to make sure introductions are over with, I'm Bantas and he's Seb.'

'Welcome to our camp,' said Gus.

'So, for want of anything better to do, you've been camping out here for the last few days?'

'Yes, Bantas, that is correct.'

'Seems strange to me. I thought reasonable soldiers like yourselves would prefer to spend their time in whorehouses, not camping in a field. That's too much like paid work. But you're not getting paid to camp, you're getting paid to press-gang people into the king's service.'

'I follow your logic, Bantas,' said Gus, 'but my family has been torn apart by Vlar Llundenberg and his harsh ruling. Something needs to be done. I persuaded the boys to seek the aid of Samson Ward. I thought he might be the beacon to which all others would flock in the name of justice. Looks like I've wound up with you two instead.'

'Lucky you. But I'm only here until I find Amy's trail, then I'm off,' said Bantas. 'Until then of course, I'll gladly eat your venison.'

***

Amarinthine looked at herself in the tall standing mirror. She thought she had aged since being captured by the gamers and exposed to gruelling training for the Arena. Bags had formed under her eyes and her usually pale skin was now tanned, the result of arduous training in the sun of this hot and arid land. She had grown larger in stature, and fortunately for her, her breasts were not yet developed. Maybe they never would be. And her hands had become leathery and tough.

The reflection of the strong, tanned young woman in the mirror wore a long, green tapered dress and wore her hair in the style of a married noblewoman's, if a little short. The elegant clothing was expensive, as was the jewellery. Amarinthine thought that if it weren't for the bags under her eyes and the hard edge to her features, the girl in the mirror looked almost beautiful.

She awaited Lord Kuithatril's return. He had left her in his bedchamber to briefly attend to another matter, though she had now been waiting well over an hour. Since recovering from her fifty lashes, Kuithatril again had her attending his bedchamber every night after her evening meal. Perhaps to prevent himself from getting any more salacious urges, Amarinthine suspected, her lord now insisted that she dress as a lady when in the privacy of his rooms. Now, as Kuithatril claimed to have originally intended, her visits to his bedchamber were not to suit his distasteful pleasures, but to socialise. And the visits had proved most useful when she had finally become a woman and flowered, as Kuithatril had been able to provide discreetly the required rags and wads of cotton. Not long after her convalescence he had asked for her real name, and although he still called her Puce in the presence of others to maintain the falsehood of her gender, when in private he would call her by her real name.

She had found him to be a remarkably lonely man. He was the lord of a large house with many servants and slaves yet seemed to have no real friends. She even felt a little sorry for him, but could never forgive him for what he tried to do to her. Oddly, she could forgive him for the severe and life-threatening lashing, but not for what had transpired leading up to it.

Yawning, she sprawled out on the divan. Although this was much more comfortable, given a choice she would be fast asleep on her thin straw pallet on the stone floor of her cell right now. She had been training hard and needed the rest.

Her eyelids started to droop. She was thinking about how all her hard work and rigorous training was paying off. She now won just as many training bouts as she lost, despite her lack of strength compared to her fellow captives. And she still remembered what the pedlar told her about maintaining a positive attitude and approach to life, that way the universe would conspire to work in her favour. She recalled his words often and hoped dearly that they would prove to be true.

'Do not fall asleep yet, Amarinthine,' said Lord Kuithatril. She opened her eyes to see him closing the door. She had fallen asleep without realising.

'My lord,' she said in her more natural and girlish voice as she rose. She enjoyed being able to drop her disguise every so often but was embarrassed at having been caught with her eyes closed.

Retrieving an apple from his fruit bowl, Kuithatril began to peel it with his dagger and indicated that she should sit back down. Watching him peel the fruit made her mouth water and she realised that she was hungry. She'd always thought there was never enough food available for all the captives during their evening meal, not for all the harsh training they had to endure. Maybe that's what keeps my breasts small.

'I watched you earlier, on the sands,' said Kuithatril, and paused.

Amarinthine did not reply. Despite his pretence at no longer desiring her sexually by dressing her up as a lady when in the confines of his rooms and allowing her slightly more freedom to speak than any other slave, she had learnt not to speak to her master unless he wished her to, and she sensed that he had more to say.

Gazing out the window, he said around a mouthful of apple peel, 'You have progressed. I envisage a successful couple of years for you with a few selectively entered games – you would be lucky to last any longer than that – but I imagine your feminine attributes will not remain underdeveloped for ever. That will become a problem, and I have not yet worked out how to get around it.'

Amarinthine remained quiet, allowing herself to be comforted by the soporific haziness of exhaustion, listening to her master from the comfort of the divan, a luxury that few other slaves would ever come to know unless, perhaps, they were called upon to meet their lord's pleasures in bed – ironically, she was glad that she was not male. Her comfort, however, became the last thing on her mind after what her lord told her next.

Sensing that she was close to falling asleep again, Lord Kuithatril slammed his dagger into the gnarled oak table. 'I am glad you avoided injury today,' he said, 'because you are to set out tomorrow for your fight – in the Arena. An unexpected withdrawal from one of my rivals means that you and another will fight alongside each other a little earlier than I had anticipated. But I have a feeling that the Ability you hide so very well will come to your aid.'

Amarinthine could only look at him in shock. The Arena?

She had thought she would not be ready to fight in the Arena for many months yet, perhaps even years. And Kuithatril had never mentioned her Ability before.

'Yes, my lord,' she said.

'Now undress and sort out your hair. You need to become Puce again. Then get yourself to bed and get a good night's sleep. You will rise early; it is a long journey.' He again peered out across the vista through his window as Amarinthine began to change. 'I think you will do nicely. But try not to let your Ability show through, else I will be forced to kill you myself. I cannot be party to a fighter with an Ability, you must understand.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE ARENA

Normally Conn's glimpses were fickle things, coming seldom and unbidden. But recently they seemed to come thick and fast for the alchemist. And that night he believed he had had another, brief as it was, and metaphoric. He saw a scorpion imprisoned within four stone walls, blood pooling beneath it as a sand snake time and again struck out, puncturing its belly with venomous fangs. Thirsty sand drank up the bright red blood. All the while the scorpion stood, passive.

'Strike back with your tail!' he yelled at it. But it remained passive, and he could not understand why.

Then he woke and furrowed his brow in thought. Within his glimpses he could never see those closest to him directly. Then he smiled.

'Send out the right vibes,' he said, 'and the universe will conspire to work in your favour.'

***

'No,' he breathed. 'No.'

He did not notice the tears streaming down his face, for they did not matter. Cupping her face in his hands, he saw the hole in the side of her head. Who would do such a thing? He peeled the matted hair from her face and delicately brushed it around the back of her small, gorgeous ear. Giving her a lingering kiss on her sticky forehead, he assured her, 'Everything will be okay, my darling. Flute will be with you soon. He'll look after you for me until I can come join you.'

He heard a wolf-like howl, primal in its raw, aching pain, and realised that it was he himself that howled.

***

Seb was in a fury. He led the charge down the hill at the unsuspecting lead supply wagon, trundling along on its way to Laerdes and the king's castle. He could not get the nightmare out of his head. What made it worse was that it was not just a nightmare, it was a memory. It was a part of what he was.

As well as the soldiers-turned-bandits, alongside him but keeping to the rear were now also farmers, merchants, goatherds, fishermen – each of whom had lost either home or livelihood... or both. With nothing else to believe in, they now chose to believe in what they called Seb's Cause. This was the sixth such attack, and word was fast spreading of the Outlaw and his gang.

One of the wagon guards turned and drew his sword, but he was no match for Seb. With a shout coming unbidden from his lips, Seb brushed aside the guard's sword and smashed his shoulder into the man's chest, hurling him from his feet. Others of Seb's outlaws soon surrounded the small supply train and its guards, and weapons were quickly surrendered as the wagon guards recognised immediately that they were up against well-trained swordsmen. And to them no doubt, the big axeman would look deadlier still.

As Seb continued to advance on his defeated opponent he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. He spun, and another hand gripped his sword arm like a vice. It was Bantas.

No words were said, but in his friend's eyes Seb could read plenty enough: it was over. He looked down at his right hand. He had to force it to relax, his taut muscles white from their iron grip upon the sword's pommel. With a conscious effort he also relaxed his clenched jaw, but still seethed with anger.

'There will be no casualties,' he spat, declaring so more for his own benefit than his captives'. 'But you will relinquish your goods for the welfare of those impoverished, who are in need of being disabused of the harsh new laws and taxes. And you will carry word to your king.

'But first, I wish to question your leader.'

A resolute man with a close-cropped beard stepped forward, claiming to be in charge. Seb drew him aside and after a moment's questioning, turned and ordered his men to relieve the supply train of its provisions. Looking at Bantas he indicated with a shake of his head in the negative.

The man in charge knew nothing of a red-headed girl named Amarinthine.

'One more thing,' Seb told the man. 'It is worth a sum of gold to you: have you ever been to Sett Whistle?' He watched the man's eyes closely as he gave his answer.

'That's a small town across the other side of the Sark Peaks, is it not?'

Seb nodded.

'No, sir. I have never had cause to go there.'

'Do you know anybody that has, say in the last couple of years?'

'Well, funny you should ask, but I might just know someone...'

Seb handed the man two gold pieces, which were quickly pocketed.

'He's a dye merchant named Gannulf, and he's here in Laerdes.'

***

The Ehronian brought his war hammer down to bear on the Mori Vohan, but the swordsman from Mori Voh was too swift and evaded the attack with consummate ease.

'He merely toys with the Ehronian,' said Jak.

'Yes, there's something about him... the Ehronian seems to possess at least one Ability, and yet, the Mori Vohan swordsman...' Amarinthine stopped herself short as Jak darted her a suspicious glance. 'What I mean is, the Ehronian can't surely wave that great war hammer around as he does without some sort of Ability. What do you think?'

'I don't know about that; back home I saw a man pull off feats of strength I never thought possible, and he had no Ability. Having said that, the Mori Vohan has him in the palm of his hand.'

They watched from behind the huge iron gates, awaiting their turn to fight in the Arena with a sense of foreboding. Amarinthine felt the urge to talk. She needed to try and assuage her nervous tension and her stark fear brought about by this anomic situation.

'I hope our opponents aren't this skilled,' she said.

'These fighters are no more skilled than you or me,' replied Jak. 'Do not give in to fear before we even set foot on the sand. Don't let me down. We must fight together.'

Amarinthine felt as though she might faint before it even came to that. 'Don't worry, I won't,' she said. She told herself for the hundredth time that Lord Kuithatril had placed too much stock in her fighting skills. Why in the name of Lorgh the Maker did he choose me to fight alongside Jak?

