Honoured Enemy

FOUR. PRACTICALITIES

The fire was soothing.

Richard Kevinsson sat by the corner of the fireplace, boots off, luxuriating in the near-painful sensation of his feet thawing out. Rubbing his hands, he extended them towards the flames.

Gregory and the Tsurani with the missing eye shouldered through the crush around the fireplace and heaved armfuls of logs into the roaring flames. Steam coiled up from a heavy iron kettle filled with stew, suspended in the fireplace. A few of the men, Richard included, had hesitated at first to eat it. It was, after all, a meal that the mpredhel had been cooking and who knew what was in it – though Tinuva had reassured the Kingdom soldiers that stories of moredhel eating things indigestible to humans were myth only – but old beliefs were hard to ignore. Eventually, ravenous hunger won out over squeamishness and the men – both Kingdom and Tsurani – had gathered around, holding out tin cups and earthen mugs while the bubbling stew was dished out.

A freshly-killed stag had been found hanging outside the garrison house as well, and as fast as pieces of it were cooked in the open fire men snatched them out and devoured the venison, the first hot cooked meat both sides had tasted in days.

Many of the men were now fast asleep, curled up on the wooden planked floor. Of those awake, some were smoking, a few playing cards, others were just sitting about the fireplace.

Richard watched as two Tsurani played a game with intricately carved pieces of ivory on a small chequered piece of cloth. One of the players, as if sensing his gaze, looked up. Their eyes held for a second.

The Tsurani's hand drifted to his side, resting on the hilt of a dagger, his eyes locked with Richard's. The young soldier quickly averted his gaze and there was a gruff laugh, not from the Tsurani but from a Kingdom soldier sitting beside him who had been watching the silent interplay.

'He'll cut your throat from ear to ear, boy.'

It was Darvan, one of the 'old men', of the unit, recruited when Dennis and the others from Valinar formed the Marauders. He had his shirt off, and was hanging it up to dry, revealing a cross-hatching of battle scars on his forearms. One shoulder was slightly hunched from a broken collarbone that had not healed straight.

Darvan spat into the fire.

'You just lost face, boy. You lowered your eyes. In their lingo that means you are nothing but a cowering worm. Those bastards are laughing at you now.'

Richard spared a quick glance back at the two Tsurani, both of whom were leaning over their game, whispering to each other. Neither was laughing, but Richard wondered if they were talking about him.

'Bet they're saying how you don't have any manhood below your belt. I wouldn't let them get away with that, boy: it's bad for our company. You showed yourself a coward once before, are you going to do it in front of the Tsurani as well?'

Richard shifted uncomfortably.

Hearing him move, both of the Tsurani glanced up at him.

'Darvan!'

Alwin Barry stepped between them and the Tsurani. 'Shut the hell up,' he hissed, his voice barely a whisper.

Darvan grinned.

'We're in a bad enough fix as is without you egging the boy on to a fight.'

'They stink up this place,' Darvan growled. 'I say let's kill the bastards in here now, then go out and finish the rest.'

'Captain's orders. We stand down for the night.'

'The Captain-' Darvan started to say more but Alwin's hand shot out and grabbed Darvan by the throat, stilling his voice.

'You want to fight come morning?' Barry whispered, his voice filled with menace and his eyes boring into Darvan. 'Fine. We do it when the captain says so and not before. For now, leave this boy alone. Use him to start any trouble, and I'll kill you myself.'

Turning his back to the Tsurani, who were watching the exchange with open curiosity, Darvan could barely croak out words, with Alwin's hand around his throat. 'This boy?' he asked, pulling Alwin's hand from his throat. Still whispering, he added, 'We all know he's a coward. Jurgen died to save this piece of offal. And for what?'

Richard flushed, feeling as if every eye inside the room had suddenly shifted to him. Honour was now at stake.

His heart began to race, and though he was sitting next to a furnacelike fire, a cold chill swept through him. Then came the memory of all the dead in that cold frozen field, the angry gaze of the Captain, the eyes of Jurgen going dark and empty.

Knees trembling, he started to stand up, his hand going to dagger. Though terrified, he had to face the challenge.

'Not now!' Alwin snarled. 'Damn it boy, sit down before this place explodes!'

