Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER TEN

As she sat in the cave, feeding the fire, Sheera knew she had made a terrible mistake. The two men had been courteous and respectful when the innkeeper introduced them, but once into the forest they had changed subtly. Strad, the taller and more gregarious of the two, had become silent and almost sinister, while Givan had taken to openly staring at her, letting his eyes linger on her breasts and hips. Neither of them had touched her, and outwardly they remained eager to please, but the journey through the winter forest had begun to worry Sheera. They had sheltered through two blizzards, yet when the skies cleared she had seen from the sun, and the later stars, that their route was curving like a crescent moon back towards the sea.

Last night she had wrapped herself in her blankets and pretended to sleep, straining to hear their conversation. After a while Strad moved over to her and softly asked if she was comfortable. She did not stir and he returned to Givan.

‘Only a couple more days of this foul weather,’ said Givan. ‘Then it is warm beds and warm women. By the Gods, I’ll be glad to see the back of this forest.’

‘You and I both,’ agreed his friend.

Sheera’s mind raced. A couple of days? How could that be? It was at least a ten-day march in good weather! She should have listened to Cartain, who had urged her to come to Cithaeron and aid him in gathering the exiles together to form an army. But her anger was great, and the thought of leaving Okessa and the others unpunished could not be tolerated.

Now, stretching her long legs out before her, she pushed her back against the wall. She was a tall girl, with close-cropped, tightly curled black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was too wide to be considered beautiful, but her lips were full and her teeth white and even.

‘Thinking of some man, are you, princess?’ asked Givan, moving to sit near her. He was short and fat, and a widening bald patch on the crown of his head gave him the look of a lustful monk.

‘I was thinking about my sister.’

‘Yes? Sad business. Very sad. I saw her once in Mactha, riding to the hunt. A well-made woman. You remind me of her, save I think you are taller and maybe a shade slimmer.’

‘How soon will we reach the southern valleys?’ she asked.

‘Oh, about eight days, more or less. Do not worry, we have plenty of provisions.’

‘The provisions do not concern me, Givan; they are your responsibility. I understand there are outlaws in the forest?’

‘Don’t worry your head about them; they’ll not be out in this blizzard. And anyway we’ve got nothing worth stealing — though I dare say there are those who would consider you a prize worth taking.’

She forced a smile. ‘How sweet of you to say so, but then I have you and Strad to protect me. It is a very comforting thought.’

‘Oh, we’ll protect you, princess, don’t have no worries on that score. I wouldn’t like to see nothing happen to you; I’ve grown quite fond of you, I have.’

‘I think I will sleep now,’ she said, turning her back on him and pulling her blankets over her. For a moment she could feel his presence close to her, but then he moved back to where Strad was sitting in the cave-mouth.

‘Best forget that sort of stuff,’ whispered Strad.

‘There’s plenty of women available in Pertia — especially after we get paid.’

‘She’s in my blood, boy. I’ve got to have her. Will they care that she’s soiled? All they’ll see is another filthy Nomad. No, I want her worse than anything I can remember.’

‘She doesn’t want you,’ Strad pointed out.

‘That’s what makes it sweet, boy.’

Sheera waited until both men were sound asleep and then slipped from her blankets. Swiftly she rolled them into a bundle and moved through the cave to the entrance. Outside the blizzard had died, but the wind was bitterly cold. She wrapped herself in a sheepskin cloak and pulled on a second set of woollen leggings. Glancing back at the sleeping men she hooked her pack to her shoulders, gathered her bow and quiver of arrows and stepped out into the night.

The stars were bright and she headed along the line of the Spear Carrier.

She walked for almost an hour, then searched for a camping place, finding a small hollow out of the wind. There were several fallen trees and one of them had crashed down upon a group of boulders. Sheera clam- bered under the snow-covered branches and found herself in a snug, shallow shelter — the foliage making a thick roof and the boulders a wall around her, save to the west. She gathered tinder and cleared a space for a small fire, which she lit at the first attempt with the tinder-box her sister had given her at the last Solstice feast. With a tiny blaze giving warmth, she settled back in her blankets to sleep.