She meant what she had told Jak: she hoped their opponents were not this skilled. She was convinced that the Ehronian did in fact have at least one Ability, but however much he tried to use it he was thwarted by the Mori Vohan, because he too had one: he could cancel out the Abilities of others.

The Mori Vohan hopped to one side and sliced into the fingers holding the war hammer. The great weapon dropped to the sand and the swordsman skipped past his now unarmed opponent. As he did so he flicked his wrist and his sword snaked out. Then, turning his back, he raised his hands in celebration.

The crowd gasped. The unarmed Ehronian dropped to his knees before toppling sideways. An official darted across to check on him and confirmed the man dead.

The crowd roared in adulation.

Following victory, contestants were permitted to remain a short moment only to bask in their glory, but the Mori Vohan revelled in his and did not seem to want to leave. Eventually he exclaimed, 'I am Lozwer! I am the best there is! And I challenge the champion to fight me on the sands, if he so dares!'

This got the spectators excited, muttering possibilities amongst themselves, but more officials ran on to the Arena floor to quickly escort the victor from the sand. They were greeted with a cacophony of playful boos and light-hearted hisses. The crowd had taken an instant liking to the Mori Vohan swordsman, but the officials did not want his reckless challenge to further delay the upcoming fights. Before disappearing into the Victor's Tunnel, he gave a flamboyant bow. There was another cheer, and chants of 'Lozwer, Lozwer, Lozwer!' rang around the Arena.

The chants quietened down when an authoritative voice pealed out: 'The matter of the victor's challenge to the Champion of the Arena will be addressed in due course.' The Master of Ceremonies spoke with much gesticulation, trying in vain to appease the raucous crowd. 'Now please, to our next two Mori Vohans: debutant fighters representing our own Lord of the Arena, the great and powerful Lord of Shenat – please show your appreciation for the men of Lord Dietos!'

Two Mori Vohans entered the sands from the opposite end of the Arena, much to the crowd's pleasure despite not yet knowing their names; they were fellow Mori Vohans, after all. Amarinthine felt sick with fear and weak with anxiety. She and Jak were about to be called up to fight them.

A guard shoved in front of her. With a set of iron keys on a ring he quickly unlocked the large gates and swung them outward to the sands.

'And now, let me give to you, also making their debuts, two Ehronian fighters representing our own Lord of the Arena, the wise and courageous Lord of Matusa – please show your appreciation for the men of Lord Kuithatril!'

Amarinthine did not know what was happening. A dagger was strapped to her waist and a sword and shield thrust into her hands before she was pushed forward through the gates to stagger on to the sand. Having been booing due to hers and Jak's nationality, many of the crowd now laughed at Amarinthine as she tried to find her feet, glancing around bemusedly. She had always practised with a buckler, but now held a shield of a different size and weight which felt awkward in her grip. Everything was happening so fast.

'You take the swordsman; you've never practised against an axeman,' said Jak.

'Nor have you,' Amarinthine found herself saying.

'I've fought more than I would have cared to in my short life so far. Now listen to me, I will take the axeman!'

Before she could begin her breathing exercises, the swordsman charged her. She was not at all ready and did not have her usual wits about her. She blocked clumsily with her shield; the force of the attack caused it to collide with her head, drawing blood and almost knocking her senseless.

The swordsman, a mere two strides away, grinned from ear to ear. In her fall, Amarinthine had dropped her sword and shield.

***

Kuithatril watched from the stands, grimacing. Lord Dietos' fighters were performing well – much better than he had anticipated – though Jak was proving their match. Silently, he urged Amarinthine to get to her feet. She had an Ability! Why had she not blasted her opponent with a wave of heat as she met his charge?

'Get up,' he said aloud.

Having been asked unexpectedly to provide two fighters for this very match, he had chosen Jak without pause. The boy had talent. Amarinthine, however, was a tougher decision, but he decided to take a gamble on the girl and her Ability. She had after all shown much improvement and ruthlessness in her practise matches. And, he had thought, she would be able to express her Ability more freely on the Arena floor, not having to fear discovery quite so much; if she won, and managed to use her powers discreetly, her opponents would be dead and would therefore be unable to lay charges of witchcraft against her.

With a look of disgust, he glanced at Dietos, the overweight Lord of Shenat who sported a ridiculous wig with a smug smirk on his fat, sweaty face, evidently titillated by the contest below, which was going in the fat man's favour. Why had all my best fighters been slain last year in that stupid bloody contest? he asked himself. Two of his fighters had survived the mass slaying, but Kuithatril had been so angry at their failure that he had killed them with his own hands. A shame, he thought, I could have squeezed a little more coin from their pitiful existence before the end.

Jak was now on the offensive against his opponent, but Kuithatril's attention was on Amarinthine. 'Get up!' This time he shouted.

He saw Amarinthine extend her left hand, and the swordsman stepped back a pace as with her right she drew a dagger, holding it by the blade as though intending to hurl it. The swordsman hunkered down behind his shield, but she did not throw. Instead she got to her feet and picked up her sword, leaving her own shield where it lay. Kuithatril suspected she had used her Ability with heat when she had raised her left hand and silently applauded her for covering it up in the way she had intelligently drawn the dagger.

Ever on the offensive, the Mori Vohan swordsman again attacked her. She danced backward and sideways, backward and sideways, keeping always on the defensive, slowly circling her aggressor. But her path collided with that of the other two combatants. The Mori Vohan swordsman caught her out as she was temporarily distracted and sliced a deep cut across her left forearm, causing her to drop the dagger. But instead of stepping in for the kill, he again stepped back.

The crowd took this for either chivalry or overconfidence, but either way they were enjoying the fight immensely. In harmony they emitted an 'Oooh!' as Jak suddenly managed to disarm the tiring axeman. Accepting a bash from his shield, Jak simultaneously ripped his sword across the man's neck. They both fell to the ground, but Jak soon rose and turned to face Amarinthine's aggressor in time to see him knock the sword from her grip. She was again disarmed.

Kuithatril grimaced, expecting that this time the last remaining Mori Vohan would finish off Amarinthine, who would appear to be little more than a boy to the swordsman. But kill her he did not. Instead he turned, sensing Jak's approach. Like his fellow countryman had been, he was exhausted.

In comparison Jak looked fresh with vim and vigour. Having overcome the difficult axeman, he now also looked full of confidence at the prospect of facing this worn-out swordsman. He quickly closed in on him.

Jak feinted and with a serpentine parry and a thrust, the fight was quickly over. He stood triumphant over his fallen foe and allowed his sword to drop to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust and sand which clung to the red, thirsty sword.

However, there was more to come. The axeman whom Jak had presumed dead somehow rose to his feet, holding in with his left hand the blood that otherwise would have spurted from his neck. In his right he hefted the axe.

'Move!' ordered Amarinthine, and Jak immediately dodged to one side. A dagger flew through the air and embedded itself in the forehead of the approaching axeman.

The crowd erupted with glee, not caring that the Ehronians had defeated the Mori Vohans. They were simply joyous to have witnessed an enthralling end to the match.

'It was a well-fought contest, Lord Dietos,' said Kuithatril to the Lord of Shenat, trying hard not to let his repulsion of the fat, sweaty man show through. 'Your fighters performed well.'

'Indeed,' replied Dietos with a false smile, 'and congratulations to you on producing such fine young fighters. Tell me, how did you come by them?'

'Quite by chance, my lord.' Kuithatril had to maintain an air of deference to the more prestigious and influential Lord of Shenat, though it pained him to do so. 'Though I have been training them hard for quite a number of months now.'

'Would you be interested in selling one?'

'Not particularly, my lord.' At this, Dietos bristled and looked down his nose at Kuithatril with a disapproving glare. Kuithatril quickly added, 'But which one did you have in mind?'

'Not the red-headed one. I had in mind the one that's quick as a viper.'

'He is my best.' Kuithatril wanted to make it clear that he was reluctant to let go of Jak, the young prodigy.

'I'll tell you what,' said Dietos, 'I like you, Kuithatril, so I'll make you a wager. Lozwer, the fighter who fought in the match before this one, the victor who challenged the champion – he's going to defeat the champion, mark my words. And when he does, I offer your other fighter the chance to take the title from him. You know, the one who threw the knife that killed my axeman, the one who won the fight. The redhead.' Kuithatril was taken aback; Dietos proposed that Amarinthine should fight Lozwer once he became champion – if he became champion. 'Should your fighter win,' Dietos continued, 'you retain possession of the redhead and the one who's as quick as a viper, and you'll enjoy the spoils of having the Champion of the Arena within your House, too. Should my fighter win, however, I get to buy the viper. At a discounted rate, of course. Either way, you receive coin.'

Refusal of this offer would be to insult his superior, and after what happened last year Kuithatril could ill afford to make an enemy of Lord Dietos. And besides, this Lozwer character may not defeat the Champion of the Arena.

But if Lozwer were to become champion, Kuithatril did not think Amarinthine would stand much chance against him.

He faced losing Jak and Amarinthine: Jak to Lord Dietos, and Amarinthine to death itself. This Dietos is a wily bastard, he thought; the man stands to purchase possession of Jak, who has just proved that he is the best I have, and I cannot even send out my best to fight my corner.

He could only hope that Amarinthine would not have to face Lozwer.

'Of course, my Lord Dietos,' he said. 'I look forward to my fighter facing yours.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NEWS

Propped against a pine, Seb sat absently toying with his wife's necklace. He studied it as it glinted in the afternoon sun. It weighed the world – not physically, but upon his soul. And it was a constant weight, one chained about his neck destined never to lift.

His thoughts turned to the old hag, Matilda. He'd gone through in his mind many times what she had said:

The Prophecy true shall ring,

When the cruel and lascivious king,

Throne not yet warm, lands already torn,

Shall meet with the Scorpion's sting.

Civil war on the horizon doth loom,

Creatures of death come, bringing doom,

From the bowels they'll rise: the dark shining eyes,

With death shall Ehronin be consumed.

A mere brave few will stand at the wall,

But should the City of the North ultimately fall,

A new age shall unfold, never before told,

Only with death can immortality await us all.

The Outlaw, the Wolf, the Cast Out Man, is key,

Along with the Axe and the girl, they are the Three,

With a people to unite they must first take flight,

But never shall the Cast Out Man be free.

In the end the dice will roll,

And one of the Three must fall,

Who that shall be depends on he that is key,

The decision is his, after all.

The first part had come to pass: there was a cruel king new to the throne. The Scorpion's sting bit made sense not at all. The creatures of death must be the kreresh and terra tsal. The City of the North was Brearton Forrit, he was sure of that. Hag had said that he was the Outlaw, the Wolf and the Cast Out Man, which surely left Bantas as the Axe, and Amarinthine must be the girl. And there were a people to unite, that was for sure. But if he was the Cast Out Man, he wondered not for the first time, why would he never be free? He supposed that she meant he would forever carry the burden of his past. But how could she know about that?

