'How long should I leave it brewing?' came Miriel's voice from the back room.

'Several minutes,' he replied. 'When the shredded leaves start to sink it'll be ready.'

The weapons rack on the wall caught his eye: two longbows, several swords, a sabre, a Sathuli tulwar and half a dozen knives of various lengths and curves. He sat up. A new crossbow lay upon the table. It was a nice piece and Ralis levered himself from his chair and picked up the weapon, examining the gold embossing.

'It is a good bow,' said Miriel, striding back into the room.

'It's better than the man who owned it,' he told her.

'You knew him?'

'Kreeg. A cross between a snake and a rat. Good Guild member, though. Could have been rich if he wasn't such a bad gambler.'

'He tried to kill my father – we don't know why.'

Ralis said nothing. Miriel moved to the kitchen, return­ing with his tisane, which he sipped slowly. They ate in comfortable silence, the old man devouring three helpings of lion meat. Dipping a slab of freshly-baked bread into the rich gravy he looked up at Miriel and sighed. 'They don't eat as well as this in the palace at Drenan,' he said.

'You are a flatterer, Ralis,' she chided him. 'But I like it.'

Wandering to his pack he untied the flap and delved deep into the interior, coming up at last with a corked metal flask and three small silver cups. Returning to the table he filled the cups with amber liquid. 'The taste of heaven,' he said, savouring the moment.

Miriel lifted her cup and sipped the spirit. 'It's like swallowing fire,' she said, reddening.

'Yes. Good, isn't it?'

'Tell me about Kreeg.'

'Not much to tell. He was from the south, a farmboy originally. Fought in the Vagrian Wars, and then joined Jonat for the rebellion. When Karnak smashed the rebel army Kreeg spent a year or two in Ventria. Mercenary, I think. He joined the Guild three years ago. Not one of their best, you understand, but good enough.'

'Then someone paid him to kill my father?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

The old man shrugged. 'Let's wait until he gets back.'

'You make it sound like a mystery.'

'I just don't like repeating myself. At my age time is precious. How much do you remember of your childhood?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, Dakeyras . . . where did you meet him?' He could see that the question surprised her, and watched her expression change from open and friendly to guarded and wary.

'He's my father,' she said softly.

'No,' he told her. 'Your family were killed in a raid during the Vagrian Wars. And Dakeyras, riding with a man named Dardalion, found you and your sister . . . and a brother, I believe, in the care of a young woman.'

'How do you know this?'

'Because of Kreeg,' he said, refilling his cup.

'I don't understand.'

The voice of Dakeyras cut in from the doorway. 'He means he knows who Kreeg was sent to kill.' The tall man untied the thong of his black leather cloak and draped it over the chair. Taking up the third silver cup he tossed back the contents.

'Fifteen thousand in gold,' said Ralis. 'Five for the Guild, ten for the man who brings your crossbow to the Citadel. There are said to be more than fifty men scouring the country for news of you. Morak the Ventrian is among them, as are Belash, Courail and Senta.'

'I've heard of Morak and Courail,' said Dakeyras.

'Belash is Nadir and a knife-fighter. Senta is a swords­man paid to fight duels. He's very good – old noble family.'

'I expect there is also a large reward for information regarding my whereabouts,' said Dakeyras softly.

'I wouldn't doubt it,' said Ralis, 'but then it would be a brave man who betrayed Waylander the Slayer.'

'Are you a brave man?' The words were spoken gently, but the undercurrent was tense and the old man found his stomach knotting.

'More guts than sense,' admitted Ralis, holding the man's dark gaze.

Waylander smiled. 'That's as it should be,' he said, and the moment passed.

'What will we do?' asked Miriel.

'Prepare for a long winter,' said Waylander.

Ralis was a light sleeper, and he heard the creaking of leather hinges as the main door opened. The old man yawned and swung his legs from the bed. Although it was almost dawn thin shafts of moonlight were still seeping through the cracks in the shutters of the window. He rose and stretched. The air was cool and fresh with the threat of approaching winter. Ralis shivered and pulled on his warm woollen leggings and tunic.

Opening his bedroom door he stepped into the main room and saw that someone had fanned the embers of last night's fire, laying fresh kindling on the hungry flames. Waylander was a courteous host, for there would not normally have been a fire this early on an autumn day. Moving to the shuttered window he lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden frame. Outside the moon was fading in a greying sky, the stars retreating, the pale pink of the dawn showing above the eastern peaks.

Movement caught his eye and Ralis squinted, trying to focus. On the mountainside, at least a quarter of a mile distant, he thought he saw a man running. Ralis yawned and returned to the fire, easing himself down into the deep leather chair. The kindling was burning well and he added two seasoned logs from a stack beside the hearth.

So, he thought, the mystery is solved at last. What was surprising was that he felt in such low spirits now. For years he had known Dakeyras and his family, the beautiful wife, the twin girls. And always he had sensed there was more to the mountain man. And the mystery had occupied his mind, perhaps even helping to keep him active at an age when most – if not all – of his youthful contemporaries were dead.

A fugitive, a nobleman having turned his back on wealth and privilege, a refugee from Gothir tyranny… all these he had considered as backgrounds for Dakeyras. And more. But the speculation was now over. Dakeyras was the legendary Waylander – the man who killed King Orien's son, Niallad. But he was also the hero who had found the hidden Armour of Bronze, returning it to the Drenai people, freeing them from the murderous excesses of the invading Vagrians.

The old man sighed. What fresh mysteries could he find now to exercise his mind, and blot out the passing of time and the inevitable approach of death?

He heard Miriel rise from her bed in the far room. She wandered in, tall and slim and naked. 'Good morning,' she said brightly. 'Did you sleep well?'

'Well enough, girl. You should put some clothes on.' His voice was gruff, the words said in a sharper tone than he had intended. It wasn't that her nakedness aroused him; it was the opposite, he realised. Her youth and her beauty only made him feel the weight of his years, looming behind him like a mountain. She returned to her room and he leaned back in his chair. When had arousal died? He thought back. It was in Melega that he had first noticed it, some fifteen years before. He had hired a whore, a buxom wench, but had been unable to perform despite all her expert ministrations.

At last she had shrugged. 'Dead birds cannot rise from the nest,' she told him cruelly.

Miriel returned, dressed now in grey leggings and a shirt of creamy white wool. 'Is that more to your liking, sir tinker?'

He forced a smile. 'Everything about you, my dear, is to my liking. But naked you remind me of all that there once was. Can you understand that?'

'Yes,' she said, but he knew she was humouring him. What did the young ever understand? Pulling a tall chair to the fireside she reversed it and sat astride it opposite him, her elbows resting on the high back. 'You mentioned some of the men who are hunting my father,' she said. 'Can you tell me of them?'

'They are all dangerous men – and there will be those among them I do not know. But I know Morak the Ventrian. He's deadly, truly deadly. I believe he is insane.'