Awaking to the sound of curses, she cast an anxious look at her little fire. It seemed completely dead.

‘Damn that last snow shower,’ snapped Givan. ‘But she cannot be far away.’

‘I don’t know why she ran in the first place,’ complained Strad. ‘You think she knew…’

‘Shut up you fool, she might be close.’

‘More likely died in a drift. We’ve lost a fortune — and all because you couldn’t keep the lust from your eyes.’

‘It was nothing to do with me. I think she knew more about the direction than we gave her credit for. Twice I saw her checking the stars.’

Sheera edged her way to the west of her shelter and bellied down to peer under the branches. The first man she saw was Strad; he was searching the ground.

‘Found anything?’ asked Givan.

‘No. But I can smell smoke. Can you?’

Sheera swivelled. The fire she had thought was dead was beginning to smoulder.

Just as she prepared to turn and deal with it, a terrifying scream came from outside and she pressed her face to the branches in time to see a huge shape bearing down on Strad. It seemed to be covered in white-grey fur, but she could see only the thick legs and a part of its hide. Something splashed on her face and hands and looking down, she saw that it was blood. Strad’s body fell close to her, the head torn from the shoulders.

She could hear Givan shouting, ‘No! No!’ But this was followed by a low snarling growl and the sound of bones being crunched and split.

Sheera eased her way back into her shelter and, as silently as she could, fed twigs to the smouldering fire, blowing it to life. The branches to her left quivered, and she heard the beast snuffling beyond them. Forcing herself to stay calm, she continued to work at the fire. A small finger of flame licked at the wood, then gathered itself; she picked up a dry branch and held it to the flame. Snow tipped into her shelter as the beast beyond pushed its snout forward. With great care Sheera took the smoking branch from the fire and turned, lifting it to where she could almost see the beast’s head. Acrid smoke curled into the creature’s nostrils and it snorted hard, pulling back abruptly.

Sheera returned the branch to the fire and waited. She could hear it feeding beyond the shelter.

But would it return?

Nuada was awakened close to dawn by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up, his eyes bleary, his body aching from the intake of ale. A lantern had been placed on the table by the bed and he recognized Groundsel’s squat figure sitting beside it.

‘What… why are you here?’ asked Nuada. His mouth was dry and he reached for the tankard beside his bed; it contained flat beer, but even this was welcome. He shivered. Outside the snow was falling fast and a cold wind blew through the gaps in the rough-hewn door-frame. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders. ‘Is something wrong, Lord Groundsel?’

‘No,’ answered the man. ‘At least, I do not believe so. You spoke well this evening. I could not sleep, so I thought we could talk.’

Nuada swung from the bed and moved to an iron brazier in which the fire was dying. He stoked it with sticks and twigs until a flicker of flame began at the centre, then he added larger chunks of wood.

Groundsel sat quietly, his eyes unfocused. Nuada returned to his bed and waited. The outlaw leader had discarded his silken shirt and now wore the familiar thrown leather jerkin of the forester.

‘What troubles you, my Lord?’

‘Nothing. I fear nothing. I want for nothing. I am no fool, Nuada. I know that — had you chosen to — you could have made me a villain, a swine or a murdering dog. Those men who cheered me could just as easily have been persuaded to hang me. I know this… and I know I am not a hero. I know…’

Nuada remained silent while Groundsel scratched his short-cropped hair and rubbed at his round ugly face. ‘You know what I am saying?’

Nuada nodded, but still he did not speak. ‘I enjoyed your tale,’ said Groundsel, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘I enjoyed being cheered. And now I feel… I don’t know how I feel. A little sad, maybe. You understand?’ His dark button eyes fixed on Nuada.

‘Is it still a good feeling?’ asked the poet.

