'I don't believe you sometimes, my friend. Don't you think it odd that the father should suddenly make that plea? Gods, man, he was coerced into it. People who criticise Karnak tend to have accidents.'

'I don't believe those stories. Karnak's a hero. He and Egel saved this land.'

'Yes, and look what happened to Egel.'

'I think I've had enough of politics,' snapped Angel, 'and I don't want to talk about religion. What else is happening?'

Balka sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. 'Oh, yes, there's a rumour that a huge sum has been offered for the Guild to hunt down Waylander.'

'For what purpose?' asked Angel, clearly astonished.

Balka shrugged. 'I don't know. But I heard it from Symius, and his brother is the clerk at the Guild. Five thousand Raq for the Guild itself, and a further ten thousand to the man who kills him.'

'Who ordered the hunt?'

'No one knows, but they've offered large rewards for any information on Waylander.'

Angel laughed and shook his head. 'It won't be easy. No one has seen Waylander in … what … ten years? He could be dead already.'

'Someone obviously doesn't think so.'

'It's madness – and a waste of money and life.'

'The Guild are calling in their best men,' offered Balka. 'They'll find him.'

'They'll wish they hadn't,' said Angel softly.

Miriel had been running for slightly more than an hour. In that time she had covered around nine miles from the cabin in the high pasture, down to the stream path, through the valley and the pine woods, up across the crest of Axe Ridge, and back along the old deer trail.

She was tiring now, heartbeat rising, lungs battling to supply oxygen to her weary muscles. But still she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin before the sun climbed to noon high.

The slope was slippery from last night's rain and she stumbled twice, the leather knife-scabbard at her waist digging into her bare thigh. A touch of anger spurred her on. Without the long hunting knife and the throwing-blade strapped to her left wrist she could have made better time. But Father's word was law, and Miriel did not leave the cabin until her weapons were in place.

'There is no one here but us,' she had argued, not for the first time.

'Expect the best – prepare for the worst,' was all he said.

And so she ran with the heavy scabbard slapping against her thigh, the hilt of the throwing-blade chafing the skin of her forearm.

Coming to a bend in the trail she leapt the fallen log, landing lightly and cutting left towards the last rise, her long legs increasing their pace, her bare feet digging into the soft earth. Her slim calves were burning, her lungs hot. But she was exultant, for the sun was at least twenty minutes from noon high and she was but three from the cabin.

A shadow moved to her left – talons and teeth flashing towards her. Instantly Miriel threw herself forward, hitting the ground on her right side and rolling to her feet. The lioness, confused at having missing her victim with the first leap, crouched down, ears flat to her skull, tawny eyes focusing on the tall young woman.

Miriel's mind was racing. Action and reaction. Take control!

Her hunting knife slid into her hand and she shouted at the top of her voice. The lioness, shocked by the sound, backed away. Miriel's throat was dry, her heart hammering, but her hand was steady on the blade. She shouted once more and jumped towards the beast. Unnerved by the suddenness of the move the creature slunk back several more paces. Miriel licked her lips. It should have run by now. Fear rose, but she swallowed it down.

Fear is like fire in your belly. Controlled, it warms you and keeps you alive. Unleashed, it burns and destroys you.

Her hazel eyes remained locked to the tawny gaze of the lioness and she noted the beast's ragged condition, the deep angry scar to its right foreleg. No longer fast it could not catch the swift deer, and it was starving. It would not – could not – back away from this fight.

Miriel thought of everything Father had told her about lions: Ignore the head – the bone is too thick for an arrow to penetrate. Send your shaft in behind the front leg, up and into the lung. But he had said nothing about fighting such a beast when armed with but a knife.

The sun slid from behind an autumn cloud and light shone from the knife-blade. Instantly Miriel angled the blade, directing the gleam into the eyes of the lioness. The great head twisted, the eyes blinking against the harsh glare. Miriel shouted again.

But instead of fleeing the lioness suddenly charged, leaping high towards the girl.

For an instant only Miriel froze. Then the knife swept up. A black crossbow bolt punched into the creature's neck, just behind the ear, a second slicing into its side. The weight of the lioness struck Miriel, hurling her back, but the hunting knife plunged into the beast's belly.

Miriel lay very still, the lioness upon her, its breath foul upon her face. But the talons did not rake her, nor the fangs close upon her. With a coughing grunt the lioness died.

Miriel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and eased herself from beneath the body. Her legs felt weak and she sat upon the trail, her hands trembling.

A tall man, carrying a small double crossbow of black metal, emerged from the undergrowth and crouched down beside her. 'You did well,' he said, his voice deep.

She looked up into his dark eyes and forced a smile. 'It would have killed me.'

'Perhaps,' he agreed. 'But your blade reached its heart.'

Exhaustion flowed over her like a warm blanket and she lay back, breathing slowly and deeply. Once she would have sensed the lioness long before any danger threatened, but that Talent was lost to her now, as her mother and her sister were lost to her. Danyal killed in an accident five years ago, and Krylla wed and moved away last summer. Pushing such thoughts from her mind she sat up. 'You know,' she whispered, 'I was really tired when I came to the last rise. I was breathing hard, and my limbs felt as if they were made of lead. But when the lioness leapt, all my weariness vanished.' She gazed up at her father.

He smiled and nodded. 'I have experienced that many times. Strength can always be found in the heart of a fighter – and such a heart will rarely let you down.'

She glanced at the dead lioness. 'Never shoot for the head –that's what you told me,' she said, tapping the first bolt jutting from the creature's neck.

He shrugged and grinned. 'I missed.'

'That's not very comforting. I thought you were perfect.'

'I'm getting old. Are you cut?'

'I don't think so . . .' Swiftly she checked her arms and legs, as wounds from a lion's claws or fangs often became poisonous. 'No. I was very lucky.'

'Yes, you were,' he agreed. 'But you made your luck by doing everything right. I'm proud of you.'

'Why were you here?'

'You needed me,' he answered. Rising smoothly to his feet he reached out, drawing her upright. 'Now skin the beast and quarter it. There's nothing quite like lion meat.'

'I don't think I want to eat it,' she said. 'I think I'd like to forget about it.'

'Never forget,' he admonished her. 'This was a victory. And you are stronger for it. I'll see you later.' Retrieving his bolts the tall man cleaned them of blood, returning them to the leather quiver at his side.

'You're going to the waterfall?' she asked him softly.

'For a little while,' he answered, his voice distant. He turned back to her. 'You think I spend too much time there?'

'No,' she told him sadly. 'It's not the time you sit there. Nor the effort you put into tending the grave. It's you. She's been . . . gone . . . now for five years. You should start living again. You need . . . more than this.'