'Can I be as good?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think so. Much as I hate to admit it I think there is an evil in men like them . . . men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings yet each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don't think you will. Indeed, I don't think you should.'

'You think my father enjoys killing?'

'He's a mystery,' admitted Angel. 'I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul which should never be unlocked. He found a key.'

'He has always been kind to me, and to my sister.'

'I don't doubt that. What happened to Krylla?'

'She married and moved away.'

'When I knew you as children you had a … power, a Talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?'

'No,' she said, turning away.

'When did it fail?'

'I don't want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?'

'Of course,' he answered. 'That is why I am being paid. Stand still.' Rising he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers press­ing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.

She felt herself reddening. 'What are you doing?' she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

'Your arms are not strong enough,' he told her, 'especially at the back here,' he added, squeezing her triceps. 'All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.' Even as he spoke he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. 'Long,' he said, almost to himself. 'Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword-hilt. We'll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!'

He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. 'I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then – and still slowly, mind – lower yourself until the arms are almost straight. Under­stand?'

'Of course I understand,' she snapped. 'It was hardly the most complex of instructions.'

'Then do it!'

'How many times?'

'As many as you can. I want to see the limits of your strength.'

She leapt upwards, her fingers hooking over the branch, and hung for a moment adjusting her grip. Then slowly she hauled herself up.

'How does it feel?' he asked.

'Easy,' she answered, lowering herself.

'Again!'

At three she began to feel her biceps stretching. At five they began to burn. At seven her arms trembled and gave way and she dropped to the ground. 'Pathetic,' said Angel. 'But it is a start. Tomorrow morning you will begin your day with seven, eight if you can. Then you can run. When you return you will do another seven. In three days I will expect you to complete twelve.'

'How many could you do?'

'At least a hundred,' he replied. 'Follow!'

'Will you stop saying follow! It makes me feel like a dog.'

But he was moving even as she spoke and Miriel followed him back across the clearing. 'Wait here,' he ordered, then walked to the side of the cabin where the winter wood was stored. Selecting two large chunks he carried them back to where Miriel was waiting and laid them on the ground twenty feet apart. 'I want you to run from one to the other,' he said.

'You want me to run twenty feet? Why?'

His hand snaked out, rapping against her cheek. 'Stop asking stupid questions and do as you are told.'

'You whoreson!' she stormed. 'Touch me again and I'll kill you!'

He laughed and shook his head. 'Not yet. But do as I tell you – and maybe you'll have the skill to do just that. Now move to the first piece of wood.'

Still seething she walked to the first chunk, his voice following her. 'Run to the second and stoop down, touching the wood with your right hand. Turn instantly and run back to the first, touching it with your left hand. Am I going too fast for you?'

Miriel bit back an angry retort and started to run. But she covered the distance in only a few steps and had to chop her stride. Feeling both ungainly and uncomfortable she ducked down, slapped her fingers against the wood then turned and ran back. 'I think you have the idea,' he said. 'Now do it twenty times. And a little faster.'

For three hours he ordered her through a series of gruelling exercises, running, jumping, sword-work, end­less repetition of thrusts and cuts. Not once did she complain, but nor did she speak to him. Grimly she pushed herself through all of his exercises until he called a break at midday. Tired now, Miriel strode back to the cabin, her limbs trembling. She was used to running, inured to the pain of oxygen-starved calves and burning lungs. In truth she even enjoyed the sensations, the sense of freedom, of speed, of power. But the weariness and aches she felt now were all in unaccustomed places. Her hips and waist felt bruised and tender, her arms leaden, her back aching.

To Miriel strength was everything, and her faith in her own skills had been strong. Now Angel had undermined her confidence, first with the consummate ease of his victory in the forest, and now with the punishing routines that exposed her every weakness. She had been awake when Waylander made his offer to the former gladiator, and had heard his response. Miriel believed she knew what Angel was trying to do, force her to refuse his training, humiliate her into quitting. Then he would claim his fortune from her father. And, because Dakeyras was a man of pride and honour, he would pay the ten thousand.

You will not find it easy, Angel, she promised. No, you will have to work for your money, you ugly whoreson!

Angel was well satisfied with the day's training. Miriel had performed above his expectations, fuelled no doubt by anger at the slap. But Angel cared nothing for the motivation. It was enough that the girl had proved to be a fighter. At least he would have something to work with. Given the time, of course.

Waylander had left just after dawn. 'I will be back in four days. Perhaps five. Make good use of the time.'

'You can trust me,' Angel told him.

Waylander smiled thinly. 'Try to stop her attacking anyone else. She should be safe then. The Guild has a rule about innocent victims.'

Morak follows no rules, thought Angel, but he said nothing as the tall warrior loped away towards the north.

An hour before dusk Angel called a halt to the work, but was surprised when Miriel announced she was going for a short run. Was it bravado, he wondered? 'Carry a sword,' he told her.

'I have my knives,' she answered.

'That's not what I meant. I want you to carry a sword. To hold it in your hand.'

'I need this run to loosen my muscles, stretch them out. The sword will hamper me.'

'I know. Do it anyway.'

She accepted without further argument. Angel returned to the cabin and pulled off his boots. He too was tired, but would be damned before letting the girl know. Two years out of the arena had seen his stamina drain away. He poured himself a drink of water and slumped down in front of the dead fire.

Given a month, possibly two, he could make something of the girl. Increase her speed, lower her reaction time. The side sprints would help with balance, and the work to build her arms and shoulders add power to her lunges and cuts. But the real problem lay within her heart. When angry she was fast but wild, easy meat for the skilled swordsman. When cool her movements were stilted, her attacks easy to read and counter. The end result of any combat, therefore, would be the same.