However, it was what she had said afterwards that really got him thinking. She had said that one of the three possible outcomes to the prophecy was an outcome that he really did not want to know about. This intrigued him despite his natural aversion to such things as soothsaying. She also said that whichever of the prophecy's three outcomes come to pass at least one of either he, Bantas or Amarinthine must make the ultimate sacrifice, and that the decision was his as to who that must be.

Then again, she had also said that he would by now be a great and accomplished champion of the sword with powerful allies, but that had not come to pass. He really did not know whether to trust anything at all the old hag had told him.

And he wanted naught more to do with the world of man.

***

The champion clattered sword against shield and invited the challenger, Lozwer, to come meet his death. He was confident. He had lost count of exactly how many challengers he'd defeated during his tenure as Champion of the Arena. Many had fallen to his blade. It was all so simple really. He had only to make it look like a real fight for a short while simply to appease the crowd. After all, his Ability to fill opponents with such dread that often they turned and fled made his task so very easy. The only hard part was making it look like he had beaten them fair and square.

He looked into the eyes of his newest opponent – and wished he hadn't. The man, Lozwer, whom for some reason the crowd had taken a liking to, stared back at him with a manic look.

And he saw that the man had no fear.

The champion reprimanded himself for swallowing hard and turned to the crowd for applause, seeking reassurance. His challenger, however, had no intention of waiting.

With a primitive cry, the savage charged at him. The champion turned, and his sword sought out the savage's calf as the man rushed by, but rather than crippling his opponent as intended, the champion's shield fell from his grip.

Confused, he looked down at his left forearm to see an angry gash there. He moved the fingers of his left hand and blood pumped from the wound. He glanced up to see the savage coming at him again.

In a panic, the Champion of the Arena unleashed his powers, hurling his Ability of terror at his challenger. But the savage chortled with mirth even as he charged, unfazed by the terror that he should be feeling. Lozwer's barbaric eyes were the last thing the champion ever saw.

The crowd fell deathly silent as the Champion of the Arena's head rolled across the dust and sand, his decapitated body standing briefly, blood yet pumping from the gash in his forearm.

Then they erupted. Resounding chants of, 'Lozwer! Lozwer! Lozwer!' echoed throughout the stadium.

From the stands, Kuithatril cursed.

Two months hence, Amarinthine would fight Lozwer, the new Champion of the Arena.

Kuithatril was not to know, but that wasn't the worst of it: Lozwer could cancel out the Abilities of others.

***

Over the last couple of months, Bantas had watched the setting of the sun with a sinking feeling. Not because he was giving up hope of finding Amy, but because it marked the end of yet another unsuccessful day with no news of her whereabouts.

'Today will be different,' he told himself as he rose from his bed and quickly donned his trousers. The days were getting colder and he dressed hurriedly. The girl beside him muttered something in her sleep and he stood stock still for a moment, not wanting to wake her. He strapped on his belt, attached his dagger, picked up his knee length boots, leather jerkin, baldric and double-headed battleaxe and crept towards the door.

'Where are you going?' the beautiful young woman asked him.

'Oh, you're awake,' he said. 'I'm going to work.'

'What do you do?' she probed.

'Me? Well, I'm a mercenary usually, but right now I'm searching for a lost girl – a friend of mine who was kidnapped.'

'Oh. Right. Well, if you don't find her, then you know where you can find me.' She winked at him.

'It would be a fool who wouldn't bear in mind such an offer,' he said with a smile. He liked her. Mary-Ann, wasn't it? Or was it Madeline? He closed the door and finished off dressing much to the amusement of the landlord's wife, a middle-aged woman with a knowing smile.

'You were up late last night. Have a good time?' she asked.

'Yes, thank you, a very good time,' he replied innocently and with a straight face. 'Might I eat on the go?'

Bantas was soon wolfing down a freshly baked bun as he made his way out of the front door and across the street. He pulled up the hood of his new greatcoat, purchased to help disguise himself, and shivered slightly in the morning's freshness. He was soon joined by his sought-after companion.

'In the two months that I have known you, not once have you risen early,' said Ward, keeping step alongside him on his way to their allotted meeting place.

'In fairness I don't tend to – unless there's a kreresh or suchlike nearby,' answered Bantas. He had grown to enjoy the company of the former king's champion. Only the mysteriously absent Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin, was held in higher esteem by the people of Ehronin. The Saviour's heroics against the mighty Skel, over a decade since, would always be remembered by the good people of Ehronin.

And the people were very nearly as grateful to the great Samson Ward, their loyal Champion of the King and Protector of the Realm for many years, who maintained a reputation of grave seriousness and austerity, though from Bantas' personal experience he found that this was not always the case. In fact, it was often quite the opposite. Ward had the capacity to laugh and joke with merriment just as much as the next man, despite even having lost his wife recently, Bantas had learned. But he did concede that Ward was prone to moments of dark rumination.

He changed the subject. 'I didn't have any luck here in this poxy village last night. It's a shame I can't easily pass through the Gates of the Golden City without risk, Ward, as you are free to. I would prefer to spend my time in the busier city than in this quiet village. There I would stand much more chance of hearing news of Amy.'

'I know this, but at least this way we get a larger area covered.'

'Yes, but the city houses thousands more inhabitants, and many more merchants and tinkers and pedlars and suchlike pass through the city.'

'Don't lose heart, Bantas. We will find news.' They arrived at the village's largest tavern, unimaginatively named The Bay Mare. 'Besides, many smugglers like to traffic their goods via here as opposed to the city, for obvious reasons. Being only a couple of miles outside the city, they are less likely to be caught here where the security is lax at best. In fact, I will amend that – where the security is nonexistent.'

'You've got that right,' said Bantas, seating himself on a bench across from Ward.

Violence and other crimes were on the up in the village, as indeed it seemed to be everywhere else too since Vlar Llundenberg's ascension to the throne.

Keeping their hoods drawn up they discussed their findings of the previous night, which as usual consisted of scraps of information on events unlikely related. Bantas found that he had more to talk about concerning Seb's progression with his band of rebels. The Outlaw, they now called him. With Vlar Llundenberg and his cronies greedily lining their purses with the hard-earned coin of honest taxpaying folk, more and more citizens were being driven from their homes. And Seb's group had grown steadily in number.

Word of Seb's Cause, as the people were now calling the uprising, had reached the Baron of Brearton Forrit. The baron from the north was rumoured to have always been against King Vlar and it was said that he marshalled together an army five thousand strong, awaiting the opportune moment to strike, seeking to claim the throne for himself. Of course, the rumours were likely exaggerated. But Bantas had heard last night that the baron now sought counsel with Seb.

Ward absorbed the revelatory news in silence and was musing over the possibilities when the conversation of an old man with a stooped back and immeasurable age caught his attention. The old man related a story to the only other of the tavern's customers at this early hour, a man looking bored and at odds with the world.

'I swear to you,' the old man said animatedly, 'my body may be wasting away, but my eyes still work! It was a girl, mark my words. Must've dressed herself up good, disguising herself, you know. Not wanting the vagabond gamers to take her as their play thing, like as not. Winded up as a slave destined for the Arena. I went down to visit my sons and grandchildren, so I did. Well, my son, Mervin – always did have plenty of coin – he took us all to the Arena, he did. Wouldn't listen to me though. Said it was plain as the light of day that it was a young man, as no girl could be that strong against such an opponent. She was partnered up with a fellow Ehronian. Won their victory too, against two Mori Vohans. A closely fought contest, it was.'

'Excuse me,' said Ward with a friendly smile, laying a trusting hand on the old man's arm. 'I find your story most interesting. Would you care to join us and share it over an ale or two?'

'You buying?' Ward nodded. 'Well, I'd be happy to, young chap,' said the old man, despite Ward being near sixty winters old. 'Apologies, my friend,' the old man now said to the man seated next to him, who muttered something about talking for king and country and appeared glad to be rid of his aged drinking companion.

***

'I think Seb will want to hear this,' said Bantas. 'Then I'm going to Mori Voh.'

'And I shall come with you,' said Ward. 'What do you say to sharing your story with a friend of ours?' he asked the old man with the stooped back. They'd shown him a sketcher's portrait of Amarinthine – of which they had acquired a few by now – and although the old man could not be certain it was her, the possible lead could not be ignored. 'We will make it worth your while,' added Ward.

'Well, I am a very busy man, you see,' said the old man before patiently awaiting a response.

'We will give you five silvers for travelling with us. It's a total of half a day's journey, there and back.'

The old man seemed to detect a sense of desperation and held out for a larger bid with a cunning glint in his eye. 'I have things to do, young man. Things that left unattended would cost me good coin,' he hinted.

'Okay, ten silvers,' said Bantas, 'but please, if you don't mind we'd like to get moving.'

'Oh, ten silvers might do it. With food and ale provided, too?'

'Once we get there you can have as much meat and ale as it pleases you,' promised Bantas, and they left the tavern at a very slow pace as the stooped old man shuffled along. 'Did you say it would take only half a day's journey, Ward?'

The old man said, 'Do not mock, for one day you too will be as old I.'

'Me? I'll never get that old.'

'Well, you are stupid, so you probably won't, I'll give you that. You'll likely land yourself in trouble before you're my age. But stranger things have happened,' said the old man.

***

'So, what do you think?' said Bantas.

They were in the meeting tent, where Seb sat at an old walnut table that he used for keeping tally of the rebels' acquisitions.

'I can't see it being her,' he replied, his gaze still following the direction in which the old man had shuffled off to, seeking his promise of meat and ale. 'He's old and his eyes must surely be failing. Perhaps his wits also.'

'His eyes maybe, but not his wit. He's razor sharp, that one,' said Ward.

'She's just a young girl. To think she would stand a chance in the Arena against fully-grown, hulking trained killers is a nonsense. She is as a feather. She would be broken.'

This seemed to rile Bantas. 'She is made of much sturdier stuff,' he put in with rare asperity which shocked Seb. Ward seemed a little shocked too. 'Besides,' he added, 'do you not recall our little campfire, before Eyebrows and Wamuhu found us?'

Seb dipped his head and conceded the point. 'Of course, there is more to her than meets the eye. But still I find the whole idea extremely unlikely. Even if she had managed to gain the strength and learn the skills required to survive the Arena, the gamers would surely have learned of her gender by now – and her fate would be much worse than any Arena fighter's. And it's too far to travel only to find that the old man is wrong.'

'Well, regardless of your obvious lack of faith, Seb, I'm still going. I believe that the gods must be watching over her and that she will be brought to safety. The little insurrection here can survive on its own for a while. Gus is more than capable of leading these lost people. They could even suspend the raids and enjoy tranquillity for a while in these secluded woods. The Maker knows they need it. It would give the king time to mull things over, and if he hasn't yielded to public demand by the time we've returned then we can resume raiding his supply wagons – after we've seen Amy to safety.'

