'Of course, it is . . .' As she was answering him he opened his fingers. The twig dropped sharply. Miriel's hand flashed down, her fingers closing on air, and the twig landed at her feet. 'I wasn't ready,' she argued.

'Then try again.'

Twice more she missed the falling twig. 'What does it prove?' she snapped.

'Reaction time, Miriel. The hand should move as soon as the eye sees the twig fall – but yours doesn't. You see the twig. You send a message to your hand. Then you move. By this time the twig is falling away from you.'

'How else can anyone catch it?' she asked him. 'You have to tell your hand to move.'

He shook his head. 'You will see.'

'Show me,' she demanded.

'Show her what?' asked Waylander from the doorway.

'She wants to learn to catch twigs,' said Angel, turning slowly.

'It's been a long time, Caridris. How are you?' asked the mountain man, the small crossbow pointing at Angel's heart.

'Not here looking for a kill, my friend. I don't work for the Guild. I came to warn you.'

Waylander nodded. 'I heard you retired from the arena. What do you do now?'

'I sold hunting weapons. I had a place in the market square, but it was sequestered against my debts.'

'Ten thousand gold pieces would buy it back for you,' said Waylander coldly.

'Indeed it would – five times over. But as I have already told you, I do not work for the Guild. And do not even think of calling me a liar!'

Waylander pulled the bolts clear of the weapon then released the strings. Dropping the bow to the table he turned back to the scarred fighter. 'You are no liar,' he said. 'But why would you warn me? We were never close.'

Angel shrugged. 'I was thinking of Danyal. I didn't want to see her widowed. Where is she?'

Waylander did not reply, but Angel saw the colour fade from his face, and a look of anguish that was swiftly masked. 'You may stay the night,' said Waylander. 'And I thank you for your warning.' With that he took up his crossbow and left the cabin.

'My mother died,' whispered Miriel. 'Five years ago.' Angel sighed and sank back in his chair. 'You knew her well?' she asked.

'Well enough to be a little in love with her. How did she die?'

'She was riding. The horse fell and rolled on her.'

'After all she'd been through . . . battles and wars . . .' He shook his head. 'There's no sense to such things, none at all. Unless it be that the gods have a grim sense of humour. Five years, you say. Gods! He must have adored her to stay alone this long.'

'He did. He still does, spending too much time by her grave, talking to her as if she can still hear him. He does that here sometimes.'

'I see it now,' said Angel softly.

'What do you see?'

'Isn't it obvious, Miriel? The killers are gathering – assassins, hunters, stalkers of the night. He cannot kill them all, he knows that. So why is he still here?'

'You tell me.'

'He's like the old stag hunted by wolves. It takes to the high ground, knowing it is finished, and then it turns and waits, facing the enemy for one last battle.'

'But he's not like that stag. He's not old! He's not! And he's not finished, either.'

'That's not how he sees it. Danyal was what he lived for. Perhaps he thinks that in death they will be reunited, I don't know. What I do know – and so does he – is that to stay here means death.'

'You are wrong,' said Miriel, but her words carried no conviction.

Floating on a sea of pain Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left, save one small flickering spark of pride.

He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.

'I can free you from this pain, old man,' he said. Ralis said nothing. 'What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what . . . fifty, sixty years? He's here and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.'

'He . . . will. . . kill you . . . all,' whispered Ralis.

Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelt the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming and he could only utter a short, broken groan.

And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed, and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.

He rose from his bonds and flew towards the voice. 'I did not tell them, Father,' he shouted triumphantly. 'I did not tell them!'

'Old fool,' said Morak, as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. 'Let's go!'

'Tough old man,' put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.

'He made us waste half a day – and for what? Had he told us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he's dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid!'

Belash's jet-black eyes stared up into Morak's face. 'He died with honour,' muttered the Nadir. 'And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.'

Morak's laughter welled out. 'The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth, or how I mended a broken cookpot? I can see there'll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.'

'Most men mock what they can never aspire to,' said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt.

The words cut through Morak's good humour, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. 'Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We'll split up and quarter the area. In three days we'll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Bans, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.'

'Why me?' asked the tall, sandy-haired young man. 'And what happens if you find him while I'm gone? Do I still get a share?'

'We all get a share,' promised Morak. 'If we find him and kill him before you get back I will see that the gold is held for you in Drenan. Can I be fairer than that?'

The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all, but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this. One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly, and rip out your entrails.

Organising the men in pairs he issued his instructions. 'If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?'

The men nodded solemnly, then departed.

Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill – to be the man who slew a legend.