‘Yes and no. I’ve killed a lot of people, Nuada; I’ve robbed and I’ve cheated; I’ve lied. I am not a hero; that fire threatened to destroy all I’ve built. And the monster? I wanted to impress the girl. I am not a hero.’

‘A man is whatever he wishes to be,’ said Nuada softly. ‘There are no rigid patterns, no iron moulds. We are not cast from bronze. The hero Petric once headed an army which looted three cities. I have read the histories — his men raped and slaughtered thousands. But at the end he chose a different road.’

‘I cannot change. I am what I am: a runaway slave who murdered his master. I am the Ape. I am Groundsel. And I have never had cause to regret what I have become.’

‘Then why are you troubled?’

Groundsel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ‘Your tale was a lie. A flattery. And yet it touched me… because it ought to have been true. I have never cared about being loved. But tonight they cheered me, they lifted me high. And that, poet, was the finest moment of my life. It does not matter that I didn’t deserve it — but I wish I had.’

‘Let me ask you something, my Lord. When you stood before the beast and you saw its awesome power, were you not frightened?’

‘I was,’ Groundsel admitted.

‘And when it bore down on Arian, did it not occur to you that you could be killed as you charged to rescue her?’

‘I did not think of rescue.’

‘But you saw that it was about to slay her?’

‘Yes, that is true.’

‘And you charged the beast — and almost died. Every man there saw the deed. You are too hard on yourself. It was heroic, and it touched all who saw it.’

‘You confuse me,’ said Groundsel. ‘Tell me, does Arian love Llaw Gyffes?’

‘I think that she does,’ answered Nuada.

The outlaw leader stood. ‘I was going to have him killed. I was going to take her — willing or unwilling. But now I owe him, for if he had not leapt upon the beast, I would now be dead and I would have missed the only moment of magic in my life. Gods, I am tired. And there’s too much ale in this fat belly.’ He walked to the doorway but Nuada’s voice halted him.

‘My Lord!’

‘Yes,’ answered Groundsel, without turning.

‘You are a better man than you know. And I am glad I told the tale well.’

Groundsel walked out into the snow and Nuada settled back on his bed.

For five days a blizzard raged over the forest. Teams of hunters roamed the western wood, seeking signs of the were-beasts. One gigantic wolf creature was found dead in a drift and the howling was heard no more. The winter tore at the forest and the mountains, temperatures dropping tb forty below zero. In the stockaded village families stayed inside for much of the day, only emerging to gather wood for their fires. Of Groundsel himself little was seen; he took to walking the hills, avoiding his men. Nuada spent time with Arian and Llaw, and soon began to feel that boredom would kill him before the winter ended. There were few unattached women in the village, and those there were plied a trade he felt loath to patronize.

As the days passed, the lure of Cithaeron grew. He had the gold pieces Groundsel had given him — more than enough to pay for his passage. And he imagined the marble palaces, the beautiful nubile women and — most of all — the warm golden sunshine. Soft beds, good food — cooked with spices, or in wine — clean clothes and hot baths. He pictured himself swimming in a blue sea, the sun on his back.

He talked to Groundsel’s men. Apparently the Royal Road to Pertia Port was less than half a day’s walk away; once on the road it was two days to Pertia.

Even so, Nuada did not relish the journey.

But then Groundsel ceased his lonely walks and took to sitting in the hall, gloomy and sullen, his eyes on Arian. If Llaw noticed he gave no sign of it, but the outlaw leader tried to goad him on several occasions. The former blacksmith would have none of it. But Nuada knew it was only a matter of time before the two men came to blows, and he did not want to be in the village when the violence came.

He liked Llaw, and in a curious way Groundsel also.

On the morning of the sixth day Nuada slipped away from the village, continuing his way west through the frozen forest, seeking the sanctuary of the Royal Road with its inns and taverns. He walked for most of the day and made his camp in a shallow cave out of the wind. There he lit a fire and berated himself for his stupidity. The village had at least been warm and welcoming; out here death stalked him with icy fingers. The following morning, cold and frightened, he continued on his way, but the paths he had been told of were disguised by snowfall and the grey, lowering sky offered no clue to direction. He stumbled on, his feet numb, his body trembling, and by noon he was hopelessly lost.

