'I do not fight girls,' he replied. 'I am seeking a man.'

'I know whom you seek, and why. But to get to him you must first pass me. And that will not be easy with your entrails hanging to your ankles.' Suddenly she leapt forward, the point of her blade stabbing towards his belly. He swayed aside, his arm flashing up and across, the back of his hand cannoning against her cheek. Miriel stumbled and fell, then rolled to her feet, her face burning from the slap.

The man moved to the right, slipping the thong from his green cloak and laying the garment over a fallen tree. 'Who taught you to lunge like that?' he asked. 'A farmer, perhaps? Or a herdsman? That is not a hoe you are holding. The thrust should always be disguised, and used following a riposte or counter.' He drew his own sword and advanced on her. Miriel did not wait for his attack, but moved in to meet him, thrusting again, this time at his face. He blocked the blow and spun on his heel, his shoulder thudding into her chest, hurling her from her feet.

She sprang up and rushed in, slashing the blade towards his neck. His own sword swept up, blocking the blow, but this time she spun and leapt, her booted foot cracking against his chin. She expected him to fall but he merely staggered, righted himself, and spat blood from his mouth. 'Good,' he said softly. 'Very good. Swift and in perfect balance. Perhaps there is something to you after all.'

'You'll never know,' she told him, launching an attack of blistering speed, aiming cuts and thrusts to face and body. Each one he blocked, and never once made the riposte. At last she fell back, confused and dismayed. She could not breach his defences, but what was more galling was that he made no attempt to breach hers.

'Why will you not fight me?' she asked him.

'Why should I?'

'I mean to kill you.'

'Do you have a reason for this hostility?' he enquired, the ugly gash of a mouth breaking into a smile.

'I know you, Morak. I know why you are here. That should be enough.'

'It would . . .' he started to say, but she attacked again, and this time he wasn't quite fast enough, her blade slicing past his face and cutting his earlobe. His fist lashed out and up, thundering against her chin. Half-stunned, Miriel lost her grip on her sword and fell to her knees. The new­comer's blade touched her neck. 'Enough of this non­sense,' he said, moving away from her and picking up his cloak.

Gathering her sword she faced him again. 'I will not let you pass,' she said grimly.

'You couldn't stop me,' he told her, 'but it was a game effort. Now where is Waylander?' She advanced again. 'Wait,' he said, sheathing his sword. 'I am not Morak. You understand me? I am not from the Guild.'

'I don't believe you,' she said, her blade now resting on his throat.

"Then believe this: had I wished to kill you I would have. You know that is true.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Angel,' he answered, 'and a long time ago I was a friend to your family.'

'You are here to help us?'

'I don't fight other men's battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.'

Slowly she lowered her sword. 'Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.'

He shrugged. 'Not for many a year, I'll grant you that, but he has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin's life. Did he teach you to use a sword?'

'Yes.'

'He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,' he said sternly. 'Did he not tell you that?'

'Yes he did,' she snapped.

'Ah, but like most women you only listen when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?'

Holding back her temper she gave her sweetest smile.

'I can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah yes . . .' Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud-patch on the other side. 'I almost forgot,' she said. 'He taught me to fight with my fists.'

Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. 'My first wife was like you,' he said, rubbing his chin. 'A dreadful woman, soft as goosedown on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I'll say this, girl – he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?'

Miriel chuckled. 'Truce,' she agreed.

Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful and yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill-disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing she needed some outlet for frustration at having been so easily defeated.

A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favoured big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.

He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. 'Something is amusing you?' she asked, her expression frosty.

'Not at all, Miriel. I was just remembering the last time I walked these mountains. You and your sister would have been around eight, maybe nine. I was thinking that life goes by with bewildering speed.'

'I don't remember you,' she said.

'I looked different then. This squashed nose was aquiline, and my brows boasted hair. It was long before the mailed gloves of other fist-fighters cut and slashed at the skin. My mouth too was fuller. And I had long red hair that hung to my shoulders.'

She leaned in close, peering at him. 'You were not called Angel then,' she announced.

'No. I was Caridris.'

'I remember now. You brought me a dress – a yellow dress, and a green one for Krylla. But you were . . .'

'Handsome? Yes, I was. And now I am ugly.'

'I did not mean...

'No matter, girl. All beauty passes. I chose a rough occupation.'

'I don't understand how any man would wish to pursue such a way of life. Causing pain, being hurt, risking death –and for what? So that a crowd of fat-bellied merchants can see blood flow.'

'I used to think there was more to it,' he said softly, 'but now I will not argue with you. It was brutal and barbaric, and mostly I loved it.'

They walked on to the cabin. After he had eaten Angel sat down by the dying fire and pulled off his boots. He glanced at the hearth. 'A little early for fires, isn't it?'

'We had a guest – an old man,' said Miriel, seating herself opposite him. 'He feels the cold.'

'Old Ralis?' he enquired.

'Yes. You know him?'

'He's been plying his trade between Drenan and Delnoch for years – decades. He used to make knives the like of which I've never seen since. Your father has several.'

'I'm sorry I struck you,' she said suddenly. 'I don't know why I did it.'

'I've been struck before,' he answered, with a shrug. 'And you were angry.'

'I am not usually so… short-tempered. But I think I am a little afraid.'

'That is a good way to be. I've always been careful around fearless men – or women. They have a tendency to get you killed. But take some advice, young Miriel. When the hunters come don't challenge them with the blade. Shoot them from a distance.'

'I thought I was good with a sword. My father always tells me I am better than him.'

'In practice, maybe, but in combat I would doubt it. You think out your moves and that robs you of speed. Sword-play requires subtle skills and a direct link between hand and mind. I'll show you.' Leaning to his right he lifted a long twig from the tinderbox and stood. 'Stand opposite me,' he ordered her. Then, holding the stick between his index fingers he said: 'Put your hand over the stick and, when I release it, catch it. Can you do that?'