Richard caught a glimpse of the two Tsurani. They were both standing, one of them going for his own dagger and Richard instantly realized that somehow the Tsurani, not understanding the conversation, had assumed that the exchange of glances was turning into a challenge for a duel. Others, both Kingdom and Tsurani were moving, shifting apart into two groups, the room going silent.

As he shoved Richard back into his seat on the bench, Alwin rounded on Darvan. 'I'll personally flog you from one end of camp to the other if you get out of this alive!' With a back-handed blow he struck Darvan across the face, knocking the man backwards.

Darvan slammed into the wooden wall, his legs still hooked over the bench. Men were standing all over the cabin, weapons being drawn. Only the fact that it was two Kingdom men who were confronting one another made the Tsurani hesitate in attacking the nearest enemy. Darvan looked up, grinning, wiping the blood from his split lip. 'Afterwards, Barry. I'll remember this.'

Alwin half-turned to face the two Tsurani who were looking from Darvan to Richard, and extended his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. The one-eyed Tsurani came up, saying something unintelligible. He pointed at Darvan and barked out a gruff laugh.

The tension edged back down, the two sat and returned to their game. Other Tsurani around the room returned to their previous activities. Darvan rose slowly, and glared hatred at the Tsurani, whom he assumed to be a sergeant. The one eyed warrior spared him a mere glance, and turned away as if entirely unconcerned.

Alwin and the Tsurani Strike Leader looked at each other, but nothing was said, simply a nod of a head. Both understood the other and what had just played out… and what would eventually have to be played out. For the moment though, fire, a hot meal, drying out, and a few minutes of sleep were more important.

Richard, no longer comfortable in his corner by the fire, stood up and moved away. None of the other men in his company looked at him, or even acted as if they had noticed the encounter, but he could sense their indifference, or far worse, their contempt.

He looked around the crowded room. Cloaks, blankets, jerkins, boots, and footwrappings hung suspended from the low rafters, casting strange shadows in the firelight. Part of the ceiling, caved in by the assault, was roughly tacked over with a torn tent and a steady trickle of icy water puddled down from it onto the floor. Bunks of the former inhabitants had been looted for dry blankets, clothing, anything dry and warm. The room stank of wet wool, leather, sweat, the stew and – Darvan was indeed right, the Tsurani did smell different – a musky scent. Watching a pair of Tsurani take a small pouch out of their packs and add a pinch of a pungent spice to their bowls of stew, Richard decided that was where the scent came from, but it was disquieting, somehow emphasizing their alien nature.

Gregory, Alwin, and the man Richard thought of as 'the Tsurani sergeant' paced back and forth, keeping an eye on everyone, ready to quell any explosion before it ignited.

Richard spotted Father Corwin, kneeling in the far corner of the room where the wounded lay. A dozen men of the company had various injuries acquired over the last two days. Of the eight from the encounter in the forest clearing, not one was still alive. The four who had survived the long night march to Brendan's Stockade had been left behind in the retreat, their throats cut to spare them the agony of falling into the hands of the moredhel.

Richard moved over to the priest and looked down. He didn't know the name of the soldier the priest was treating, but he was young, features pale, sweat beading his face. He had suffered a broken leg in their crashing assault down into the stockade. Corwin had set the leg with the help of a couple of men and was tying off the splint, talking soothingly as if comforting a child.

'Will I be able to walk in the morning?' the soldier asked.

'We'll worry about that then, son.'

The young soldier looked up at Richard.

'I could help him,' Richard ventured.

'We'll ask the Captain,' the priest replied, but Richard could tell by his tone that the answer would be no. Either the boy walked on his own or died.

Corwin patted the soldier reassuringly on the shoulder, stood up, and looked over to where a Tsurani lay with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his upper thigh. A comrade was by his side, trying to get him to take a little food.

'Poor bastard,' Corwin sighed and without hesitation went over and knelt beside him. The two looked at Corwin, turning to him masklike visages on which there was no expression. They looked straight through Corwin and Richard as if they didn't even exist.

'Really got you,' Corwin said quietly, motioning to the arrow.

The two said nothing.

'Got to get it out sooner or later.'

Again no response.

'Damn it, don't they take care of their wounded?' Richard asked.

