'I told him so that he would save me.'

'I don't doubt it. But he had to know. You had to tell him.'

'Yes. But there was only selfishness in my mind.'

'You are a man, Dardalion, as well as a priest. You are too hard on yourself. How old are you?'

'Twenty-five. And you?'

'Twenty. How long have you been a priest?'

'Five years. I was trained as an architect by my father, but my heart was never in it. Always I wanted to serve the Source. And as a child I would often have visions. My parents were embarrassed by them.' Dardalion grinned suddenly and shook his head. 'My father was convinced I was possessed and when I was eight he took me to the Source temple at Sardia to have me exorcised. He was furious when they told him I was merely gifted! From then on I attended the temple school. I should have become an acolyte at fifteen, but father insisted I stay at home and learn about business. By the time I had talked him round, I was twenty.'

'Is your father still alive?'

'I don't know. The Vagrians burned Sardia and murdered the priests. I assume they did the same with neighbouring townsfolk.'

'How did you escape?'

'I was not there for the horror; the Abbot sent me to Skoda with messages for the Mountain Monastery, but when I arrived that also was burning. I was on my way back when I was captured, then Waylander rescued me.'

'He does not seem like a man who would bother to rescue anyone.'

Dardalion chuckled. 'Well, no. He was actually recovering his horse which the mercenaries had stolen and I was, somewhat ignominiously, part of the package.' Dardalion laughed once more, then took Danyal by the hand. 'My thanks to you, sister.'

'For what?'

'For taking the time to lead me away from the paths of self-pity. I'm sorry I burdened you.'

'It was no burden. You are a kind man and you are helping us.'

'You are very wise and I am glad we met,' said Dardalion, kissing her hand. 'Come, let us wake the children.'

Throughout the day Dardalion and Danyal played with the children in the woods. The priest told them stories while Danyal led them on a treasure hunt, collecting flowers and threading garlands. The sun shone for most of the morning, but the sky darkened in mid-afternoon and rain drove the group back to the camp-site to shelter beneath a spreading pine. Here they ate the last of the bread and some dried fruit left by Waylander.

'It's getting dark,' said Danyal. 'Do you think it's safe to light the fire?'

Dardalion did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the seven men advancing through the trees, swords in hand.

Wearily Dardalion pushed himself to his feet. The stitches pulled tight against the skin of his chest and the bruises around his ribs made him wince. Even were he a warrior, he could not have stood alone against even one of the men walking slowly towards him.

Leading them was the man who had filled him with fear the night before, smiling as he approached. Behind him, advancing in a half-circle, were six soldiers with their long blue cloaks fastened over black breastplates. Their helms covered their faces and only their eyes were visible through rectangular slits in the metal.

Behind Dardalion Danyal had turned away from the warriors and put her arms around the children, pulling them in close to her so that, at the very least, they would be spared the terror of the kill.

The priest felt a terrible hopelessness seep into him. Only days before, he had been willing to bear torture – torture and death. But now he could feel the children's fear, and he wished he had a sword or bow to defend them.

The advancing line stopped and the lead warrior swung away from Dardalion, staring across the hollow. Dardalion looked back.

There in the fading red glow of dusk stood Waylander, his cloak drawn close about him. The sun was setting behind him and the warrior was silhouetted against the blood-red sky – a still figure, yet so powerful that he laid a spell upon the scene. His leather cloak glistened in the dying light and Dardalion's heart leapt at the sight of him. He had seen this drama played out once before and knew that beneath his cloak Waylander carried the murderous crossbow, strung and ready.

But even as hope flared, so it died. For where before there had been five unsuspecting mercenaries, here there were seven warriors in full armour. Trained killers. The Vagrian Hounds of Chaos.

Waylander could not stand against such as these.

In those first frozen moments Dardalion found himself wondering just why the warrior had come back on such a hopeless mission. Waylander had no cause to give his life for any of them – he had no beliefs, no strongly-held convictions.

But there he stood, like a forest statue.

The silence was unnerving, more so for the Vagrians than for Dardalion. The warriors knew that in scant seconds lives would be lost, death would strike in the clearing and blood seep through the soft loam. For they were men of war who walked with death as a constant companion, holding him at bay with skill or with rage, quelling their fears in blood-lust. But here they were caught cold … and each felt alone.

The dark priest of the Brotherhood licked his lips, his sword heavy in his hand. He knew that the odds favoured his force, knew with certainty that Waylander would die if he gave the word to attack. But the double-edged knowledge held a second certainty … that the moment he spoke, he would die.

Danyal could stand the suspense no longer and, twisting round, she saw Waylander. Her movement caused Miriel to open her eyes and the first thing the child saw were the warriors in their helms.

She screamed.

The spell broke …

Waylander's cloak flickered and the dark priest of the Brotherhood pitched backwards with a black bolt through one eye. For several seconds he writhed and then was still.

The six warriors stood their ground, then the man in the centre slowly sheathed his sword and the others followed suit. With infinite care they backed away into the gathering darkness of the trees.

Waylander did not move.

'Fetch the horses,' he said quietly, 'and gather the blankets.'

An hour later they were camped in high ground in a shallow cave; the children were sleeping and Danyal lay awake beside them as Dardalion and the warrior sat together under the stars.

After a while Dardalion came into the cave and stirred the small fire to life. The smoke drifted up through a crack in the roof of the cave, but still their small shelter smelt of burning pine. It was a comforting scent. The priest moved to where Danyal lay and, seeing she was awake, sat beside her.

'Are you well?' he asked.

'I feel strange,' she admitted. 'I was so prepared for death that all fear left me. Yet I am alive. Why did he come back?'

'I do not know. He does not know.'

'Why did they go away?'

Dardalion leaned his back against the cave wall, stretching his legs towards the fire.

'I am not sure. I have given much thought to it and I think perhaps it is the nature of soldiers. They are trained to fight and kill upon a given order – to obey unquestioningly. They do not act as individuals. And when a battle comes it is usually clear-cut: there is a city which must be captured or a force which must be overcome. The order is given, excitement grows – dulling fear – and they attack in a mass, drawing strength from the mob around them.

'But today there was no order and Waylander, in remaining still, gave them no cause to fire their blood.'

'But Waylander could not have known they would run away,' she insisted.

'No. He didn't care.'

'I don't understand.'

'In truth I am not sure that I do. But I sensed it during those moments. He didn't care … and they knew it. But they cared, they cared very much. They didn't want to die and they were not charged up to fight.'