'My friend, I cannot abandon these people in their time of need. Besides, I may very well learn of Amarinthine's whereabouts from one of the wagons we hit.'

'Well, I do know where she is. And knowing what the poor girl must be going through, I cannot wait another instant. I'll not wait till morning, Seb, for you to change your mind. It's now or never. I'm not leaving the poor girl to the evils of the Arena any longer than I possibly have to.'

'Maybe it would be better for us to split up,' said Seb. 'You can investigate the Arena in Mori Voh whilst I remain here. Common sense tells me Vlar Llundenberg must be behind this and that the answer lies in Laerdes.'

'And my heart tells me that the old man is right,' said Bantas.

'Well, as for me, I'm going with you, Bantas,' said Ward, turning on his heel and leaving the tent to go and ready two of the horses that Seb's outlaws had appropriated.

Bantas looked at Seb but could think of nothing more to say to change his mind. 'Farewell, my friend,' he said.

'Farewell,' said Seb, thoughts of Hag's prophecy spinning round in his mind. Is this what she had meant when she said it was his choice as to who would be sacrificed? If he remained here, would he be sacrificing himself?

He cursed himself for entertaining thoughts of such nonsense.

***

A little too late, Miles darted away from the edge of the meeting tent's entrance as Ward exited. Eyeing him askance, Ward continued on his way. A moment later, Miles saw Bantas leave the tent too, looking agitated.

From a distance he watched Ward unhitch two horses as Bantas grabbed a couple of sacks and gathered sundries, preparing to leave camp. Judging by the amount of provisions they took it would be a lengthy journey.

Miles wondered if this would have any effect on his plan to turn the bandits over to the City Guard tomorrow morning. Things were going too far. He was no outlaw. He was a leal servant to his king, merely caught up in his traitorous squad's act of rebellion that he had never agreed with from the start.

'Ah, just the man,' said Seb from behind. Miles turned to see what the Outlaw wanted from him and saw that Gus approached also. 'And Gus – you've saved me from seeking you out. Bantas and Ward are heading to Mori Voh to rescue Amarinthine, if indeed it is her. Would you mind if I sent Miles here along with them? I have a feeling that this young man's scouting qualities may well come in handy on the long road there. I would send more men down to accompany them, but we may need all the numbers we can muster here, especially if it comes to civil war.'

'Sure. You're fine with that, aren't you, Miles?' said Gus, but it wasn't a question and his sergeant left no room for debate, adding, 'You'd better ready yourself quick. It looks like Ward and Bantas aren't going to be hanging around. Lial!' he shouted at a nearby rebel as though he still deserved the respect of an officer within the king's army. 'Ready a horse for Miles. He's going to join Ward and Bantas on a long trip south.'

Lial snapped to attention. 'Yes, sir!' he said.

Miles groaned inwardly. His plan was thwarted.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE DREMN

Seb sat apart from camp. Bantas had been gone for over two months now. During that time Seb had sought out Gannulf the dye merchant and had questioned him about his visit to Sett Whistle. But it was over four years ago that the man had journeyed there to trade his yellow, green and blue dyes, and to investigate the false rumour that somebody there had discovered how to create a cheap red dye that never lost its hue. The dye merchant was clearly innocent and when he claimed to know nothing of the murder of a woman and her daughter, Seb believed him.

He gazed at the sky, searching for answers. With the coming of dusk the clouds on the horizon looked like dark mountains lost in time. Other clouds of different hues and shapes sailed over and above the unmoving mountain-like ones, adding further to the illusion. Seb found it surreal: two sets of clouds, one fixed in their position, the other being pushed along by the wind, sliding across the sky. The stationary ones were dark and sinister, whereas those moving were beautiful, being much fainter in colour yet limned with reds and oranges.

Seb was torn. Had he made the right decision to stay here and build up the rebel force? Or should he have gone with Bantas to Mori Voh?

And had he left a friend in dire trouble so that he may continue a fruitless search for his family's killers? Is that what I'm doing? he asked himself. And if it came down to choosing between avenging my wife and child, and saving Amarinthine's life, which would I choose?

'What troubles have you, that they should ail your mind?' came an unexpected female's voice, sounding very nasal in a whining kind of way.

Startled, Seb turned to see that it was Hag, who called herself Matilda. His mind was taken back to when she had prophesied to him. It had all seemed so unlikely back then. But so much had happened since.

'I would tread carefully if I were you,' said Seb, 'lest one of my men takes you for an intruder and shoots you.'

'There'll be nobody shooting me,' snapped Hag.

Seb gave a humph and turned back to the dying sunset.

'You do not seem surprised to see me,' she added.

'I've been thinking these last few weeks about all the manipulative rubbish you spieled back in Winderbrook. Maybe I sensed your coming.'

'Nonsense, I know that unlike the Scorpion you are not blessed with any sort of Ability, despite your impressive feats. Now what is the cause of this mood that is upon you? Is it because you have abandoned the Axe?'

'You refer to Bantas.'

'Correct.'

'I have not abandoned him: he seeks Amarinthine in the most unlikely of places, somewhere far away from here and the greedy king. I know Vlar Llundenberg has her. But we must be hitting the wrong wagons for information. I'm going to sneak into his castle tonight, alone.'

'That would be folly. It is a wise man who knows where courage ends and stupidity begins. Be a wise man. Don't go there. Time for such an undertaking you have not, else the lives of your friends are forfeit. Bantas is right, the Scorpion is now a fighter in the Arena.'

'The Scorpion?'

'Yes, the very same that the prophecy speaks of: Amarinthine. The pedlar seeks her freedom also.' Seb thought he heard a hint of regret in her voice at the last.

'Why must you talk in riddles, woman? I thought your infernal prophecy referred to Amarinthine as the girl?'

'That it does but refers also to her as the Scorpion. It gives you many names, even missing out one of them entirely.'

Seb thought he knew to what she alluded, but had other questions on his mind – like why the pedlar sought Amarinthine's freedom, though he would not get the chance to ask even this question. Instead he said, 'You spoke of three possible outcomes. Tell me of the third, the one that you told me I really do not want to know about.'

Hag looked at him with disgust, though he knew not why. 'The land will erupt,' she spat, 'with the bodies of the dead: dead soldiers of the battlefield, dead dragons, dead demons, dremn, beings of myth, and all kinds of vile creatures long forgotten!

'You will die, Seb. You will all die, and I will stand over your bodies as the dead feed on you.'

Seb stood and drew his sword in a flash. 'I could kill you now,' he said through gritted teeth.

But Hag just cackled. 'No, you couldn't. You know so very little. I don't know why I bother with you and your simple little mind. Even as we speak King Vlar has set in motion plans to quell the pending uprising in the City of the North – Brearton Forrit. He wishes to see Baron Mason dead. And that should be the least of your concerns. Far more is at stake here than you could know. You cannot afford to allow the City of the North to fall, yet you must abandon your fellow rebels in their time of need and journey to Mori Voh.' She seemed to find humour in his predicament.

He seethed with anger. With an effort of will he lowered the point of his sword slightly. His urge to strike down this old woman surprised and shocked him. 'Okay, answer me this: if what you said back in Winderbrook is true, how do I choose which of the three of us is to die?'

'By your actions,' said Hag cryptically, and turned to leave.

'Wait!' He sheathed his sword. He had so much more to ask. 'How do I know you speak the truth regarding Amarinthine's whereabouts?'

'Believe me or don't. To be frank I don't care what you do; I'm only warning you because I was asked to,' she said before vanishing into the shadows.

***

Drawing up his hood to keep his face in shadow, Connavar Rydden slipped past the guard and hugged the wall. It had been a close call. He had already just used his Ability of persuasion on one guard to convince the man that he was authorised to be here, and he was not sure if he could maintain another spell on a second guard long enough to carry out his mission. If he didn't maintain his spell of persuasion, the guard might decide that it wasn't such a good idea, after all, to allow a complete stranger into the most private part of the king's castle.

But if there was one attribute Conn had it was patience, and he had patiently studied the guards' habits and patrol patterns leading up to this very moment. He was positive that his nemesis, the evil and sadistic Kem Kecha, was behind all of this. There wasn't just a greedy king at play here. Too many people were going missing. And then there was Conn's dream – an omen. He'd had a rare glimpse of the future. A dremn was going to be called forth and he knew there was only one person who could summon such an abomination.

Only one guard stood in the alchemist's way now. He drew a dagger, flipped it, and sent it through the air. The hilt struck the guard on the temple – precisely where intended – and the man slumped to the stone floor unconscious as beside him the dagger clattered. Retrieving his blade, Conn then cracked open the final door. Peeking through, revulsion churned his stomach.

He found what he had expected.

***

Kem Kecha smiled to himself as he glimpsed his old foe slink back out of the sacrificial chamber. So, you have worked it out, he thought – run away now, my bitter enemy. He didn't bother sending out any guards after Conn; Kem Kecha knew that after finding what he sought, and now with escape in mind, Conn would easily overcome them. Besides, he thought to himself, I know something that Conn does not – oh, how it would pain him to find out!

***

It didn't take him long to make up his mind. Seb headed back to his tent and readied his things as best he could in the pitch dark, determined to leave before first light after a few hours' rest. But first he woke Gus to tell him that he was now in charge until his return, and to keep as many alive as possible until then. He instructed that should Gus hear from the Baron of Brearton Forrit then he was to go along with the nobleman's plans – if he deemed them sound enough. He did not explain to Gus how he knew but said that should the baron's City of the North fall to King Vlar then all would be lost, and the world would be changed beyond recognition.

Then he slept.

He heard a wolf-like howl, primal in its raw, aching pain, and realised that it was he himself that howled. Picking up his child, he searched for her mother – his wife – knowing what to expect, but hoping that he would at least find her with some modicum of dignity. The world did not seem real. Their family home, their place of laughter, their sanctuary, had been violated in the most twisted, vile and evil fashion. Stumbling along a surreal path, heading away from where little Rayne had been murdered, it dawned on him that he had been following a trail of blood.

It led outside.

***

The next day Seb set out alone, long before sunrise as he had intended, and was making good time.

About mid-morning he witnessed a wolf capture a deer, after what must have been a long chase, perhaps even as far as a mile. He watched fascinated as the wolf expertly caught its exhausted prey. His hunger was great, and he begrudged the wolf its fine meal as from his pack he retrieved a hunk of stale bread to chew on. The wolf may even carry some of his catch to his lifetime partner and pups, if he's lucky enough to have a family, thought Seb.

Silently, leaving it to feast on its hard-earned kill, he gave the lone wolf the respect it deserved.