'It's obvious they don't have a chirugeon with them,' replied the Priest of Sung. 'This arrow's in deep. I guess they figure they'll just leave him here – no sense in putting him through the agony of trying to get it out. Richard, go fetch me some boiling water and I want you to take these two knives, stick one in the fire for a minute or so, the second one, leave it in the fire.'

As he spoke he drew two small daggers belted to his waist and handed them up. Richard followed the priest's orders and returned with a tin pot filled with boiling hot tea and the dagger which was shimmering with heat.

'No water, just the boiled tea.'

The priest chuckled. 'It'll do,' he said. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small roll of white linen, tore off a piece and stuck it into the boiling liquid. Then he motioned at the arrow and made a gesture as if pulling it out.

The wounded man looked at him wide-eyed and shook his head, and his comrade said something and made a gesture, waving his hand over the arrow as if to block Corwin.

'He says they already tried to get it out, that it's snagged on the bone,' Gregory announced, coming up behind the group. 'Priest, just leave him alone, he's finished. You can't draw it without cutting the poor bastard to pieces. Those damned moredhel arrows are four-barbed.'

'Just shut up and stay out of my way,' Corwin growled. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small leather case and unrolled it, drawing out several needles which already had threads attached, tweezers and tiny brass clamps.

He looked straight into the eyes of the Tsurani and began a low chant in a strange tongue. Those around him fell silent for the words carried a power, a sense of otherworldliness and Richard felt a cold shiver. The chanting continued for several minutes. Then Corwin slowly reached out, placing his right hand on the Tsurani's forehead and let it gently slip down to cover the man's eyes. Finally he drew his hand back. The Tsurani's eyes were still open but were now glazed.

Corwin gripped the arrow with his left hand and ever so slowly tried to pull it out. It didn't budge.

'Snagged on the bone, like he said,' the priest whispered. 'Richard, help roll him on to his side then hold him tight.'

Richard followed the priest's orders. The wounded man's eyes were still unfocused. Richard cradled the man on his lap and looked back down at the priest who was carefully examining the wound, running his fingers around the back of the man's leg.

Corwin picked up the still-hot dagger with his right hand, positioned it underneath the wounded man's leg on the opposite side from the wound and drove the blade in halfway to the hilt and rotated the blade.

A gasp escaped the wounded man. Richard looked into his eyes and saw that consciousness was returning: the Tsurani's pupils went wide.

'Hold him!' the priest snapped.

With his left hand he grabbed the arrow and started to push even as he pulled the dagger back out. A second latter the head of the arrow exploded out of the hole cut by the dagger.

The wounded Tsurani cried out, and began to struggle, but Richard grabbed hold of him, 'It's all right; you'll be all right,' he began to say over and over.

'Damn it, priest, he's bleeding to death!' Gregory cried.

'Just shut up and get the hot knife from the fire!'

The priest continued to push the arrow through the wound, finally pulling it out and flinging it aside. He picked his dagger back up, cut the exit wound wider and, using one of the brass clamps, pulled the wound apart. He motioned for the wounded man's comrade to hold the clamp. Taking a pair of tweezers from his kit he reached into the wound, drawing the artery which was spurting blood.

'Not the main one, thank the Goddess,' he muttered, even as Gregory knelt by his side, holding the now-glowing dagger fresh from the fire, the hilt wrapped with a piece of smouldering canvas.

The priest took the dagger, cursing when he singed his fingertips, then deftly touched the blade against the artery. A steamy cloud of boiling blood hissed up from the wound.

The man jerked, trying to kick, but Richard held him tight. He realized that for some strange reason he was beginning to cry.

This is a Tsurani, damn it. He felt a wave of anger for the man even as he held him tight and continued to try and reassure him.

'Almost done,' the priest announced.

He drew out the hot dagger, turned, and then cauterized the entry wound. Finally he drew out the boiled bandages, stuffed both wounds, then tightly wrapped a compress around the leg.

'We'll stitch him up later, I want to keep it open so I can get in quick in case he starts to bleed again.'

The whole operation had taken no more than a couple of minutes. The priest sat back, then took the hand of the Tsurani who had been helping and guided it to a pressure point above the wound to help slow the bleeding.

