'What weapons does he favour?' she asked.

'Sabre and knife, but he is a very skilled bowman. And he has great speed – like a striking snake. He'll kill anyone – man, woman, child, babe in arms. He has a gift for death.'

'What does he look like?'

'Medium height, slim. He tends to wear green, and he has a ring of heavy gold, set with a green stone. It matches his eyes, cold and hard.'

'I will watch out for him.'

'If you see him – kill him,' snapped Ralis. 'But you won't see him.'

'You don't think he'll come here?'

'That's not what I said. You would both be best advised to leave here. Even Waylander cannot defeat all who are coming against him.'

'Don't underestimate him, tinker,' she warned.

'I don't,' he replied. 'But I am an old man, and I know how time makes dotards of us all. Once I was young, fast and strong. But slowly, like water eating at stone, time removes our speed and our strength. Waylander is not a young man. Those hunting him are in their prime.'

She nodded and looked away. 'So you advise us to run?'

'Another place, under another name. Yes.'

'Tell me of the others,' she said.

And he did, relating all he had heard of Belash, Courail, Senta and many more. She listened, mostly in silence, but occasionally interrupting him with pertinent questions. At last satisfied she had drained his knowledge, she stood.

'I will prepare you some breakfast,' she said. 'I think you have earned it.'

'What did you gain from my stories?' he asked her.

'It is important to know your enemy,' she answered him. 'Only with knowledge can you ensure victory.'

Ralis said nothing.

Waylander sat quietly on the rough-hewn platform, high in the oak, staring out to the west, over the rolling plains towards the distant towers of Kasyra. Some four miles to his left he could see the Corn Road, a ribbon of a trail leading from the Sentran Plain south towards Drenan. There were few wagons now, the corn having been gathered and stored, or shipped to markets in Mashrapur or Ventria. He saw several horsemen on the road, all riding towards Kasyra and the surrounding villages.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves around him and he settled back, his mind drifting through the libraries of memory, sifting, seeking. His early training as a soldier in the Sathuli Wars told him that a static enemy was one facing defeat. The forest and mountains of Skein boasted many caves and hiding places, but a persistent enemy would find him, for a man had to hunt to eat, and in hunting he left tracks. No, the soldier he had been knew only one way to win – attack!

But how? And where? And against whom?

The hunt-geld had been placed in the Guild. Even if he were to find the man who had ordered the kill, and slay him, the hunt would go on.

The wind picked up, and Waylander pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his frame. The run had been hard, his ageing muscles complaining at the severity of the exercise, his lungs on fire, his heartbeat a pounding drum. Stretching out his right leg he rubbed at the still-burning muscles of his calf, and thought of all he knew of the Guild.

Fifteen years ago the Guild had approached Waylander, offering to broker his contracts. He had refused them, preferring to work alone. In those days the Guild had been a mysterious, shadowy organisation, operating in secret. Its rules were simple. Firstly, all killings were to be accomplished with blade, shaft or knotted rope. Murder by poison or fire was not allowed – the Guild wished for no innocent victims to be slain. Secondly, all monies were paid direct to the Guild and a signed document was placed with the Patriarch, giving reasons for the contract. Such reasons could not include matters of the heart, or religious quarrels.

In theory a cuckolded husband could not hire an assassin to murder his wife, her lover, or both. In practice, of course, such niceties never applied. As long as the con­tractor declared his reasons as being business or political, no questions were asked. Under Karnak the trade had become – if not morally acceptable – at least more legiti­mate. Waylander smiled. By allowing the Guild to operate openly, the financially-beleaguered Karnak had found yet one more source of taxable income. And in times of war such income was vital to pay soldiers, armourers, merchants, ship-builders, masons . . . the list was endless.

Waylander stood and stretched his aching back. How many would come against him? The Guild would have other contracts to meet. They could not afford to send all their fighters scouring the country for news of him. Seven? Ten? The best would not come first. They would sit back and watch, while lesser men began the hunt, men like Kreeg.

And were they already here, hidden, waiting?

He thought of Miriel and his stomach tightened. She was strong and lithe, skilled with all weapons. But she was young, and had never fought warriors, blade to blade.

Removing his cloak Waylander rolled it and looped it over his shoulder, tying it to his knife-belt. The cold wind bit into his naked chest, but he ignored it as he climbed down the tree. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, but there was nothing to be seen. Swiftly he leapt from the lowest branch, landing lightly on the moss-covered earth.

The first move would have to be left to the enemy. The fact galled him but having accepted it, he pushed it from his mind. All he could do now was prepare himself. You have fought men and beasts, demons and Joinings, he told himself. And you are still alive while your enemies are dust.

I was younger then, came a small voice from his heart.

Spinning on his heel he swept a throwing blade from its forearm sheath and sent it flashing through the air, to plunge home into the narrow trunk of a nearby elm.

Young or old, I am still Waylander.

Miriel watched the old man make his way slowly towards the north-west and the distant fortress of Dros Delnoch. His pack was high on his shoulders, his white hair and beard billowing in the breeze. He stopped at the top of a rise, turned and waved. Then he was gone. Miriel wandered back through the trees, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the leaf-broken sunlight dappling the path. The mountains were beautiful in the autumn, leaves of burnished gold, the last fading blooms of summer, the mountainsides glowing green and purple; all seemingly created just for her pleasure.

Coming to the brow of a hill she paused, her eyes scanning the trees and the paths wending down to the Sentran Plain. A figure moved into sight, a tall man, wearing a cloak of green. The cold of a remembered winter touched her skin, making her shiver, her hand moving to the hilt of the shortsword at her side. The green cloak identified him as the assassin Morak. Well, this was one killer who would not live to attack her father.

Miriel stepped into sight and stood waiting as the man slowly climbed towards her. As he approached she studied his face – his broad, flat cheekbones and scarred and hairless brows, a nose flattened and broken, a harsh gash of a mouth. The chin was square and strong, the neck bulging with muscle.

He paused before her. 'The path is narrow,' he said, politely enough. 'Would you be so kind as to move aside?'

'Not for the likes of you,' she hissed, surprised that her voice remained steady, her fear disguised.

'Is it customary in these parts to insult strangers, girl? Or is it that you rely on gallantry to protect you?'

'I need nothing to protect me,' she said, stepping back and drawing her sword.

'Nice blade,' he said. 'Now put it away – lest I take it from you and spank you for your impudence.'

Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing fear, and she smiled.

'Draw your sword – and we'll see who suffers,' she told him.