His wandering thoughts turned towards what Bantas said about the assassin on the tannery roof back in Nydar. Under the hood one could never see the face. And Seb was sure that he'd seen those elegant movements of the Knife before: they were the same flowing, confident strides of the pedlar, Conn – and the pedlar even carried throwing knives.

Not for the first time he wondered what Conn had done with the innocent boy-heir, Lonnie.

A short way ahead his thoughts turned to a more pressing matter when he spotted monstrous tracks that never before in his life had he ever seen. He drew his short sword and dagger. It was plain to see that whatever created these tracks was enormous; he could easily have stood with both feet comfortably within just a single footprint. And the tracks were fresh. Following the footprints, he saw that they headed towards a small village or hamlet.

Then they disappeared.

***

Ghosting along, the Knife followed Seb's tracks carefully through the woods. Coming across a wolf busy feasting on its kill, the assassin drew a throwing knife, flipped it, took aim, and killed the wolf with a flick of the wrist. It gave the slightest of yelps before its life ebbed away, the throwing knife wedged firmly in its throat.

***

For as long as there was daylight Bernard had always toiled earnestly to work his land, day in, day out, excepting Fridays of course, when everybody took their day of rest. Bernard would tend to chores other than his usual work on Fridays, such as fixing leeks in the roof, or carving wooden toys for his children. But he was always eager to get back to the main job at hand – the job that ensured an income for his wife and three children – working the land for its wheat. From sunrise to sunset he put his heart and soul into it. The fields were his life. A simple life, but his family depended on it. And he never let them down.

He stopped and looked up as a huge winged monster sped through the air and came crashing to the ground not fifty paces from where he stood. Strangely for a creature of flight it had a flat face with no beak or snout, and big round eyes, looking for all the world like a nightmare incarnated. It was colossal. Its head was about the size of two of his oxen. In total shock, his legs froze. The thing seemed to grin, and, with a human-like tongue, it licked its grotesque lips in hunger before heading for Bernard's family home.

A single figure emerged from the trees. He was tall, armed only with a short sword and dagger. He moved with fluidity, his gait graceful in stark contrast to the hell creature's clumsiness. He leapt at the thing and struck at it with his sword before rolling under a great wing aimed to try and swat him away.

Looking on, terror gripped Bernard's heart like never before. Nevertheless, he hefted the only weapon at hand – his rake – and ran at the vile creature to the aid of the brave lone warrior. Whether or not he could make a difference he did not know, but he could not risk having the thing descend on his wife and children, thinking themselves safe and secure at home.

He would not let them down.

***

Connavar Rydden raced through the air on the back of the temporarily-tamed griffin. According to the vision he'd had, by his calculations the dremn should not have appeared in the village of Wooler for another few days or so, but ahead he spotted the winged demon descend into a clearing in the wood!

Giving chase, he approached the dremn at break neck speed. Only when they were almost upon it did he command the griffin to slow. Below he could see already there was a warrior fighting the dremn with short sword and dagger. A brave man, thought Conn. Then, with a shock, he realised that the dark-haired warrior was Seb! He wouldn't stand a chance armed merely with two blades against such a creature; the dremn were amongst the deadliest known to him. Conn could only watch as Seb was knocked from his feet. Then the dremn turned its head towards him and opened its mouth, ready to crush Seb's skull.

What he saw next moved him beyond words. From the creature's other flank, a farmer charged the gigantic monster, armed merely with a rake. In all his one hundred and fifty winters, Connavar Rydden thought it was the single, bravest act that he had ever seen.

***

Veering its huge, human-like teeth away from Seb's head, of a sudden the monster's attention turned to the farmer charging with a roar from the opposite side. This act of bravery on the farmer's part had just saved Seb's life, as he was sure the monster had been about to sink its square teeth into his skull, and he'd even felt that he was prepared to accept death and was ready for it. Maybe then Amarinthine and Bantas would be okay.

Leaping, he sank his dagger into the abomination's front leg and used the weapon as leverage to haul himself up on to its back. The farmer managed to puncture the creature's side with his rake before a great wing knocked him from his feet and sent him flying head over heels. Then another creature descended from above.

In a blur of white the newly arrived creature struck the monster's head and attempted to gouge out its eyes. Seb recognised it as a griffin, and just before its impact with the monster a figure leapt from its back to land neatly behind him.

The griffin's huge paws must have succeeded, as the monster's left eye erupted crimson blood across the field. But the monster was not defeated yet.

Turning briefly, Seb saw that the figure behind him was the pedlar, Conn! A sudden jolt made him grip the monster's neck for support and an almost eardrum-perforating shriek of pain came from in front. The monster had bitten through the skull of Conn's griffin with its set of straight, human-like teeth.

The graceful, bird-like griffin slumped to the ground, dead.

'Sink your blade into the monster's back!' yelled Conn. 'And hold on!'

Seb did as he was bid just in time as the abomination took to the sky, leaving behind the very brave, if somewhat bewildered, farmer, minus his rake which somehow was still embedded in the creature's side.

'Just hold on! And trust me!' shouted Conn above the din of the howling wind and the monster's beating wings.

Anxiety and dread welled up in his gut and he had to fight down a feeling of nausea. His legs and arms throbbed with anxious adrenaline as the ungainly monster soared. The many blade wounds inflicted upon it had been as nettle stings to a man. Seb concentrated in blind panic on the hilt of his short sword protruding from the creature's back, hoping fervently that it would remain firmly wedged in place and that his grip too would not slacken.

And did he now have an assassin at his exposed back? Was Conn and the Knife one and the same person? he wondered. But even if he were, there was nothing Seb could have done about it right then as he clung to the massive creature with both hands.

The monster levelled out its angle of trajectory, relieving the strain on Seb's hands and arms, though he still clung desperately to the creature as tightly as he could.

Conn shouted something with a maniacal look of glee but Seb was too busy concentrating on his grip to listen.

Sparing a fleeting glance down, Seb saw with a sense of vertigo that they were extremely high up – higher even than the birds, he thought. Involuntarily his eyes squeezed shut, and he pressed his head against the monster's spine in an attempt to assuage the stark fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Lying prone on the winged demon's back he was completely at the mercy of both Conn – the potential assassin – and the monster.

Plucking up the courage, he again made himself look down. It was a view of the world he'd likely never get again, nor ever wanted to for that matter, though it intrigued him nonetheless. With a sense of detachment, feeling very apart from the norms of the world and with no small amount of irony, he thought he may as well at least try to enjoy the view. After all, there was nothing else he could do.

The verdant, green pastures and the thousands of tiny trees way below slowly sailed by in surreal contrast to the noisy buffeting wind as they hurtled through the air. Spotting a thin blue line running through the various shades of green, Seb realised that it must be the great River Leagues. It looked so diminutive.

Also, surprisingly, he thought that the world looked almost round from up here. Obviously, this couldn't be, but then again, his world had suddenly turned insane, so why not? He was riding on the back of a monster from hell with somebody who was potentially an assassin at his back. The world changing shape did not seem so scary in comparison.

***

From the shelter of the trees the Knife saw the bloodied body of a white griffin, its wings splayed out on the farmer's field, its head crushed to a pulp. The farmer was hugging his wife and three children nearby, keeping them close to him. Enjoy this moment with your family, thought the assassin, for you are lucky and such moments are to be treasured.

The Knife was disappointed. There was no sign of Seb, and he knew what the presence of a griffin meant: Conn had been here.

***

The winged demon made an alteration in its flight. Seb again pressed his head into the monster's back and squeezed shut his eyes, a fresh surge of anxiety coursing through him. He did not know what the crazed pedlar planned but it surprised him to find that he hoped he would live to tell the tale. He had until then always thought he'd welcome death with open arms once it came for him. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about this new and unexpected desire for life. Perhaps it was simply that he had not yet found his family's killers.

It seemed he would have plenty of time to ponder upon the thought, as the creature was not showing any sign of ever leaving the sky. Hours had passed by now and it was well into the afternoon. It had been morning when they had first taken to the air atop the winged demon. He dreaded to think how many leagues the creature had carried them at this breakneck speed. At least, he thought, glancing at the position of the sun, it was carrying them south, towards Mori Voh.

The muscles in Seb's arms, hands and fingers were hurting. And burning. And cramping. He ran through all the tricks and techniques that he knew from his time as a soldier of easing overworked and cramping muscles, but it didn't feel like it was helping much. He spared a glance behind at Conn who seemed to be perched comfortably, if such a thing could at all be possible atop this flying monstrosity. Or at least the pedlar appeared to be putting considerably less effort into remaining upon its back than Seb was.

Seb slowly eased his grip on his sword and tried to make his stiff and sore legs ease, too. He found that it helped to close his eyes.

More hours passed. After what seemed an eternity he felt the lure of slumber, likely through sheer exhaustion, and gradually succumbed to it.

He awoke suddenly when his body began to slide forward, pressing into his short sword. Panicking, he pushed against it to stop himself from falling off. The monster was descending!

'Use your feet to gain purchase!' yelled Conn.

Belatedly Seb realised that Conn had been shouting this at him before the creature even began its descent, but in his sleep, he'd taken the pedlar's commands as shouts of half-crazed, demonic delight. Now he adjusted his body and swung his feet round in front of him in a hurry. With one leg either side of his blade, he thankfully found purchase just in time for Conn's foot to stamp down on his back – the pedlar was also struggling for grip.

'Up! Up!' shouted Conn, and Seb could only wonder at what he meant, feeling for all the world like he was caught up in some manic dream beyond his control. Then, much to his relief, the monster slowed its descent and inclined slightly upward.

Conn switched between giggling and laughing with hysteria as Seb still clung on for dear life. He thought the man truly deranged.

'Now land gently,' said Conn, with not a hint of his previous giddiness, as though he were speaking to the monster. Then he said, 'Seb, you'll need to jump!'

To Seb's amazement the monster was readying itself to land. But it was a clumsy creature and he suspected preparing to crash would be a better description than preparing to land. Getting his feet under himself he braced for impact and leapt when he sensed it time, leaving behind his sword which was wedged into the abomination's back. An instant later Conn landed lightly on the grass beside him. Seb's hand came to rest on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

Watching in utter bemusement, he saw the creature alleviate again to a great height without actually having landed. It veered round, then, with a piercing shriek, plummeted towards a birch at phenomenal speed. With a sickening crunch, the tree groaned and snapped.

The monster fell dead to the ground.

'You can get your sword back, now,' said Conn.

'I think I will,' said Seb, eyeing the pedlar warily. He patted himself down, half thinking he must have died and gone to some perverted afterlife. Reaching the monster, which was thankfully on its side so that he didn't have to climb atop of it again, he pulled out his short sword with alarming ease. He was surprised – and not to mention hugely thankful – that the blade had remained wedged in place and had not so easily come loose whilst hurtling through the sky.