'All right Richard, you did well, son.'

Richard, shaking, looked down at the Tsurani. There were tears in the corner of the man's eyes and he suddenly realized just how young his enemy was: about the same age as himself and the wounded Kingdom soldier with the broken leg. The Tsurani was obviously struggling for control, looking up at Richard in confusion, his emotions mixed between gratitude and hatred for an enemy.

The priest knelt, softly muttered a prayer and made a sign of blessing over the wound, finishing by lightly touching the man's forehead again.

Wiping the now-cooled daggers, he bundled up his kit and then picked up the arrow, which was covered with blood, and a hunk of flesh still on the barbs.

'Evil weapon,' he sighed, 'No bone splinters though; he just might make it.'

He tossed the arrow aside. The room was silent: all were staring at him.

'I'm pledged to healing,' the priest said, 'it doesn't matter who.' He looked back over at Richard. 'You're a brave lad for helping.'

The Tsurani Patrol Leader approached, bowed to the priest and said something.

Corwin looked over at Gregory.

'He said that the wounded man, Osami, now owes you a debt which the clan must honour. If we fight and they don't kill you, they must make you a slave. So if we fight, they'll let you leave before they kill all of us, so they won't have to capture or kill you.' Gregory explained.

Corwin said nothing for a moment and then began to chuckle softly. 'Hell, tell him I think you're all crazy,' Corwin replied. 'When you're done killing each other I'll take all your coins, and whatever the Tsurani use, and consider it a donation to the church.'

Gregory translated and now the Tsurani laughed. The tension in the room eased for a moment.

Gregory knelt next to Corwin. 'You a chirugeon?' He pointed to the small kit Corwin had used and was now cleaning ready to put away.

The priest shrugged. 'As a boy I apprenticed to one for a while.'

'What happened?' asked the Ranger. 'Get the calling?'

Putting away his medical tools, the priest said, 'No, that came later. I was a mercenary for a while.'

Remembering how frightened the priest had been when they had first met, Gregory could barely hide his surprise. 'A mercenary?'

Corwin nodded. 'Not all mercenaries are swordsmen, Ranger. I have no skill with blade or bow. I earned my living with a company of engineers building siege machines. Give me two men with axes and in less than a day I can turn a tree into a ram that would knock down that stone wall out there in under ten minutes. Throw in a pair of hammers and one bow saw, and I can do it in six hours.' He paused as if remembering. 'Saw most of my fighting from a distance, though I've had a few close calls under a wall or two, trying to collapse a foundation.' He smiled at Gregory's blank expression. 'I used to be a fair sapper, too.' He sighed and lost his smile. 'And I had more than my share of practice keeping other men alive, I can tell you.' He stood, and Gregory did as well. 'Then I got the calling and entered the temple.'

Gregory nodded. 'I though you priests used your magic to heal.'

Corwin shrugged. 'Like anything else, healing magic takes talent. Some brothers could heal every man here in a couple of days. A rare few can lay on hands and make a wound vanish or a bone heal in an hour. I have no such gift. I have to rely on my tools and prayer. The bit of "magic" I used to calm the boy is simply a healer's trick; anyone can learn it.'

Gregory didn't comment.

Sighing with fatigue, Corwin said, 'Besides, I never said I was a particularly good priest, did I?'

'Guard change, five minutes!'

Both Gregory and Corwin looked to see Dennis standing in the doorway, Asayaga by his side, shouting the same order in Tsurani. A chorus of curses and groans greeted the order.

Richard pushed through the press of men, reaching the place where he had hung up his outer coat, jerkin, boots and socks. They had yet to dry, and slipping on the damp woollen socks and sodden boots he grimaced. A Tsurani was sitting beside him, mumbling under his breath as he wrapped on his footcloths and then laced up the heavy sandals. Their eyes caught for a second and this time Richard did not lower his gaze.

Again the impenetrable stare. The one-eyed man came past the two, barked something at the Tsurani and continued on. There was a look in the man's eyes and Richard for the first time felt that he could understand something about these alien invaders, for he recognized the mixture of respect and hatred all soldiers hold for good sergeants. He almost smiled at the reaction. Again their eyes held and there seemed to be a brief instant in which the Tsurani was ready to smile as well.

