But Morak wasn't listening. He laughed and shook his head. 'Wardal, have you ever been to the arena?'

'Aye. Saw Senta fight there. Beat a Vagrian called . . . called . . .'

'Never mind! Did you ever see Angel fight?'

'Oh yes. Tough. Won some money on him once.'

'Would you remember his face at all?'

'Red hair, wasn't it?' answered Wardal.

'Correct, numbskull. Red hair. And a face his mother would disown. I wonder if the tiniest thought is trying to make its way through that mass of bone that houses your brain? If it is, do share it with us.'

Wardal sniffed loudly. 'The man at the cabin!'

'The man who said he was Dakeyras, yes,' said Morak. 'It was the right cabin, just the wrong man. Tomorrow you can return there. Take Bans and Tharic. No, that might not be enough. Jonas and Seeris as well. Kill Angel and bring the girl here.'

'He's a gladiator,' objected Jonas, a stout balding warrior with a forked beard.

'I didn't say fight him,' whispered Morak. 'I said kill him.'

'Wasn't nothing about no gladiators,' persisted Jonas. Tracking, you said. Find this Dakeyras. I've seen Angel fight as well. Don't stop, does he? Stick him, cut him, hit him . . . still keeps going.'

'Yes, yes, yes! I am sure he would be delighted to know you are among his greatest admirers. But he's older now. He retired. Just walk in, engage him in conversation, then kill him. If that sounds a little too difficult for you, then head for Kasyra – and kiss goodbye to any thought of a share in ten thousand gold pieces.'

'Why don't you kill him?' asked Jonas. 'You're the swordsman here.'

'Are you suggesting that I am frightened of him?' countered Morak, his voice ominously low.

'No, not at all,' answered Jonas, reddening. 'We all know how . . . skilled you are. I just wondered, that's all.'

'Have you ever seen the nobles hunt, Jonas?'

'Of course.'

'Have you noticed how, when chasing boar, they take hounds with them?'

The man nodded glumly. 'Good,' said Morak. 'Then take this thought into that pebble-sized brain: I am a hunting noble and you are my dogs. Is that clear? I am not being paid to kill Angel. I am paying you.'

'We could always shoot him from a distance, I suppose,' said Jonas. 'WardaFs very good with that bow.'

'Fine,' muttered Morak. 'Just so long as it is done. But bring the girl to me, safe and hearty. You understand? She is the key to Waylander.'

'That is against Guild rules,' said Belash. 'No innocents may be used . . .'

'I know the Guild rules!' snapped Morak. 'And when I want lessons in proper conduct I shall be sure to call on you. After all, the Nadir are well known for their rigid observance of civilised behaviour.'

'I know what you want from the girl,' said Belash. 'And it is not this key to her father.'

'A man is entitled to certain pleasures, Belash. They are what make living worthwhile.'

The Nadir nodded. 'I have known some men who share the same . . . pleasures … as you. When we catch them among the Nadir we cut off their hands and feet and stake them out over anthills. But then, as you say, we do not understand you civilised people.'

The face was huge and white as a fish belly, the eye sockets empty, the lids shaped like fangs, clacking as they closed. The mouth was lipless, the tongue enormous and cratered with tiny mouths.

Miriel took Krylla's hand, and the children tried to flee – but the demon was faster, stronger. One scaled hand closed on Miriel's arm, the touch burning.

'Bring them to me!' came a soft voice, and Miriel saw a man standing close by, his face also pale, his skin scaled like a beautiful albino snake. But there was nothing beautiful about the man. Krylla began to cry.

The monstrous creature that held them leaned over the children, touching the cavernous mouth to Miriel's face. She felt pain then, terrible pain. And she screamed.

And screamed . . .

'Wake up, girl,' said the demon, his hand once more on her shoulder. Her fingers snaked out, clawing at his face, but he grabbed her wrist. 'Stop this. It is me, Angel!'

Her eyes flared open and she saw the rafters of the cabin, the light of the moon seeping through the knife-thin gaps in the shutters, felt the rough wool of the blankets on her naked frame. She shuddered and fell back. He stroked her brow, pushing back the sweat-drenched hair.

'Just a dream, girl. Just a dream,' he whispered. She said nothing for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Her mouth was dry and she sat up, reaching for the goblet of water by her bedside.

'It was a nightmare. Always the same one,' she said, between sips. 'Krylla and I were being hunted across a dark place, an evil place. Valleys without trees, a sky without sun or moon, grey, soulless.' She shivered. 'Demons caught us, and terrible men . . .'

'It's over,' he assured her. 'You are awake now.'

'It's never over. It's a dream now – but it wasn't then.' She shivered again, and he reached out, drawing her to him, his arms upon her back, his hand patting her. Lowering her head to his shoulder she felt better. The remembered cold of the Void was strong in her mind, and the warmth of his skin pushed it back.

'Tell me about it,' he said.

'It was after Mother died. We were frightened, Krylla and me. Father was acting strangely, shouting and weep­ing. We knew nothing about drunken men. And to see Father stumbling and falling was terrifying. Krylla and I used to sit in our room, holding hands. We used to soar our spirits high into the sky. We were free then. Safe – so we thought. But one night, as we played beneath the stars we realised we were not alone. There were other spirits in the sky with us. They tried to catch us, and we fled. We flew so fast, and with such terror in our hearts that we had no idea where we were. But the sky was grey, the land desolate. Then the demons came. Summoned by the men.'

'But you escaped from them.'

'Yes. No. Another man appeared, in silver armour. We knew him. He fought the demons, killing them, and brought us home. He was our friend. But he does not appear in my dreams now.'

'Lie back,' said Angel. 'Have a little gentle sleep.'

'No. I don't want the dream again.'

Pulling back the woollen blanket Angel slid in beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. 'No demons, Miriel. I shall be here to bring you back if there are.' Pulling the blanket up around them both he lay still. She could feel the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and closed her eyes.

She slept for a little over an hour and awoke refreshed. Angel was sleeping soundlessly beside her. In the faint light of pre-dawn his ugliness was softened, and she tried to picture him as he had been all those years ago when he had brought her the dress. It was almost impossible. Her arm was draped across his chest and she slowly drew it back, feeling the softness of his skin and the contrasting ridges of hard muscle across his belly. He did not wake, and Miriel felt a powerful awareness of her own naked­ness. Her hand slid down, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pelt of tightly curled hair below his navel. He stirred. She halted all movement, aware now of her increased heartbeat. Fear touched her, but it was a delicious fear. There had been village boys who had filled her with longing, left her dreaming of forbidden trysts. But never had she felt like this, the onset of fear synchro­nised to her passion. Never had she been so aware of her desires. Her needs. His breathing deepened again. Her hand slid down, fingers caressing him, circling him, feeling him quicken and swell.

Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought, with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable, but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him she eased open the bed­room door and crossed the cabin floor.