'That was a close call,' said Conn as he set out on foot. Seb followed, reasoning that the pedlar would have killed him already had he so wished. 'That damned dremn was hard to master! I've never controlled the mind of a beast brought back from the dead before. Let me tell you, Seb, it took a mighty effort for me to get the thing under control, and an even bigger effort to get it to carry us this far. But I was unable to get it to carry us any further. It's a damn shame the thing killed the griffin. Now they're creatures of beauty – and are hard to find! I've always liked griffins. It could even have assisted us in rescuing Amarinthine. Such a shame. Though at least now we're in Mori Voh. I hope Ward and Bantas are here already.

'And if we don't make it in time, which is very likely,' added Conn, 'then I hope Amarinthine survives her encounter. Because tomorrow morning she's going to face the Champion of the Arena.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAMPION OF THE ARENA

Kem Kecha was pleased. Thus far everything was going to plan. Summoning the dremn would achieve what he intended: Seb, Bantas, Amarinthine, Ward and Conn would all be out of the way, either dead or in Mori Voh. It didn't really matter which, so long as he could see out his plan before their return.

He glanced down at the wretch of a woman at his bare feet. She had been Vlar Llundenberg's play thing, but for some reason the puppet king no longer took an interest in her since Kem had used her as a source of energy.

The now pale and wretched slave was sobbing. Kem had yet again taken the opportunity to leach from her her life energy. And had very nearly gone too far this time and killed her, but had been able to stop himself in time. For some reason, he liked the wretch and had always taken care not to hurt her.

Kem Kecha would usually drain his slaves by making them offer their hand, but today he had taken hold of Pekash's head from behind, taking her by surprise. She now had numerous welts either side of her forehead where his fingers had touched her.

He breathed a sigh of content, happy that he would now appear a little healthier and a little more vigorous, even though his skin would still look a sickly pale. It took a lot of hard work being one hundred and seventy-four winters of age. But he knew that he was getting old. Death would not be too many decades away, even for one such as himself.

Next, he would get his puppet, King Vlar, to mobilise his army of twenty thousand or so and wipe out the bothersome rebel force of a mere two or three thousand whilst they had no capable leader. It was time to see if Vlar's esteemed overlord of the army and Champion of the King, General Cannick, could live up to his reputation and gain swift victory.

What he really needed to maximise his power – and more importantly unlock the secret of immortality – was the boy-heir, Lonnie Cumberland. Kem's sacrificial chamber awaited Lonnie, for he held the key. Perhaps, considered Kem Kecha, there was no need to await the battle's outcome. Perhaps the boy of royal blood could be kidnapped – just like he had kidnapped Amarinthine – only this time his victim would not be able to use an Ability to escape. He smiled to himself at the simplicity of the plan and rejoiced that for this at least, he would not need to rely on the fool Vlar Llundenberg.

Kem Kecha would of course still require the amount of blood and death that only a large battle could provide, but the idea of stealing the boy-heir from under the rebels' noses brought a smile to his pallid face.

***

Lonnie Cumberland watched the men of the north as they ran through their drills below in the marshalling yard. They all looked so tough and strong. Conn, Lonnie's saviour, had left him in the sanctuary of Baron Mason's castle, assuring him that he would be safe here in the barony of Brearton Forrit until his return.

But ever since hearing tell that his family had been assassinated, Lonnie's world had been turned upside down. People told him that he was fortunate to have someone such as Baron Mason take him under his wing, but Lonnie did not feel very fortunate.

Men trained and prepared for battle, determined to protect him, their rightful heir to the throne. He was scared and felt very alone.

The king had apparently thought him dead and rumour abounded that having heard news to the contrary, Vlar Llundenberg had sent out his army in full force to eradicate any potential claimants to the throne, which included the young boy of eleven winters.

Lonnie did not wish for war. He was too young to make a difference on the battlefield. He reminded himself that Mother would have wanted him to be brave, as would her husband the duke, and likely Father, too, though Lonnie had never got the chance to meet his real father.

Looking up to the heavens, he promised them that he would try his very best.

***

A frolicking ecstasy was upon the crowd as they awaited their new and exciting champion.

The Master of Ceremonies called out: 'My good people of Mori Voh, the moment you have been waiting for is now upon us! Representing our own Lord of the Arena, the wise and courageous Lord Kuithatril of Matusa – please show your appreciation for today's challenger, Puce!'

There were several half-hearted cheers as Amarinthine stepped out on to the sand, and these were only because her announcement was now out of the way. What the crowd had really come to see was their spectacular new champion in action.

'And now,' the Master of Ceremonies continued, 'representing our own Lord of the Arena, the great and powerful Lord Dietos of Shenat–' already the crowd were roaring tumultuously, before the Master of Ceremonies could even finish '–show your appreciation for the Champion of the Arena, Lozwer!'

Amarinthine closed her eyes and tried to shut out the thunderous applause as Randall had advised her on their last night in their cell at Lord Kuithatril's estate in Matusa, before she had been made to set out for the Arena here in Shenat. Lying back on her pallet, she had been throwing the pebble at the black spot on the ceiling after yet another gruelling day's training. She'd thought Bull-neck had worked her far too hard and that she would surely be in no fit shape to fight in the Arena, let alone face the Arena's champion.

'Three days from now it'll be a big day for you, lass,' Randall had said quietly, so as not to be overheard by the guards. Even at the end, she thought, he would still keep her secrets. 'I know that you'll do us all proud, like – I wouldn't want to be the one facing you, anyway – you've grown into a formidable opponent, young girl or no!'

Despite her dark mood she had laughed and gazed upon her cellmate with affection. Above all else he had always looked out for her. 'Thank you, Randall,' she said. 'Truly.' She reached over and patted his hand in what to her was a final farewell. It played on her mind that her opponent could cancel out the Abilities of others.

'Remember, shut out the crowd. Shut out the guards, shut out your fear and shut out how scary that barbaric bastard looks. But if nothing else, shut out the crowd! Don't you care a jot what them lot think or shout! You stick to your tactics and sod everyone else, like. If you can, wear him down, and you'll win! I know it. You're not destined to die like a lost cause on the sand. Not like this old man.'

'Don't talk like that, Randall. One day we'll get out of here. And we'll go stay with Samson Ward – he'll take us in, even if my parents won't – just until we can find a place of our own. And we can sit around the fire at night and tell each other about how we foiled Lord Kuithatril's plans and escaped the Arena.' Her face glowed with a genuine smile – something that happened very rarely any more – and they each of them became lost in Amarinthine's imagined world. They wondered what it would be like to live such a glorious dream, especially after the pitiful existence that an Arena fighter got to call life.

'Yes, my lass. I look forward to the day very much,' said Randall. And for a moment they both stared at the mouldy ceiling with smiles upon their lips. Fleetingly, just fleetingly, they allowed themselves to believe. The dream, they convinced themselves, however unlikely, may just come true. And Amarinthine still remembered what the pedlar had told her. No matter what happens, always maintain a positive attitude and approach to life, that way the universe will conspire to work in your favour.

In here, Amarinthine thought to herself, Randall was her mentor, her father, her teacher and her best friend. She hoped they could both get out of here alive.

She opened her eyes and gazed across the sand at the Champion of the Arena. He was basking in his glory, drinking in the crowd's praise.

A sneer played across his face when, full of confidence, he turned to face her.

'The desire to win is a powerful thing, more powerful than fear itself. Use it,' she told herself, and gripped her sword and shield tightly.

***

Bantas and Ward sat in the crowd as the champion, Lozwer, walked out on to the sands to much applause. They had left their weapons with Miles so as not to have them taken away by the guards at the entrance to the Arena. Miles waited outside with four ponies they had taken from some bandits on their long journey south to Mori Voh.

Contrary to Ward's hunch on the untrustworthiness of the man, Miles had proved himself dependable. And his tracking qualities came in handy when, spotting suspicious looking tracks, he had been able to forewarn his companions of ambush. Their ambushers would ever regret seeking to prey on the resourceful trio, as they had been beaten senseless and left with no food or mounts.

Next out on to the sand was Lozwer's challenger. The contestant was smaller than the champion, had short red hair and sun-scorched skin, looking entirely different from when last he saw her, but nonetheless Bantas knew it was her. Upon recognising Amarinthine he surged to his feet and pushed his way to the front, Ward following close behind. Seeing the intention in Bantas' eye a guard swiftly organised assistance and Bantas was prevented from leaping down to the sands. One guard expertly held the unarmed Bantas at sword point and another held a dagger to Ward's throat. Two more guards grappled with Bantas as he persisted in desperately trying to leap over the edge. But he was overwhelmed and soon he and Ward were marched out of the stadium. Bantas ground his teeth so hard in frustration that one of them broke.

'Do not give up hope yet,' growled Ward. A roar from the crowd followed them down the stone passageway.

***

Despite having been carried by the difficult dremn all the way to Mori Voh, Seb and Conn still had a long way to travel by foot to get to the Arena. Conn had noted with dismay that he had misjudged just how far off the Arena still was. Nevertheless, they pushed hard and without rest, and tired as they were, they were drawing ever nearer. But not near enough, thought Seb. He feared that by the time they arrived, the fight would be over.

***

The crowd roared in approval as their champion, Lozwer, closed in on Amarinthine.

Shut out the crowd, she told herself. She knew that Randall was watching from behind the locked gates. He'd fought earlier that day and had yet again won victory. The old man's iron resolve never ceased to amaze her. Despite his being here, only Jak had not fought today, though Amarinthine knew not why.

She danced back from Lozwer's searching blade, assuming her preferred defensive stance. She would try to tire him out. Then hopefully she could catch him unawares with a quick counter attack.

But this was very unlike the many training bouts she had had with wooden swords and bucklers and silent onlookers. Here the spectators were loud and boisterous, the swords of steel heavy and deadly.

She desperately scurried back from a lightning-fast overhead swing that would have bludgeoned her head.

Stop panicking.

But she did panic. Without thinking she tried to use her Ability to hurl a wave of heat at her aggressor. However, the barbaric champion merely grinned in amusement and if anything seemed to gain energy from the attempted use of her Ability.

Determined not to be beaten, Amarinthine dropped her shield, switched sword arms and drew her dagger. Reversing the blade, she again used one of her Abilities and hurled it at the champion. To her amazement Lozwer did not even have to dodge: her shot was well wide of the mark.

But I never miss an unmoving target!

Stunned, she almost forgot to pick up her shield as Lozwer continued to advance. But pick it up she did, and none too soon as she narrowly avoided another vicious blow.

He even blocks my Ability to throw objects! I can't win!

'Please.' The plea came from her lips unbidden, and she burned with shame for it.