And then both of them realized just who the other person was.

They turned away, stood up, belted on their swords, and formed up with their squads.

'Everyone listen.'

It was Dennis.

'It's quiet out there except for the damnable weather – it's slackening a bit, but it's still no spring evening. Squads one and two, on the wall, keep a sharp watch, and keep your fool heads down. They can see you more easily silhouetted up there than you can see them; and, remember, the moredhel have better eyes in the night than we do.'

'Third squad, under Gregory, will secure the flank of the hill to our left. Gregory will detail several of you off to probe forward. Tinuva tracked the Dark Brothers. They've holed up in an abandoned mine a mile downslope but have patrols out.'

'Two hours then we shift watches again. Those of you detailed to the flank and forward patrol will get an extra hour of rest when you come back in. The Tsurani have the same routine and will cover the right flank.'

'When do we fight them?' Darvan asked from the back of the room. Several men growled in agreement, while others mumbled for him to shut the hell up.

'When I tell you and not before, you damned fool,' Dennis snapped. 'Now get the hell outside!'

Richard fell in with his unit and followed the men out into the night. The storm still raged and he gasped as the cold wind hit. Filing past, rushing to get inside, were the miserable men who had been detailed to the first watch.

'Third squad.'

Gregory stepped in front of the group and motioned for them to follow. A narrow trail fifty yards further up the pass had been found, switchbacking its way up the icy slope. The men struggled to keep a footing, hanging on as gusts of wind roared through the pass, ready to snatch them off the icy precipice. The night was pitch-black, the men cursing, even the older veterans complaining that it was madness to be out on watch on a night like this.

The group pressed on. Struggling to the top of the pass they met Tinuva and several men. Gregory and the elf conferred briefly, then the first watch headed back down to the shelter below. Gregory motioned for the men to gather round.

'We seem to be lucky for once,' Gregory announced. 'The storm's driven them all back to the old mine but that's no reason to let our guard down. It might even be a trick. Space out, a man to every thirty paces, and don't get lost. Keep a sharp watch. I'm going forward and please don't kill me when I come back in.'

The men chuckled grimly.

'Move!'

The squad started into the woods, moving just below the top of the crest. Richard made to follow, but Gregory motioned him back. 'You're going forward with me.'

'Me?'

'Yes, you. Something wrong with your hearing, boy?'

Richard swallowed hard, saying nothing.

Without another word Gregory started down the slope, drifting from tree to tree, Richard struggling to keep pace. Looking to his right he caught a glimpse of the pass below, the glow of firelight shimmering from the top of the chimney, and wished he was back inside, sitting by the roaring fire, or better yet curled up and asleep by it.

He lost sight of Gregory for a moment and felt a surge of panic when he tore his gaze away from the fire and realized he couldn't see the Natalese Ranger. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and stumbled forward, startled when the ice cracked beneath his feet. An instant later a hand snapped around his throat. He started to cry out, but then the hand released him and he found himself staring into Gregory's eyes.

'First lesson. Never lose contact with your partner when scouting at night,' Gregory whispered. His voice was calm, there was no reproach in it. It was if the two of them were simply having a pleasant chat while strolling through the woods.

'You looked at the fire glowing, you were wishing you were inside, you forgot about me.'

Richard nodded, and suddenly realized that behind the calm words he could see a dagger in Gregory's other hand.

'Yes, I could have killed you as easily as a baby asleep in a cradle. Remember that, boy, for that's what they'll do to you.'

Not sure how to react, Richard could only nod.

'Second lesson: never look at a fire when you're on night patrol. It robs you of sight in the dark. Look to one side or the other. On watch, stand with your back to the fire. Blind yourself for even just a moment, and it can cost you your life. Now get your own dagger out. This isn't a night for archery or sword-play.'

Gregory turned and continued forward and this time Richard stayed close, trying to mimic his movements, the fluid glide to his steps, noticing a certain rhythm… half a dozen quick steps, a pause, head turning, then forward, though at a slightly different angle; again, the pause. Once he stopped, pointing down and Richard looked, seeing footsteps in the frozen mud and a stain where someone had relieved himself.

'Troll,' Gregory whispered. 'You can tell by the smell.'

