Then a hoarse cry of despair was torn from him. The blanket was gone!

He huddled on the cold floor, weeping. His knees were drawn up and he wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to contain his failing body heat. He thought of his warm Ranger cloak, lost when he was captured by Erak and his men. The shivering began and he felt his whole body give way to it. The cold burrowed deep into his flesh, reaching right into his bones, right into the very soul of him.

There was nothing but the cold. His world was circumscribed by cold. He was the cold. It was inescapable, unbearable. There was no slight flicker of warmth in his world.

Nothing but the cold.

He felt something rough against his cheek and opened his eyes to see someone leaning over him, spreading a piece of coarse sacking over his trembling body. Then a quiet voice was in his ear. "Take it easy, friend. Be strong now." The speaker was a tall slave, bearded and unkempt. But it was the eyes that Will noticed. They were full of sympathy and understanding. Pathetically, Will drew the scratchy cloth closer around his chin.

"Heard what you tried to do for Ulrich," said his savior. "We've got to stick together if we're going to make it in here. I'm Handel, by the way."

Will tried to answer but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably and his voice shook as he tried to form words. It was useless.

"Here, try this," said Handel, glancing around to make sure they were not observed. "Open your mouth."

Will forced his chattering teeth apart and Handel slipped something into his mouth. It felt like a bundle of dried herbs, Will thought dully.

"Put it under your tongue," Handel whispered. "Let it dissolve.

You'll be fine."

And then, after a few moments, as his saliva moistened the substance under his tongue, Will felt the most glorious, liberating sense of warmth radiating through his body. Beautiful warmth that forced the cold out, that spread to the very tips of his fingers and toes in a series of pulsing waves. He had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. The trembling eased as successive waves of warmth swept gently over him. His tight muscles relaxed into a delightful sense of rest and well-being. He looked up to see Handel smiling and nodding at him. Those wonderful, warm eyes smiled reassuringly and he knew everything was going to be all right.

"What is it?" he said, speaking awkwardly around the sodden little wad in his mouth.

"It's warmweed," Handel told him gently. "It keeps us alive."

And from the shadows of a far corner, Egon watched the two figures and smiled. Handel had done his work well.

T HE BLACK-CLAD KNIGHT CURSED VIOLENTLY AS THE ARROW ripped his gauntlet from his grasp and thudded, carrying the glove with it, into a heavy oak beam. The solid impact of the arrow with the beam drew his eyes for a second, then he whirled suspiciously, to see where the missile had come from. For the first time, he registered the presence of a dark, indistinct shape in the shadows at the rear of the room.

Then, as Halt moved from behind the table and out into the light, he also registered the longbow, with a second arrow nocked ready to the string. The archer hadn't bothered to draw the bow, but Deparnieux had just seen an example of his skill. He knew he was facing a master archer, capable of drawing and firing in a heartbeat. He stood very still now, controlling his rage with difficulty. He knew his life might well depend on his ability to do so.

"Unfortunately for the dictates of chivalry," Halt said, "Sir Horace, knight of the Order of the Oakleaf, is indisposed, with an injury to his left hand. He will therefore be unable to reply to the kind invitation you were about to issue."

He had moved farther into the light now and Deparnieux could make out his face more clearly. Bearded and grim, this was the face of an experienced campaigner. The eyes were cold and bore no hint of indecision. This, the knight knew instantly, was a man to be wary of.

There was a subdued chuckle from one of the townspeople in the room and, inwardly, the Gallic knight seethed with fury. His eyes flicked to the source of the sound and he saw a carpenter, lowering his face to hide his smile. Deparnieux noted the man mentally. His day of reckoning would come. Outwardly, however, he forced a smile.

"A pity," he told the archer. "I had hoped for a friendly trial of arms with the young chevalier-all in the spirit of good fellowship, of course."

"Of course," Halt replied levelly, and Deparnieux knew that he wasn't for a moment deceived. "But, as I say, we shall have to disappoint you, as we are traveling on a rather urgent quest."

Deparnieux's eyebrows lifted in polite enquiry. "Is that so? And where might you and your young master be bound?"

He added the "young master" to see what effect it would have on the bearded man before him. It was obvious who was the master here, and it wasn't the young knight. He'd hoped that he might sting the other man's pride, and possibly goad him to a mistake.

The hope, however, was short-lived. He noticed a faint glint of amusement in the man's eyes as he recognized the gambit for what it was.

"Oh, here and there," Halt replied vaguely. "It's not a task of sufficient importance to interest a warlord such as yourself." The tone of his voice left the knight in no doubt that he would not be answering casual questions about their end destination, or even their intended direction of travel.

"Sir Horace," he added, aware that the boy was still within arm's reach of the black knight, "why don't you sit yourself down over there and rest your injured arm?"

Horace glanced at him, then understanding dawned and he moved away from the knight, taking a seat by the edge of the fire. There was absolute silence in the room now. The townspeople gazed at the two men confronting each other, wondering where this impasse was going to end.

Only two people in the room, Halt and Deparnieux, knew that the knight was trying to gauge his chances of drawing his sword and cutting down the archer before he could fire. As Deparnieux hesitated, he met the unwavering gaze of the Ranger.

"I really wouldn't," said Halt mildly. The black knight read the message in his eyes and knew that, fast as he might be, the other man's reply would be faster. He inclined his head slightly in recognition of the fact. This was not the time.

He forced a smile onto his face and made a mocking bow in Horace's direction.

"Perhaps another day, Sir Horace," he said lightly. "I would look forward to a friendly trial of arms with you when you are recovered."

This time, he noticed, the boy glanced quickly at his older companion before replying. "Perhaps another day," he agreed.

Embracing the room with a thin smile, Deparnieux turned on his heel and walked to the door. He paused there a moment, his eyes seeking Halt's once more. The smile faded and the message he sent was clear. Next time, my friend. Next time.

The door closed behind him and a collective sigh of relief went around the room. Instantly, a babble of conversation broke out among those present. The musicians, sensing that their moment was over for the night, packed away their instruments and gratefully accepted drinks from the serving girl.

Horace moved to the beam where Halt's arrow had pinned the knight's gauntlet. He wrestled the shaft free, dropped the glove onto a table and returned the arrow to Halt.

"What was that all about?" he asked, a little breathlessly. Halt moved back to their table in the shadows, and leaned his longbow against the wall once more.

"That," he told the boy, "is what happens when you begin to acquire a reputation. Our friend Deparnieux is obviously the person who controls this area and he saw you as a potential challenge to that control. So, he came here to kill you."