The smirk was back on the champion's face and he slowed his advance, happy to play the waiting game. She wanted to shout out that she was a girl and that she should not be here, but she could not shame herself any further.

Get a grip of yourself!

Backing off, she juggled her sword and shield into the correct hands.

It dawned on her that the crowd were booing because of her cowardly retreat and of a sudden she bumped into the wall behind her. An angry member of the crowd, caught up in the excitement of the moment, reached precariously over the wall and gripped her short hair, allowing the champion to close in. In a sudden frenzy Amarinthine yanked away, losing a fistful of hair in the process. The excitable spectator lost his balance and fell to the sand with a humph as the air was knocked from him. The champion's sword came up and Amarinthine threw herself to her left, landing heavily, arms outspread. But Lozwer did not strike at her.

Instead he wrenched his blade in and out of the spectator's ribcage with a ruthless twist, leaving him still alive but dying fast, blood flooding his lungs. The crowd applauded the act with glee, all except for the victim's friend, who leaned over the wall to voice his opinion and threaten the Champion of the Arena. Those either side of him shied away.

Lozwer told the man to keep his mouth shut, unless he wanted to see his head roll across the sand. It seemed to Amarinthine that the man considered briefly pointing out the impossibility of this but then thought better of it. With Lozwer distracted so, Amarinthine darted in behind as quick as a viper, and slashed her blade across his hamstring. Roaring in pain, Lozwer lashed out with his shield arm and caught Amarinthine, knocking her to the ground.

On all fours, she tried to scramble away from the champion's terrifying war cries. Lame, and in a fury, he hurled his shield, landing her a heavy blow to the skull.

Sick with queasiness and with a fuggy head, Amarinthine glanced over at her tormentor. Despite clutching his ruined leg and hopping awkwardly, he was still trying to advance on her like a nightmarish apparition.

Clinging desperately to sword and shield, Amarinthine crawled away as fast as her disorientation would allow. But all too soon she had to stop and allow her head to rest awhile upon the grit and sand. Is this what my opponent felt like all those weeks ago when I hurled my buckler at his head upon the training ground? She recalled that he had needed days to recover from his ordeal, but she did not have the luxury of having several days to recover from hers.

As if from a distance the muted cries of the crowd filtered their way through her fogginess and she spared a quick glance back to check on the progress of the champion. He was almost upon her. She resumed her crawling, abandoning any attempt at dragging along her shield any further, and tried desperately to get out of Lozwer's reach in a scurry, but her sudden movements brought on another pang of queasiness. Fighting against it, she rose to her feet and spat out sand and small stones from her mouth. Managing a forward stagger, she found with great relief that her head started to clear.

But with his goal almost within touching distance, Lozwer too must have found a fresh surge of energy as with a final few hops and jumps he got back within his sword's biting reach of her. She noticed all too late as the champion pulled back his blade, ready to bring it to bear.

Is this how I am to die?

Then, from out of nowhere, a smooth round pebble materialised and struck Lozwer firmly on the skull with a crack, and he pitched to the sand.

Amarinthine needed only one glance at the pebble to know where it must have come from. Looking up, she spotted Randall through the gates just as the guards seized him.

A command was shouted down from above her – by Dietos, she realised – ordering that the slave be killed for his act of insubordination. She glanced up at Kuithatril, but he averted his gaze from her pleading eyes.

Watching impotently through the locked and guarded gates, there was nothing she could do for her dear friend. It was like watching Aldo murder Rod, the kindly merchant, all over again.

The guards wasted no time with Randall. The old man was dragged to his knees without ceremony, and a sword was driven mercilessly between neck and shoulder, plunging down into his heart.

Amarinthine looked on in horror. She watched as the guard slid free his blade and flicked Randall's blood from it before wiping it clean and wondered how the man could show so little emotion. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She heard movement close behind and turned in time to avoid being cloven in two by Lozwer, who had yet again risen to his feet with the strength of a behemoth.

She rolled under his attack. On her knees, she turned and swept out with her sword, severing the back of the knee of his already ruined leg. Lozwer spread-eagled on his back. She was relieved to see that at long last the Champion of the Arena let go of his sword. He had given up the fight.

As she loomed over him he awaited his fate stoically, sending out a mumbled prayer to Phrayden, Lord of the Afterworld. The crowd was ecstatic, baying for more blood, begging her to deal the final blow.

She did not comply. Amidst the crowd's suddenly raucous boos and hisses, tears still streaming down her face, she headed over to the gates to check on Randall.

Dietos ordered that she should not be allowed through the gates until the fight was over and even commanded Lozwer to rise to his feet and stop acting the craven.

Amarinthine took no heed of any of this.

She knelt beside Randall, her best friend in this godsforsaken place, and reached a hand through the bars of the gates to close the old, wrinkled eyelids over his glassy eyes. On his still features she thought she saw a small look of triumph.

'Thank you, Randall, my friend,' she said.

'Get up!' Dietos screamed at Lozwer. 'Kill your opponent, man!'

Lozwer refused to gain his feet. 'No, my lord, I am beaten. Give the boy his victory.'

'No?' yelled Dietos, turning purple in the face. 'How dare you defy me!' Clearly aware that thousands were watching and listening with keen interest to see how the Lord of Shenat would react, he ordered his guards: 'Kill him! Kill them both! If neither one of them shall obey me, then they will each suffer the same fate!'

Guards scrabbled to open the gates and Amarinthine was forced to jump back from a searching blade that one guard poked through the bars, aimed for her head.

Backing off, she caught sight of movement behind her. Lozwer had managed to retrieve his shield and now used it to lean upon, propping himself up with his left hand whilst in his right he clenched his sword with bunching muscles.

The gates crashed open and twenty fresh, fully-armed guards poured out. One of them remained to lock the gates behind them.

Amarinthine's instincts were to back off and she immediately went on the defensive, parrying blows and thrusts to the chest, dodging lunges and trying not to let herself get surrounded. But she knew it was only a matter of time. She could not possibly stand a chance against so many.

One of the guards got too close and she drove the tip of her sword into his face.

'To your right!' somebody shouted in time for her to turn and cut down her next attacker. She saw that she had been backing off towards Lozwer, who was now very close indeed, daring the guards to approach him with the threat of death gleaming in his eye. It was he who had shouted to her in warning. By a twist of fate, the two combatants who but moments before had been trying to kill one another were now fighting side by side.

'They're gonna surround us soon,' said Lozwer, 'then we'll need to fight back to back. Get ready!'

Amarinthine wanted to reply, But that's not how I fight! I like to go on the defensive, back away, keep moving. Then catch them with a counter attack, but she did not. She merely concentrated on staying alive. Every heartbeat was a hard fought one. Any lapse in concentration could prove fatal. And she needed to conserve her strength.

The guards could easily have overwhelmed their quarry by now had they all simply charged, but they were wary of the champion and his worthy opponent, despite the wounds they had already inflicted upon themselves.

Most of the guards held back, waiting for the already exhausted pair to tire further still before risking their own lives by getting in too close. Others tried and paid the ultimate price. Six of their number had already fallen to the deadly pair.

'Here,' said Lozwer, 'take this.' He somehow managed to offer her a dagger in his left hand, balancing all his weight on his good leg, shield resting against his ruined one. 'Use that throwing Ability you tried on me.'

She did not waste time pondering how he knew of her throwing Ability. Swiftly she took the dagger by the blade. One of the guards took the opportunity to step in close and stab at Lozwer, but the champion managed to parry. Amarinthine did not hesitate. She threw the dagger and felled the guard before turning to parry yet another attack. She slid her sword along the guard's before flicking her blade across his throat. This last guard had also been armed with a dagger, which she quickly swept up. Rising, again a blade flew from her hand, and again another fell.

There were now only eleven remaining. The guards' tactic of holding back until the pair tired was backfiring on them. But before they could alter their tactics, they were attacked from behind. The guards were a disorganised jumble as the youngest, a boy of no more than eighteen winters, desperately tried to gather his men into some sort of formation, but the older guards were not listening to him.

It was then that Amarinthine realised either she or Lozwer must have cut down their original leader already. Good, she thought. She noticed that the gates through which the newcomer must have come now yawned wide open.

Two guards fell to the newcomer's blades before Amarinthine realised who it was.

'Jak!' she exclaimed. Yet again Jak was prepared to put his life on the line to save her, and for that she would be eternally grateful.

But her gaze settled on those running towards him: a dozen more guards came in pursuit.

'It is time! Get behind me, quick!' commanded Lozwer.

Amarinthine did as bid and the pair now fought back to back. She glanced over to check how Jak was faring and was surprised to see that the guards who had been in pursuit of him now appeared to be fighting amongst themselves.

She had to react quickly to an attack from a guard seeking to take advantage whilst her attention was elsewhere. She tried to parry, but the guard's blade took her low in the ribs. With a scream – and with all her remaining energy – she struck out at the guard with a sudden wave of heat, knocking him from his feet. The blast did not cause much damage but certainly served to terrify the guard, who rose and fled in fear.

'Kill the coward that flees!' screeched Dietos, watching from the safety of the stands. A loyal guard with a trident beard heard the command and hurried forward. Then dutifully slit his fleeing companion's throat.

'I'm not going to be able to... hold out much longer... Not with my leg,' panted Lozwer. 'If you have any more tricks, now's the time.'

'I don't,' she replied as she severed the forearm of a young man with red hair like her own. He quickly retreated. Amarinthine's arms felt like lead. 'The heat trick... drained me. And I'm losing blood...' She wanted to ask Lozwer if he had any more Abilities of his own, other than disabling those of others, but she needed to preserve her last remnants of stamina.

Her mind began to wander, and she wondered at the miraculous fact that she was still alive. But it was only a matter of time before that changed, she thought. She heard the shouts of her lord, Kuithatril, and thought she heard Jak's name mentioned but could not ascertain what was said.

Her whole world was muted, now. It took her a while to realise that she was no longer fighting. The guards were holding back, looking indecisively towards the newcomers. Shouts from Dietos fuzzily made their way down to her ears. She turned to see what the cause of this distraction was, but giant Arena guards blocked her view. Why were they all so tall? she wondered. Then she looked down, and the ground loomed before her. At some point she had dropped to her knees. Strange. Her sword lay on the sand, just out of reach. And a hilt protruded from her stomach.

She was dying.

Next to her lay Lozwer, dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ESCAPE

The pedlar had a plan. Unable to come up with a better one himself, Seb was prepared to go along with it. He waited as Conn ambled over to one of the guards outside the Arena and chatted calmly with him. Seb spotted two large men being escorted out by a few burly guards farther along. One was a grizzled veteran, the other a big man with a face like thunder. There was no mistaking their identity. He risked lowering his hood, hoping that no bounty hunters from Ehronin were around to spot him, and stepped closer so that they may see him. Seb waited for the solid wood door to slam shut as the guards went back inside. 'I see you've not had much luck,' he said.