Richard nodded. The forest trolls of southern Yabon where he had been a boy were barely more than animals, without language and little more dangerous than a bear or lion. They were scarcely a nuisance to a party of armed men. Mountain trolls on the other hand had language and weapons and knew how to use them. And now they were in the woods around him. He gripped his dagger tightly.

'Night watchers.' Gregory whispered. 'The moredhel call them allies, but treat them like slaves; so do the human renegades who travel with this kind of group. They're all inside the mine staying warm while the trolls are out here freezing.' He was quiet for a moment, then softly he added, 'It's a stupid choice; trolls don't have the discipline needed for a night like this.'

Gregory pushed forward. They pressed down a low rise and then started to climb to the next ridge, moving parallel to the road they had run along earlier in the day. Richard even recognized the place where the group had broken off from the road, spotting the cleft boulder with a tree growing out of the middle that marked the spot.

Gregory stopped and held up his hand. He then pointed to the side of the boulder, the downwind side and held up his hand, two fingers extended.

Richard felt his heart trip over. Two forms were huddled beneath the downwind side of the boulder, hunched over a small flickering fire… two trolls.

Richard started to reach over his shoulder to pull out his bow and string it. Gregory shook his head. Motioning to the dagger in Richard's hand, he then drew a finger across his throat.

Richard felt his knees go weak. This madman was telling him they were going up to the trolls to cut their throats!

Gregory remained still for several minutes as if frozen to the earth. Richard crouched behind him, limbs trembling. To his disbelief Gregory stood up and ever so casually started forward, walking in the open. Richard didn't move. Gregory, without looking back, motioned for him to follow.

Richard, barely able to walk on shaky legs, followed. The trolls were a scant thirty paces away.

The two approached. One of the trolls finally stirred and raised its head. Richard suddenly realized that the two of them had been asleep and Gregory knew it. The first troll started to say something, Gregory responded in a guttural tongue, and then sprinted the last half dozen paces until he was on the troll, dagger flashing in the firelight.

'Come on boy!' he hissed. 'Kill the other!'

Richard remained frozen in place, watching, terrified as Gregory's dagger slashed down. The other troll started to stand up.

He was not even sure how he got there but suddenly the troll was in front of him, filling his world. Shorter than a man, the creature was wider at the shoulders by half again. Its misshapen forehead was dominated by a massive black brow, from under which tiny black eyes glinted. Its massive jaw jutted out and it displayed its teeth in a snarl, large pointed incisors extending beyond the upper and lower lips. A leather helmet was tightly pulled down, covering the large, pointed ears.

The troll slammed into Richard, pushing him up against the boulder, driving his dagger into the beast's stomach. There was a gasp of pain, fetid breath washing over him, claws tearing at his face. Richard tucked his own chin down and crouched and the lethal claws raked across the stone of the boulder behind him.

'The throat boy, the throat!'

Richard yanked his dagger free and tried for the throat, stabbing upward, but the troll, fighting in blind panic, blocked him. Instead he slashed at the beast's arms, cutting it again and again. Even as he tried to kill the troll he felt horrified, sickened, sensing the agony and terror of his victim.

'Die! Just die, damn you!' he cried, continuing to slash until the point of his dagger went in below the troll's chin and up into its brain. The beast sagged down with a groan and collapsed. Richard stepped back, sobbing, turned away, and vomited.

'Don't ever hesitate, boy.'

Richard, still bent double, looked up. Gregory was standing beside him, half-turned away, watchful gaze scanning the trail.

Richard realized that Gregory had finished his victim within seconds and rather than help had simply stood by, watching as he made his own kill. He felt a wave of anger and also of shame. He scooped up a handful of snow to wipe his mouth and hands clean. He was trembling, suddenly afraid that he might lose control completely and soil himself.

'It's all right,' Gregory whispered. 'Its one thing to kill in the heat of battle the way you did two days ago. This is different, even if it is a troll. It may be war, boy, but this is as close as a lawful man gets to black murder.' He put a reassuring hand on Richard's shoulder. 'You did just fine, son. More than one man's turned and run the other way.'

Even as he talked he continued to scan, carefully watching the trail and the surrounding forest. After a few moments of checking the signs to see if the struggle had alerted others, he said, 'Good. They're spread out too thin, hunched over fires and falling asleep from exhaustion. No one saw us. Come on.'

