He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side. Like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face, the smashed nose, the gashed, deformed lips, the swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.

But his face . . .

He dropped to the ground and grinned. 'Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty's not bad. What are you thinking?'

Caught offguard she blushed. 'You make it look so simple,' she said, averting her gaze.

In the three days she had been practising she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. 'You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.' Moving past her he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.

'What happened to your wife?' she asked suddenly.

'Which one?'

'How many have you had?'

'Three.'

'That's a little excessive, isn't it?' she snapped.

He chuckled. 'Seems that way now,' he agreed.

'What about the first one?'

He sighed. 'Hell-cat. By Heaven she could fight. Half-demon – and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was Drenai – I didn't believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.'

'Did she die?'

He nodded. 'Plague. She fought it, mind. All the swellings had gone, the discolouration. She'd even begun to get her hair back. Then she caught a chill and had no strength left to battle it. Died in the night. Peaceful.'

'Were you a gladiator then?'

'No. I was a merchant's book-keeper.'

'I don't believe it! How did you meet her?'

'She danced in a tavern. One night someone reached up and grabbed her leg. She kicked him in the mouth. He drew a dagger. I stopped him.'

'Just like that? A book-keeper?'

'Do not make the mistake of judging a man's physical courage, or his skills, by the work he is forced to do,' he said. 'I knew a doctor once who could put an arrow through a gold ring at forty paces. And a street cleaner in Drenan who once held off twenty Sathuli warriors, killing three, before he carried his injured officer back to camp. Judge a man by his actions, not his occupation. Now let's get back to work.'

'What about the other wives?'

'Don't want to work yet, eh? All right. Let's see, what can I tell you about Kalla? She was another dancer. Worked in the south quarter in Drenan. Ventrian girl. Sweet – but she had a weakness. Loved men. Couldn't say no. That marriage lasted eight months. She ran off with a merchant from Mashrapur. And lastly there was Voria. Older than me, but not much. I was a young fighter then, and she was the patron of the Sixth Arena. She took a fancy to me, showered me with gifts. Married her for her money, have to admit it, but I learned to love her, in my own way.'

'And she died, too?'

'No. She caught me with two serving maids and threw me out. Made my life Hell. For three years she kept trying to have me killed in the arena. Spiked my special wine with a sleeping-draught once. I was almost dead on my feet when I went out to fight. Then she hired two assassins. I had to leave Drenan for a while. I fought in Vagria, Gothir, even Mashrapur.'

'Does she still hate you?'

He shook his head. 'She married a young nobleman, then died suddenly leaving him all her money. Fell from a window – accident, they said, but I spoke to a servant who said he'd heard her having a terrible row with her husband just before she fell.'

'You think he killed her?'

'Sure of it.'

'And now he lives fat off her wealth?'

'No. Curiously he fell from the same window two nights later. His neck was broken in the fall.'

'And you wouldn't have had anything to do with that?'

'Me? How could you think it? And now let's work, if you please. Swords, I think.'

But just as Miriel was drawing her sword she saw movement in the undergrowth to the north of the cabin. At first she thought it was her father returning, for the first man who came into sight was dressed all in black. But he carried a longbow and was darkly bearded. He was followed by a shorter, stockier man in a tan leather jerkin.

'Follow my lead,' whispered Angel. 'And say nothing, even if they speak to you.'

He turned and waited as the men approached. 'Good day,' said the black-garbed bowman.

'And to you, friend. Hunting?'

'Aye. Thought we might find a stag.'

'Plenty south of here. Boar too, if you like the meat.'

'Nice cabin. Yours?'

'Yes,' said Angel. The man nodded.

'You'd be Dakeyras then?'

'That's right. This is my daughter, Moriae. How do you know of us?'

'Met some people in the mountains. They said you had a cabin here.'

'So you came to visit?'

'Not exactly. Thought you might be an old friend of mine. His name was Dakeyras, but he was taller than you and darker.'

'It's not an uncommon name,' said Angel. 'If you kill a stag I'll buy some of the meat. Game will be pretty scarce once winter comes.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' said the bowman.

The two men walked off towards the south. Angel watched them until they were out of sight.

'Assassins?' asked Miriel.

'Trackers, huntsmen. They'll be in the employ of Senta or Morak.'

'You took a risk claiming to be Dakeyras.'

'Not really,' he said. 'They were likely to have been given a description of Waylander – and I certainly don't fit it.'

'But what if they hadn't? What if they had merely attacked you?'

'I'd have killed them. Now, let's work.'

Kesa Khan stared gloomily into the green flames, his jet-black eyes unblinking. He hawked and spat into the fire, his expression impassive, his heart beating wildly.

'What do you see, shaman?' asked Anshi Chen. The wizened shaman waved a hand, demanding silence, and the stocky chieftain obeyed. Three hundred swords he could call upon, but he feared the little man as he feared nothing else in life, not even the prospect of death.

Kesa Khan had seen all he needed to, but still his slanted eyes remained locked to the dancing flames. Reaching a skeletal hand into one of the four clay pots before him he took a pinch of yellow powder and flicked it into the fire. The blaze flared up, orange and red, shadows leaping to the cave wall and cavorting like demons. Anshi Chen cleared his throat and sniffed loudly, his dark Nadir eyes flickering nervously left and right.

Kesa gave a thin smile. 'I have seen the dragon in the dream,' he said, his voice a sibilant whisper.

The colour fled from Anshi's face. 'Is it over, then? We are all dead?'

'Perhaps,' agreed Kesa, enjoying the fear he felt emanat­ing from the warrior.

'What can we do?'

'What the Nadir have always done. We will fight.'

'The Gothir have thousands of warriors, fine armour, swords of steel that do not dull. Archers. Lancers. How can we fight them?'

Kesa shook his head. 'I am not the Warlord of the Wolves, you are.'

'But you can read the hearts of our enemies! You could send demons to rip open their bellies. Or is Zhu Chao mightier than Kesa Khan?' For a moment there was silence then Anshi Chen leaned forward, bowing his head. 'Forgive me, Kesa. I spoke in anger.'

The shaman nodded sagely. 'I know. But there is truth in your fear. Zhu Chao is mightier. He can call upon the blood of many souls. The Emperor has a thousand slaves and many hearts have been laid upon the altar of the Dark God. And what do I have?' The little man twisted his body and pointed at the three dead chickens. He gave a dry laugh. 'I command few demons with those, Anshi Chen.'