‘The capacity to go on. Your will to survive.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Because of this…immortality thing?’

‘I could end my life if I chose. There have been times when I’ve tried.’

‘But not too hard, it seems.’

Again he didn’t answer.

‘So it’s simply revenge that gives you the resolve to carry on?’ she ventured.

‘Don’t underestimate it. Revenge can be a worthy sentiment.’

‘There was a time when I would have argued with that.’

‘But not now.’

‘After what’s happened to Kinsel, I’ve thought of nothing but vengeance.’

‘Then you understand.’

‘We’re not the same. Don’t try to make out we are.’

‘It’s just a matter of degree. You want retribution for your personal hurt. I seek vengeance for my tribe, and our entire race.’

‘How very noble of you.’ It was an intentional barb.

‘You’re of the Qaloch. I would have thought you’d look favourably on what I’m doing.’

‘Just being born of Qalochians doesn’t make me one. Not really.’

‘You’re wrong. Blood will out.’

‘I’ve had no experience of being a member of the race we share, except its negative effects.’

‘That’s hardly the fault of the race. Unless you believe in blaming the victims.’

‘The Qalochians are history’s victims. Can you fight history?’

‘History’s made by people. I can fight

them

. Or at least the ones who wronged us, and go on wronging us.’

‘So you’re fighting the world, then. You’re ambitious in your enemies, I’ll give you that.’

‘You don’t know much about our past, do you? Or our culture?’

‘Beyond the fact that we’re a warrior race, what else is there?’

‘So much, Tanalvah. And it’s fading with every year that passes. Can you speak the Qaloch tongue?’

Tanalvah shook her head.

‘Language was one of the first things they took away from us, because they understand the power of words. There was a time when many places in this land bore Qalochian names. But no longer. And where they can’t abolish language, they

twist it. So invasion becomes liberation, and they call slavery freedom. These things go unnoticed when we lose touch with our customs and beliefs.’

‘I have beliefs,’ she came back indignantly. ‘I worship Iparrater, defender of-’

‘The downtrodden. I know. She’s a Rintarahian deity.’

‘So you’re a believer in the old Qaloch gods, are you?’

‘I follow no gods.’

‘You would do well to.’

‘Who would you suggest? Mapoy, patron of bathhouses, perhaps? Ven, the god of rag pickers? How about Isabelle, goddess of shoemakers?’

‘You’re mocking me.’

‘No. I just wonder why you honour petty foreign deities rather than Qaloch gods.’

‘What would be the point? The gods of the Qaloch have forsaken us.’

‘And your new goddess hasn’t?’

‘What do you care, Reeth? You’ve left no room for faith in your withered heart.’

‘The gods have done nothing for me. If there are gods. I walk my own path, as well as any man can.’

‘You’re asking for ruin when you scorn the powers that gave you life, Reeth.’

‘Life? Life’s just the difference between what we hope for and what we get.’

She stared at him coldly. ‘If you really believe that, I’m sorry for you.’

There wasn’t a lot more to be said. Tanalvah turned away, and eventually she slept, or pretended to.

Caldason kept watch until first light, when Serrah relieved him.

Then he drifted into sleep himself.

He was on the edge of a field, the golden corn as high as his chest.

It was hot. The sun beat down like a hammer and heat contorted the air. There was hardly a breath of wind. The drone of bees and faint birdsong were all that broke the silence.

A flurry of movement caught his eye, far off, near the other end of the cornfield. Something moved through the crop, heading in his direction. He couldn’t see what it was, just the corn rustling as the commotion progressed. When it got to about a third of the way across, he noticed something else.

A party of horsemen, five strong, appeared at the field’s farthest edge. They plunged in, living ships breasting an ocean of gold. He could hear shouting, and saw the riders whipping their mounts unmercifully.

Their unseen quarry ploughed on, cutting a path that came nearer and nearer to where he was standing. The pursuing horsemen, crashing heedless through the stand, were closing the gap.

Suddenly, a figure burst into the open, scattering stalks, leaves and corn pollen. Reeth recognised the old man he had seen so often before. Then he realised that the man carried a child, perhaps three or four years old. The youngster, too, was familiar, though he had no idea why.

Child hugging his chest, the elderly protector, running with surprising speed and agility, dashed past him. Then he knew that he had been cast once more as a powerless observer, invisible to the actors in this particular drama.

He turned to follow the old man’s progress. Now he had the cornfield at his back, and was looking towards grassland with rolling hills in the middle distance. The old man was sprinting to meet another, larger group of riders, obviously allies, galloping towards him. They came together. With a deftness belying his years, the old man scrambled onto a riderless steed, hoisting the child up with him. Then he set off across the plain, hell for leather. But the others remained, forming a defensive line.

At that moment the five pursuing horsemen came out of the corn

behind Reeth. Two thundered past on his right, two to his left. The fifth, disconcertingly, rode

through

him.

He watched as the two groups, screaming murderously, met with a clash of steel.

There was a flash, bright as lightning, and the scene dissolved into pitch black.

Now he stood on the lip of a low cliff, overlooking a fast-flowing river. Here and there, smooth rocks poked out, turning the water to white foam.

A boat appeared, bumpily riding the current downstream. It was a rudimentary craft, made of tanned hides stretched over a wooden frame. There was no sail; it relied on oars for motive power, and it had a primitive rudder.

Six people occupied the boat. Four were oarsmen, though the speed of the river made their paddles redundant. They used them to fend off the half-submerged boulders that threatened to rip open the hull.

At the stern, hand on the tiller, sat the old man. Huddled next to him was a boy; unmistakably the same child he had seen carried from the cornfield, now around eight or nine years of age. But whereas the boy had taken on some years, the old man looked exactly the same.

On the opposite bank, a gang of men, perhaps a score in number, came into view. They were on foot, running to keep up with the bobbing, scarcely controlled boat. There were archers among them, who at intervals loosed arrows at the boat. Its erratic course was such that few of their shots came near. The boy, despite his tender age, occasionally fired back. His bolts flew with greater accuracy, causing the outraged mob to duck.

A moment later the boat was washed round a bend and out of sight.

The blast of light came again. Darkness closed in.

He was standing in rough, boggy terrain, and it was night. But ahead of him several buildings were on fire, illuminating the landscape. Pungent wood-smoke stung his eyes and scorched his throat.

It was a scene of chaos, with people running in all directions, and it took a second for him to make sense of things. A small battle was going on, a raid on a modest settlement by the look of it, and the defenders had just begun to rally. He saw raiders un-horsed and speared where they lay. Knots of men belaboured each other with broadswords. Savage hand-to-hand fighting went on all around.

He looked about, expectant. The old man caught his eye first. He was unchanged; moving through the melee, barking orders.