Gregory stepped back, picked up the feet of one of the trolls and dragged it away from the fire, hiding it on the far side of the boulder. Richard hesitated then finally reached down and dragged his own victim. The body was heavy, he could feel the warmth of it even through the foot wrappings. He laid the body down next to the other.

Gregory had rolled the troll half over and was stripping off the heavy blanket wrapped around its shoulders.

'Take his too.'

Richard tried not to look at the body but did as he was ordered, imitating Gregory as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and over his head. They stepped around the boulder. Picking up a handful of broken branches he tossed them on the fire and sat down, pulling the troll cloak up over his head and face, motioning for Richard to do the same.

'No sense in blundering around any more. You can see the mine they're hiding in.'

He motioned across the trail and as the snow fall slackened, Richard caught a glimpse of a flickering glow, the entry way to the mine, several guards silhouetted at the opening.

'Might as well stay comfortable as we watch. The relief for those two will come up at some point and we'll deal with them the same way.'

Richard swallowed hard, nervously scanning the woods and trail. The storm continued to thunder around them, throwing down an icy mix of rain and sleet. The trees creaked and groaned under the load. Occasionally a branch snapped, the crack echoing above the roar of the storm. At times the mist closed in, the glow from the mine disappearing, then lifted, revealing the encampment where the enemy waited out the storm.

'If we didn't have the Tsurani to worry about, I'd be tempted to try and turn the tables,' Gregory whispered, breaking the silence.

'How is that?'

'Set up an ambush. Tough thing to do, though.' He glanced around, as if seeing the hills in the blackness. 'Mines in this area are all the same – lots of veins of iron, silver, some gold – there are certain to be several other entrances to cover and they must have an inner circle of guards watching. Still, it would be good not to leave this nest of murderers alive.'

Gregory reached over to the pile of firewood, and tossed another branch on which flared up.

Richard stiffened.

'Don't worry, boy. Just keep that cloak up over your head, they'll think we're with them.'

Richard nodded.

'You'll do fine.'

'I don't know,' said the young man, barely above a whisper.

'It's difficult the first time you have to get close to kill another. You see their eyes, see the light in it go out. Even a troll's eyes have that light. I'd be worried if you didn't feel something after that. I don't like hunting with a man who's a killer without that feeling.'

'They're the enemy though,' Richard offered, trying to sound harder than he actually felt.

Gregory sounded thoughtful as he asked, 'Are they?'

'Trolls and moredhel? Of course; they're the enemy.'

Gregory nodded. 'Well, they were created by the gods, the same as we; that's a fact. Maybe if one was born in our towns or villages, raised with us, maybe they'd be our friends. I don't know.' He chuckled. 'Moredhel, maybe. Seem a lot like elves, though to say that aloud to Tinuva is to invite a cold reply. Trolls, though, I don't know. Can't imagine one taking the cows to market, if you see what I mean.' He poked at the fire with a stick. 'Some folks say their hate for us is in their hearts from birth. Either way, learned hate or instinct to hate, we sure have to fight them often enough. But never become like them, Richard. Never think taking a life is easy. Do that and in a way they win.'

Richard was startled. In his brief time with the company he had thought of Gregory as nothing more than a man of the woods, a scout who was respected for his skills and his seemingly inexhaustible strength; but a philosopher?

'You sound like my old mentor.'

'Brother Vasily?'

'You know him?'

Gregory chuckled.

'Remember lad, I know your family. Fought beside your father when the Emperor of Queg tried to capture Port Natal. Vasily and I raised many a glass together. Ah, now there was a rare fine thinker.'

Richard said nothing. His father. Gregory knew the Squire. And what would he say?

'Lad, if you don't mind me saying it, your father is one fine soldier, but I wouldn't want him as my sire. He's a hard man.'

Richard lowered his head. The beatings. That seemed to be the only way the old man knew how to treat his sons. If they did well, there was, at best, silence; but fail in anything and there would be a beating. As the eldest surviving son, he felt that the old man would never be satisfied. Too often there was mention of Quentin, twenty years older, from the Squire's first marriage, killed in the last war.

