Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl's shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess at the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel of the death of Miriel's sister.

Senta looked away. His broken nose was sending shafts of pain behind his eyes and he felt sick. In his four years in the arena he had not felt pain like this. Minor cuts, and once a twisted ankle, were all the swordsman had suffered. But then those fights had been governed by rules. With a man like Waylander there were no rules. Only survival.

Despite his pain Senta felt relieved. He had no doubt that he would have killed the older man in a duel, though if he had, there would still have been Angel to face. And it would have saddened him to slay the old gladiator. But, more than that, it would have wrecked any chance with Miriel.

Miriel. . .

His first sight of her had shocked him, and he still didn't know why. The noblewoman, Gilaray, had a more beauti­ful face. Nexiar was infinitely more shapely. Suri's golden hair and flashing eyes were far more provocative. Yet there was something about this mountain girl that had fired his senses. But what?

And why marriage? He could hardly believe he'd made the offer. How would she take to life in the city? He focused on her once more, picturing her in a gown of silver satin, pearls laced through her dark hair. And chuckled.

'What is amusing you?' asked Angel, strolling to where he sat.

'I was thinking of Miriel at the Lord Protector's Ball, in a flowing dress and with her knives strapped to her fore­arms.'

'She's too good for the likes of you, Senta. Far too good.'

'That's a matter of opinion. Would you sooner see her standing behind a plough, old before her time, her breasts flat, like two hanged men?'

'No,' admitted Angel, 'but I'd like to see her with a man who loved her. She's not like Nexiar, or any of the others. She's like a colt – fast, sleek, unbroken.'

Senta nodded. 'I think you are right.' He glanced up at the gladiator. 'How very perceptive of you, my friend. You do surprise me.'

'I surprise myself sometimes. Like asking Waylander not to kill you. I'm regretting it already.'

'No, you're not,' said Senta, with an easy smile.

Angel grunted a short obscenity and sat beside the swordsman. 'Why did you have to talk of marriage?'

'You think I'd have been better advised to suggest rutting with her under a bush?'

'It would have been more honest.'

'I don't think it would,' said Senta softly. He became aware of Angel staring at him and felt himself blushing.

'Well, well,' said Angel. 'That I should live to see the great Senta smitten. What would they say in Drenan?'

Senta grinned. 'They'd say nothing. The entire city would be swept away under an ocean of tears.'

'I thought you were going to marry Nexiar. Or was it Suri?'

'Beautiful girls,' agreed Senta.

'Nexiar would have killed you. She damn near did for me.'

'I heard the two of you were close once. Is it true that she was so repulsed by your ugliness that, when in bed, she insisted you wore your helmet?'

Angel laughed. 'Close. She had a velvet mask made for me.'

'Ah, but I like you, Angel. Always did. Why did you ask him to spare me?'

'Why didn't you kill him when he approached you?' countered Angel.

Senta shrugged. 'My great-grandfather was a congenital idiot. My father was convinced I took after him. I think he was right.'

'Answer the question, damn you!'

'He had no weapon in his hand. I have never killed an unarmed man. It's not in me. Does that satisfy you?'

'Aye, it does,' admitted Angel. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Without a word he strode back to the cabin, emerging moments later with his sword strapped to his waist. The sound of walking horses came to Senta and he loosened his sabres in their scabbards, but remained where he was at the well. Belash came into sight, stepping from the cabin doorway, knife in his right hand, whetstone in his left. Waylander said something to Miriel, and she vanished into the cabin, then the black-garbed warrior lifted his double crossbow from the hook on his belt, swiftly drawing back the strings and notching two bolts into place.

The first of the horsemen came into view. He wore a full-faced helm of gleaming black metal, a black breast­plate and a blood-red cloak. Behind him came seven identical warriors, each riding black geldings, none less than sixteen hands high. Senta stood and strolled to where Waylander and the others were standing.

The horsemen reined in before the cabin, the horses forming a semi-circle around the the waiting men. No one spoke and Senta felt his skin crawl as he scanned the black knights. Only their eyes could be seen, through thin rectangular slits in the black helms. The expressions were all the same – cold, expectant, confident.

Finally one of them spoke. Senta could not tell which one, for the voice was muffled by the helm.

'Which of you is the wolfshead Dakeyras?'

'I am,' replied Waylander, addressing the rider directly before him.

'The Master has sentenced you to death. There is no appeal.'

The knight reached a black gauntleted hand to his sword-hilt, drawing the blade slowly. Waylander started to lift the crossbow – but his hand froze, the weapon still pointing at the ground. Senta looked at him, surprised, and saw the muscles of his jaw clench, his face redden with effort.

Senta drew the first of his sabres and prepared to attack the horsemen, but even as the blade came clear he saw one of the horsemen glance towards him, felt the man's cold stare touch him like icy water. Senta's limbs froze, a terrible pressure bearing down on him. The sabre sagged in his hand.

The black knights dismounted and Senta heard the whispering of steel swords being drawn from scabbards. Something bounced at his feet, rolling past him. It was the whetstone Belash had been carrying.

He struggled to move, but his arms felt as if they were made of stone.

And he saw a black sword rising towards his throat.

Inside the cabin Miriel lifted Kreeg's crossbow from the wall, flicking open the winding arms and swiftly rotating them, drawing the string back to the bronze notch. Selecting a bolt she pressed it home and swung back towards the door.

A tall knight stepped into the doorway, blocking out the light. For a moment only she froze. Then the bow came up.

'No,' whispered a sibilant voice in her mind.

A terrible lethargy flowed into her limbs and she felt as if a stream of warm, dark water was seeping through the corridors of her mind, drawing out her soul, emptying her memories. It was almost welcome, a cessation of fear and concern, a longing for the emptiness of death. Then a bright light flared, deep within her thoughts, holding back the black tidal wave of warm despair. And she saw, silhouetted against the light, the silver warrior who had rescued her as a child.

'Fight them!' he ordered. 'Fight them, Miriel! I have opened the doorways to your Talent. Seek it! And live!'

She blinked, and tried to aim the crossbow, but it was so heavy, so terribly heavy . . .

The black knight walked further into the room. 'Give me the weapon,' he said, his voice muffled by the helm. 'And I will give you joys you have not yet even dreamed of.' As he approached Miriel saw Waylander on his knees in the dust of the clearing, a black bladed sword raised above his head.

'No! she shouted. The crossbow tilted to the right. She squeezed the bronze trigger. The bolt slashed through the air, plunging into the black helm and disappearing up to the flights. The black knight toppled forward.