Malcolm started to scramble to his feet to stop him but he was too late.

'You forget? You forget?' Will's voice rose to a shout as he shook the Genovesan like a rat.

He shoved him away violently. Bacari, his hands and feet securely tied, staggered, stumbled and fell, grunting with pain as he landed awkwardly on his side. Then the hands were upon him again and he was dragged to his feet once more.

'Then you'd better remember!' Will shouted, and sent him staggering and falling again with another shove. This time, Bacari fell close to the fire so that his left side was actually in the outer embers. He cried out in pain as he felt the glowing coals burn through his sleeve and begin to sear into the flesh.

'Will!' It was Malcolm, attempting to intervene, but Will shook him off. He grabbed the Genovesan by the feet and heaved him clear of the fire. As he reached for his feet, Bacari tried to kick out at him, but Will easily avoided the clumsy attempt. He lashed out in reply, the tip of his boot catching Bacari in the thigh, bringing another grunt of pain from the Genovesan.

'Stop it, Will!' Malcolm shouted. He could see that the situation was escalating. Will, exhausted physically and emotionally, wasn't thinking clearly. He was on the brink of a terrible mistake.

As Malcolm had the thought, he saw the Ranger's hand drop to the hilt of his saxe knife. With his left hand, Will pulled the struggling assassin to his feet once more, holding him so that their faces were only centimetres apart. Now Bacari recognised that blind rage as well and realised that he had pushed the matter too far. This grey-cloaked stranger was quite capable of killing him. He had miscalculated badly. He had forced him into this killing fury.

But still, he realised that his only hope for survival lay in not telling them what they wanted to know. So long as he held the key to their friend's survival, they couldn't kill him.

He felt the tip of the saxe knife now against his throat. The face, so close to his, was distorted with grief and rage.

'Start remembering! White or blue? Which one? Tell us. TELL US!'

Then Bacari saw a large hand descend onto the Ranger's shoulder. Horace gently but firmly pulled Will back from the edge of the killing madness that had overcome him.

'Will! Take it easy! There's a better way.'

Will turned to his friend, his eyes brimming now with tears of frustration and fear – fear for Halt, lying so silently, while this… this creature knew the secret that could save him.

'Horace?' he said, his voice breaking as he appealed to his friend for help. Will had done all he possibly could and it had come to nothing. Bone weary, totally exhausted, he had found the strength to trail this man for hour after hour. He had fought him, defeated him and captured him. He had brought him back here. And now Bacari sneered at them and refused to tell them which poison he had used. It was too much. Will could think of nothing further to do, no further avenue to explore.

But Horace could. He met his friend's desperate gaze and nodded reassuringly. Then, gently, he disengaged Will's hands from Bacari's jerkin. Dumbly, Will complied and stepped back. Then Horace smiled at Bacari. He turned him round and reached down to seize the cuff of his right sleeve in both hands. With a quick jerk, he tore the material for about fifteen centimetres, exposing the flesh of the man's inside forearm, and the veins there.

Bacari, his hands still fastened behind his back, twisted desperately to see what Horace was doing. His face was contorted now in a worried frown. Horace wasn't raging or ranting at him. He was calm and controlled. That worried the Genovesan more than Will's shouting.

Horace reached for the quiver still hanging from Bacari's belt. There were four or five bolts left in it. He withdrew one and inspected the tip. The gummy substance that Malcolm had indicated before could be seen on the sharpened iron point of this bolt as well. Horace held the bolt before Bacari's eyes, letting him see the poison, so there could be no mistake.

At that moment, Bacari realised what Horace had in mind. He started to struggle desperately, trying to loosen his bonds. But the thumb cuffs held him fast and Horace's grip on his right arm was like a vice. The young warrior put the razor-sharp tip of the bolt against Bacari's inner forearm, then deliberately pressed it into the flesh, penetrating deeply so that hot blood sprang from the wound and ran down Bacari's hands. Bacari screamed in pain and fear as Horace dragged the sharpened iron through the flesh of his arm, opening a deep, long cut. Now, Bacari could feel the blood pumping out in a regular stream. Horace had found a vein with the bolt. That meant the poison would penetrate the Genovesan's bloodstream and system much faster than it had done with the glancing scratch on Halt's arm.

'No! No!' the assassin screamed, trying to break free. But he knew it was already too late. The poison was in him, already beginning to spread, and he knew what was in store. He had seen his victims die before, many times. He stopped struggling and his knees sagged, but Horace held him firmly, keeping him standing. The young warrior tossed the crossbow bolt aside and looked around at his two friends, seeing the shock on their faces as they realised what he had done. Then he saw the expression on Will's face change to one of satisfied approval.

Malcolm was a different matter. He was a healer, dedicated to saving life, and Horace's action went against all his basic principles. He could never bring himself to intentionally put a life in danger the way Horace had done.

'Malcolm,' Horace was saying, 'the more the victim moves about and exerts himself, the faster the poison will spread through his system. Is that right?'

Wordless, Malcolm nodded confirmation.

'Good,' Horace said. He let go of Bacari's arm and tore the already ripped sleeve free. Then, working quickly, he wrapped it firmly around the bleeding wound in the Genovesan's arm.

'Can't have you bleeding to death before the poison kills you,' he said. He finished tying the makeshift bandage and released his grip on the Genovesan. Bacari, horrified at what had happened to him, sank slowly to his knees, head bowed. He looked to Malcolm, saw his only possible source of survival, and pleaded with the healer.

'Please! I beg you! Don't let him do this.'

Malcolm shrugged unhappily. The matter was out of his hands. Horace stooped swiftly and removed the ankle cuffs that secured Bacari. Then the assassin felt that powerful grip under his arm again as he was hauled to his feet.

'Up you come, my murdering friend. Can't have you sitting around all day. We're going to walk. We're going to run. We're going to get that poison just racing through you!'

And so saying, he began to propel Bacari before him, forcing the Genovesan into an awkward, shambling trot. They crossed the little copse, leaving the shelter of the trees. Horace pointed to the southern ridge.

'What do you say we go admire the view from up there?' he said. 'Sounds like a plan? Then let's go!'

With Horace holding the prisoner firmly by the elbow, they began to trot up the slope. Then he increased the pace so that they were running. Bacari slipped and fell half a dozen times, but on each occasion, Horace would drag him to his feet and get him running once more. Will and Malcolm could hear Horace's sarcastic exhortations as he drove Bacari to greater and greater efforts.

'Come on, my old Genovesan runner! Up you come!'

'On your feet, poison peddler!'

'Move it along! We have to keep that poison spreading!'

Gradually, the voice faded away as the two figures ran awkwardly up the slope, one half-dragging the other. Malcolm met Will's eyes. Will could see the disapproval there.

'Can you stop him?' the healer asked.