Always the Squire spoke of him as the worthy son who should have inherited all, and that Richard was the weak second choice.

'Quentin was a good man,' Gregory said.

Again there was the disturbing sense that the Natalese scout somehow had the 'sense', the ability to read the thoughts of others. 'I see the same in you.'

Richard poked at the fire, saying nothing. 'I don't think our captain sees it that way,' he finally ventured.

Gregory chuckled. 'Dennis is a hard man on the surface, just like your father. He has to be out here not just to survive but to preserve those who serve with him. But underneath, he's very different. If he has a fault it's that he loves his men too much. Every death burns his soul. Jurgen was like his elder brother, the closest friend he has ever known. You just happened to be in the way.'

'I caused his death.'

'Don't ever say that again. Don't think it. War is cruel. Men die. Jurgen did what any man would do: he went to save a comrade.'

'I wish I had died instead.'

'Why?'

Richard looked over at him. 'Because,' he lowered his head, 'my life for his. Who was more worthy to live? Who did the company need more? I know the Captain wishes it had been the other way around.'

'Jurgen lived his life well. He had fifty years or more, you but eighteen. I think that's a fair trade. He gave you back years you never would have had. Just remember that and don't feel guilty. He didn't do it because you were the son of a squire. Remember that as well. He'd have done it for the son of a peasant or thief. So live every day after this as if it was a gift from him, and when the time comes some day, pay it back the same way he did.'

Richard looked over at Gregory, unable to speak. He realized now why the scout had wanted him out here on patrol, so that he could share these words with him.

He didn't know what to say in response.

Gregory stiffened and at nearly the same instant Richard noticed it as well, a sound, slush crunching, something moving on the trail.

'Lower your head,' Gregory whispered, 'then move when I do, and do what I do.'

Richard did as ordered, the troll's cloak pulled up over his head, his shoulders hunched forward, watching out of the corner of his eye. There were three of them, two trolls… and a moredhel.

Should we run? Richard wondered, but Gregory did nothing.

The three drew closer, slowed. The moredhel held out his hand, motioning for the trolls to stop. They stood less than ten feet away.

He barked out a command.

Gregory grunted, head swaying as if coming awake. He growled a comment, and one of the trolls snorted as if in amusement.

A gust of wind swept the group, sparks flaring up from the fire. The moredhel took another step closer, snarling angrily, and then, to Richard's eyes, everything seemed to shift, as if time was slowing. The moredhel's movement changed, as if he had suddenly realized that something was wrong, that he was not dealing with two trolls who had fallen asleep on watch.

Gregory started to stand, the cloak falling back, and at the same instant his hand snapped out, and his dagger was twirling over the firelight. A second later, the moredhel was dying, the dagger having slashed open his throat. Gregory was up, cloak flung back his sword drawn.

Richard stood, dagger in hand and leapt forward, following the scout. It was over in seconds, so complete was the surprise. Gregory split the skull of one of the trolls who stood gape-mouthed, staring down at the moredhel who was clasping at his throat, staggering backwards, trying to hold his lifeblood in as it sprayed out between his fingers.

Richard leapt for the second troll and this time he almost did it right, driving his dagger straight in, cutting the troll's throat, losing the blade when the troll jerked backwards, the dagger jammed into his lower jaw.

Richard stepped back and then leapt with surprise since he had stepped into the fire.

Gregory was bending over the moredhel, cutting down, ending his agony. Warily he looked up, then crouched low. Richard looked with him. Gregory pointed: there was more movement on the trail. From the entrance to the mine there was movement as well, shadows reflecting the flash of spear points from the fire within.

'Time to leave,' Gregory whispered, 'I think they're going to try a night attack, figure we're asleep. We've got to let Dennis know.'

Reaching into a pouch at his hip he pulled out several caltrops tossed them on the trail and kicked slush over them.

'Come on, lad, I think it's time to get moving again. What they find here might slow them a bit but we better pull out.' He glanced at the sky. 'Snow's lessening. It'll clear tomorrow. We'd better be somewhere else when it does.'

They turned away from the trail and as they did so Gregory patted Richard on the shoulder.

'We might make a scout out of you, yet, lad.'

Then the Natalese set off at speed, disappearing into the night.

Richard was left struggling to keep up.