A man was crouched in the shadow of the last support of the bridge on the eastern bank. Only a muffled outline marked him, though now that he was aware and focused, Dwyrin could see the patterns of heat that rippled in his blood and bones. The boy turned, facing the man, and leaned on the spear.

“I’ll not bite,” he said, his voice squeaking unexpectedly. Dwyrin paused, disgusted with himself. He had meant to sound strong and assured, adult. Instead he was certain that he sounded like a tired sixteen-year-old boy. “Come out. Are you a Roman?”

The figure shifted and then stood up. A dark cloak fell away from a naked blade, but that vanished with a scraping sound into a scabbard. A man stepped gingerly out of the darkness to the edge of the pale cold light that shone from the spearpoint. He was older, with a stubby beard and lank brown hair. His face was creased with furrows cut by years under sun and wind. His eyes were deep-set and glittered in the dim light. He wore the cloak of a Roman soldier, with a mail shirt of heavy round links and hard leather straps. A battered leather bag was slung over his shoulder, and the shortsword was accompanied by two long knives and a short stabbing spear. The man cautiously slid sideways, putting himself away from the bridge.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice deep and rough with hard use. “Did you come out of the village?”

Dwyrin nodded wearily. He did not move; the man was ready to bolt into the night at any provocation.

“I came over the hill this afternoon, but someone attacked me in the village and I had to defend myself. I was overcome, though, and… well I fainted, I think. When I woke up, it was dark. Were you stationed in the camp?”

The man nodded, but he did not relax. He shifted the spear in his hand, passing it to his right.

“I’m Colonna,” said the man. “Ouragos for the Fourth Lochaghai of the Sixth Banda of the Third Cyrene. What’s your name?”

“Dwyrin MacDonald,” said Dwyrin, “I’m a recruit for the Ars Magica of the Third. I was late getting to Constantinople and I’ve been trying to catch up ever since.”

Colonna snorted and swung the spear over his shoulder in an easy manner. He stepped closer and looked Dwyrin over closely. “A wonder-worker? You seem mighty damned young to be a hell-caster.”

Dwyrin stared back, his face set. His ears were burning though. The man had moved from cautious fear to insolence in record time. The ill-hidden sneer on the man’s face was far too familiar to Dwyrin-the bullies in the village were no different from this fellow.

“What happened here?” Now Dwyrin’s voice was steady.

Colonna shrugged. “Bandits attacked the village yester day. Fifty or sixty of them on horses and camels. There was a fight among the houses and the lochagos decided that we should fall back to the bridge. Most everyone was killed on the bridge, but the bandits were pretty badly beat up. I fell in the river and took my time getting back. Everyone else was dead by then. I hid out down by the edge of the fields, keeping an eye on things.“

The soldier pointed back across the bridge.

“Today they set up shop in the village, with some of them on the bridge in the cloaks of the dead men. I moved up under the bridge to listen-most of them left about noon with the people from the village. Raiders down from the north, looking for easy pickings now that the war has started. I lifted what was left of my gear from the camp when the big show started in the village.“

Dwyrin quirked an eyebrow up. “Big show?”

“Yeah, the thunderbolts and pillars of fire. Flattened most of the village, so I decided I should cross the river and keep an eye on things from the far bank. Quieted down quick, though. The last of the bandits scattered right after, but it didn’t seem too safe to go back. I figured that I’d wait a day and see what turned up. And I got you…“

“You got me,” Dwyrin answered. “Unless you’ve got some horses hidden around somewhere, we should go. How far is Samosata?”

Colonna flipped the spear around the back of his head, shoulder to shoulder, considering the boy. Then he swung it down and tapped the butt against the stones of the road. Dwyrin waited with weary patience. Finally the soldier shrugged again and adjusted the bag on his back.

“It’s about three days, kid. On foot. You sure you don’t want to wait it out here? Another supply convoy or column will be through pretty quick. This is some empty country, traveling all alone.”

“No.” Dwyrin started walking. He had no stomach to remain in this place.

“This is dangerous land,” Colonna said, as they topped a rise and began hiking down a long grade toward, at last, a valley littered with green orchards and fields. Both the older man and the youth wore hats of plaited reed and grass, gathered from the banks of the last dry watercourse they had crossed. Dwyrin ignored the muttering of the Sicilian. After three days of traveling with the ouragos, he spent more and more time in his own head, wondering what the teachers at the school were doing. The lessons that they had tried so hard to drum into his unreceptive mind were filtering back up now, but whole in some way, complete. He practiced them while they walked.

“The sun will roast a man in his breastplate. The natives are of an evil disposition and will murder the man found alone, away from his unit. The nights are cold enough to freeze. The water is poor and will give you the runs.”

Colonna went on and on, his voice grating against Dwyrin’s ears with an endless litany of complaints. In some sense, Dwyrin thought, the old soldier was trying to help him by unburdening himself of observations made in decades of service. It made Dwyrin’s head hurt. He hoped that the city ahead was Samosata and they would, at last, part company.

“Poison asps crawl under the rocks and will creep into your bedroll while you sleep. You wake to the feel of their fangs piercing your skin. The fodder for horses is sparse and bitter-those animals not raised here will soon sicken and some will perish. The land hates men, so long has it…”

Dwyrin shut out the voice. He felt cold, despite the burning heat of the day. There was something in the dead rocks and parched soil around them that disturbed him. The city seemed far away, shimmering in the heat haze of the middle day. He stopped in the middle of the road and turned around, staring back up the road that wound out of the hills. He felt uneasy, a prickling sensation rippled along his arms. Something was watching them from the ridge behind.

Colonna had stopped too and was leaning on his walking stick. The soldier seemed old and weary. Dwyrin completed his slow circuit of the horizon. There was nothing.

“Funny feeling?” the older man asked.

“Yes, like hidden eyes watching us.”

Colonna nodded. “I feel that way most of the time. They are. watching up there somewhere in the rocks. Remember, the land hates us, and so do the people who live here. They only wait for a chance to murder us without cost to themselves.”

They continued onward, though now Dwyrin looked out on the barren tablelands and sparse vegetation crouched in the folds- and crevices of the land as if he were adrift in a hostile sea. Dark intent slid along under the surface, waiting for a chance to rise out of the depths with crushing teeth. The sun, unrelenting, filled the brassy white bowl of the sky with fire. At the edges of his othersight, dim greens and sullen red crept in at the edges of the road. In the flat, between fields of dusty tan plantings, they passed a broken building. White pillars, cracked and worn by the wind, leaned drunkenly, broken teeth in the raw red gums of the soil. Dwyrin shuddered as they passed the temple, moving to the far side of the road and keeping Colonna between him and the well of despair collected among the scattered bricks.

Colonna stopped talking.