Bantas grunted and said simply, 'You're here then.'

'I had a visit from an old friend. She convinced me I should come.'

'Well, you'll be a sight for sore eyes,' put in Ward, 'if you know of a way in.'

'The pedlar should be taking care of that as we speak,' answered Seb, nodding towards Conn where he talked with the guard. 'Hopefully he can get all four of us in.' They started making their way towards the pedlar. 'Where's Miles?' added Seb.

Bantas answered: 'Waiting nearby with four ponies we took from some bandits. Figured we'd need a speedy getaway once we got Amy.'

Approaching the pedlar and the guard, Seb announced, 'There's another two of us.'

Conn turned and smiled. 'Wonderful, Dietos will be most pleased. Now, if you would care to show us the way,' he said to the guard, who did as requested.

Unlocking a heavy wooden side door with an iron key, the guard led them through, slamming it shut behind them with an ominous boom before deftly locking it again. He paced along the corridors, took a turn left, then a right, with the four of them following until another guard stopped them. Conn laid a hand on Seb's forearm to prevent him from doing anything rash.

'Hello Tommy, what have we got here?' said the other guard.

'These are friends of Lord Dietos. They're to meet him after the games, down with the victorious fighters,' said Tommy.

'Really?'

'I know, it's a bit of a strange request, but that's what Dietos wants.' Then Tommy added in a conspiratorial tone that they were not meant to overhear, 'You know the sort of thing these type of folk are in to – and what they get up to after the games.' He gave a shudder.

Seb raised his eyebrows at Conn, who merely indicated that he should play along.

The other guard nodded knowingly and appraised them all. Conn gave a dazzling smile and the guard turned away in disgust.

Tommy continued to lead them further into the Arena.

'"You know the sort of thing these type of folk are into"?' muttered Bantas indignantly. 'Have we finished with this guy?' he said, nodding towards their guide.

'No,' said Conn quietly. 'Don't dispose of him just yet.' Then a little louder, he said, 'We need to open the door that leads through to the Arena.'

To Seb's astonishment the guard did just that, without hesitation. The door led through almost to the Arena floor itself. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, and there was now just one pair of large iron gates between them and Amarinthine. In fact, looking through them, he could see her on the opposite side! Fully looking the part of an Arena fighter, she was crawling on the sand, trying desperately to distance herself from the injured Champion of the Arena.

But standing between Seb and her were five more guards.

'Now,' Conn whispered to Bantas. That was all the warning they would get before two daggers flew from Conn's hands, simultaneously striking the two nearest guards on the temple, pommel first. They slumped to the ground, unconscious. Bantas thundered a right into their guide's gaping jaw and the man collapsed.

'Hey!' shouted one of the three remaining guards, drawing his blade. Samson Ward was on him in an instant, having already managed to swipe their guide's sword. He rammed the pommel into his face with a crunch. Keeping the same fluid movement, he smoothly held the next guard at sword point.

There was only one guard not yet dealt with. Seeing a roomful of deadly opponents quickly overwhelm his companions, he dropped his sword to the stone floor and surrendered as Seb approached, sword in hand.

'This is your lucky day,' said Seb, before striking him unconscious with the pommel of his sword.

Conn asked the last guard standing, whom Ward still held at sword point, if he knew where the keys to the gates were. The guard cooperated obediently, pulling them from a hoop on his belt.

'Thanks,' said Bantas before bludgeoning him. 'You don't think any of these are going to wake up any time soon, do you?' he asked nobody in particular.

Conn opened a side door and peered through. 'We might be able to lock them in here with the keys. Quickly now, drag them inside and don their armour. It's important that we disguise ourselves as guards. Hurry! Amarinthine battles on the sand as we tarry!'

Having locked the insensible guards in the side room after stripping them of their capes, helmets, swords and shields, they rushed to the gates. Across from them, at the gates on the opposite side of the Arena floor, Seb could see Amarinthine kneeling by a prone figure.

***

Jak watched sadly as Puce knelt by old Randall. The old horse had surprised him again. Time and again Jak found himself admiring the old man's knack for survival in the Arena, but it was not his knack for survival that surprised him now; it was the force and accuracy of the old man's shot with the pebble that had surprised him. Not to mention the bravery of his actions. But then again, Jak would have done the same for Puce. He knew that Puce was not her real name, for he knew that Puce was a girl; he had known since rescuing her by the lake in Speakeasy but respected her decision to disguise herself. After all, he would have chosen to die in the Arena over being made to become a whore for the Mori Vohans, too. In fact, he had become more than a little confused over his feelings towards her; it did not seem right to fall for a girl who posed as a male, so he had pretended that the feelings did not exist, and instead pretended that she was just another slave, another one of the men. Now, however, seeing her cry quietly by the body of her dead friend, Jak could suppress his feelings for her no longer. He had to do something.

'Thank you, Randall, my friend,' he heard her say.

Then he heard Dietos yelling commands at Lozwer, but the champion ignored him.

'Kill him! Kill them both!' the Lord of the Arena screamed in retaliation. Guards hurried to obey, and Puce was forced back as one of the guards reached through the gates to try and stab her. Behind her, Lozwer stood, leaning upon his shield for support.

The gates crashed open, and Jak cast about for a weapon.

***

As Bantas fumbled with the iron keys, they heard one of the Lords of the Arena call down a command to the Arena floor: 'Kill him! Kill them both! If neither one of them shall obey me, then they will each suffer the same fate!'

They saw the gates on the opposite side swing open, and guards poured out.

'Come on, for Lorgh's sake!' cursed Bantas. 'Got to be one of these damned keys!' In too much of a hurry, he dropped them.

'Quickly now!' shouted a voice behind them. 'Else Dietos will have our heads!'

They turned to see more guards approaching. Seb looked at Conn and Ward, an unspoken question in his eye.

Ward shook his head, then said aloud, 'Our friend here can't remember which bleeding key it is!'

'Let's have a look!' the leader of the newcomers said, snatching the bunch from Bantas. 'It's this one, here.'

Bantas snatched it back. Soon the lock clicked, and the gates were thrown wide open.

'Leave this with us, we've got it all in hand,' said Ward, and led the charge with Bantas, Seb and Conn following close behind.

'Like hell I'll leave it to you!' said the guard, urging his companions to follow after. 'Oy! You've still got the keys. I need to lock the bleeding gates! Get back!'

But their attention was fixed ahead. A young fighter bravely took to the sand to help Amarinthine and the champion, who were now fighting back to back. The fighter coolly dispatched two guards, but others who had filed through the gates opposite were closing in on him.

Bantas heard Amarinthine shout in a husky voice: 'Jak!'

He saw that the other guards would soon cut off their path to her.

'Rescue the young Arena fighter first,' ordered Ward with a shout. 'Then together we'll fight our way through to Amarinthine!'

Bantas saw the sense of Samson Ward's tactic. By rescuing the boy, they would then be greater in number, and would provide distraction away from Amarinthine, though all he really wanted to do was clear a direct path through to Amy. But he was a soldier, and he followed Ward's orders, as did the others.

He watched admiringly as knives flew from Conn's hands with unerring accuracy. As nearby guards fell to the projectile blades, the pedlar rushed over to them, retrieved the blades, and started the process all over again. Four crossbowmen took their aim upon them from above in the stands, but again knives flew from Conn's hands and the crossbowmen fell. He almost seemed to be able to produce daggers and throwing knives at will. The pedlar was like a one-man army, thought Bantas. And with Seb and Ward both showing their unprecedented skill with the sword, he started to think that he may not himself even have to raise a finger. But his turn came soon enough, however, when the confused guards who had come through the gates behind them realised they were imposters. Apart from those already engaged in hand to hand combat with Amy and the champion, all the other guards now turned their attention to the four of them.

And yet more guards came through the gates.

Seb and Ward flanked him either side whilst Conn floated about, dealing out death seemingly at will. With the sword he had acquired, Bantas hacked at the first man to come across his path, almost taking off his head. The guard staggered sideways two steps before toppling to the sand.

Then Amy screamed. Bantas saw a guard lifted from his feet before sprawling on the sand. Amy must have used her Ability, he realised. As the guard fled, one of the Lords of the Arena demanded the man be killed for his cowardice. Another guard with a trident beard sliced the man's throat. Bantas closed in and stabbed Trident-beard through the heart. About half of the guards now remained.

'Concentrate on the imposters!' the same Lord of the Arena screamed.

'One hundred silvers to the man who takes the Arena fighter, Jak, alive!' another Lord of the Arena shouted. This seemed to cause an argument between the two lords.

Jak was making a good account of himself, thought Bantas, having managed to kill more than he, but just then the boy received a blow to the head and crumpled to the ground. A guard moved swiftly and dragged Jak back through one of the gates. Jak must be a friend of Amy's, thought Bantas, but we'll not be able to rescue him now.

Bantas and the others put Jak from their minds and focused solely on reaching Amarinthine. Looking past the remaining guards, he could see that Amy had dropped to her knees and was close to death. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her belly, and the champion lay beside her, dead.

Anger swelled uncontrollably within him and he charged, berserk.

Seb, Conn and Samson Ward followed close behind. They were all tiring, but Bantas fought now like a man possessed. He chopped down four guards as though they were little more than wheat in a field. Those remaining backed off in nervous retreat, much to the chagrin of one of the Lords of the Arena, who expressed his displeasure from the stands with threats of the hangman's noose. But the guards did not listen. They were far too scared of the raging giant of a man who had gone berserk. They put down their swords. The fighting was over.

The crowd expressed their joy wholeheartedly at the unexpected nature of the guards' defeat. Bantas threw the keys for the gates to Seb, rapidly applied the last of his healing salve to Amarinthine's wounds, picked up her limp and dying form and hurried her back the way they had come and out of the Arena.

By Lorgh, we've done it, thought Bantas. Against all the odds, we rescued Amy from the gamers.

'You just hold on,' he told her. 'Keep holding on. You can't leave for the afterworld, not now that we've rescued you.'

Thus ends part one

A note from the author

So, that's the end of part one. But don't worry, you can find Scorpion's Sting part two (it's actually the complete edition, parts one and two) on Amazon, but I'm not allowed to provide you with the link.

I hope you enjoyed reading part one as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I would like to thank you, the wonderful reader, for your readership.

If you'd like to reach out to me for any reason, ask questions or offer suggestions, you can contact me at stephenjcoey@gmail.com, or @StephenCoey on Twitter. With your permission, I could even let you know of any future releases.

Again, thank you for reading part one... if you've enjoyed it, I'm sure you'll just love part two!

Stephen J. Coey