There was no cave to help him here and he made a camp behind some boulders where he struggled to light a fire, but the wind blew it out. A great weariness settled on him and the cold seemed to lessen. He was filled with the desire to lie down in the snow and sleep.

Don’t be a fool! he told himself and rising, he forced himself to move on slowly. His foot sank into a snowdrift and he almost fell. Reaching out, he took hold of a snow-covered branch jutting from the ground. The branch gave, the snow falling from it. Nuada screamed — what he was holding was no branch but an arm, frozen and black. He threw himself to his left and his body struck something solid beneath the snow. He scrambled to his feet as the snow fell away to show a man’s upper body — the face grey, the teeth exposed in a sickening parody of a grin.

Nuada looked around him. Everywhere there were signs of death. Panic swept through him as he backed away from the icy graveyard.

I won’t die here! I won’t!

The smell of woodsmoke came to him. Somewhere, someone had built a fire. The wind was in his face so he headed into it, calling out. He staggered on, falling into a drift and pulling himself clear. The smell was stronger now. He called again… and fell. He began to crawl.

‘Over here!’ he heard someone call and hands pulled at his arms.

Nuada awoke in a deep cave, where a huge fire was blazing. He sat up, pushing back the sheepskin-lined cloak that covered him. Seven men and four women were sitting round the fire, their faces thin and gaunt.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’ The men ignored him, but a young woman with raven-dark hair moved to sit beside him.

‘It is a temporary rescue, I am afraid,’ she said. ‘There is no food and the roads are blocked.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘We are from nowhere,’ she told him. ‘We are non-people now, trying to reach Cithaeron. We left the realm four days ago and joined with a caravan of refugees. Then the snows came.’

‘Where are the others?’ he asked.

She waved her arm towards the cave entrance. ‘They are out there. Some have built wind walls; others have tried to force a path through to the coast. They are dying.’

‘How many are you?’

‘Two hundred started out. I don’t know how many have died.’

Nuada stood and fastened the cloak around his shoulders. He walked to the cave entrance and looked up at the sky. There were no clouds and the stars were shining like diamonds. ‘I will fetch help.’

‘You almost died out there. Do not go back. Even if you conquer the winter, there is still the killer Groundsel.’

‘Let me borrow the cloak,’ he said, ‘and I shall return with food. Gather as many of your people here as you can; tell the others not to wander.’

‘Why would you do this for Nomads?’ she asked him.

‘Because I am a fool,’ he told her. ‘Gather your people.’

He stepped out into the night and began to climb towards the east, following the pointing finger of the Star Warrior and lining his path with the Great Spear.

On the point of exhaustion he found a cave where he rested for two hours, warmed by a small fire. Then he pushed on.

By the middle of the following afternoon he found himself on the hill overlooking the stockade. Weak from hunger and cold, he slipped and slithered down the hill. Llaw Gyffes saw him from the parapet and climbed down to meet him.

‘Welcome back,’ said Llaw. ‘Was it an enjoyable stroll?’

‘There are people dying back there, Llaw, starving to death. We must help them.’

‘First let us help you, poet. Your face is chalk white.’ He led him to Arian’s hut, where the girl was sitting by the brazier. She rose as he entered and laughed at him.

‘Ah, the mighty hunter is home! Did you catch anything? Apart from frostbite?’

Llaw helped Nuada from his frozen clothes and began to rub at the poet’s skin, forcing circulation back to the surface. Arian warmed a towel by the fire, then held it to Nuada’s face. He lay back as they tended him and his eyes closed… When he awoke, Llaw was sitting by his bed.

‘There are two hundred people trapped in the forest,’ Nuada told him. ‘They are Nomads. They have no food, and there is no way out to Cithaeron.’

‘A stupid time to try and escape,’ commented Llaw.

‘I would imagine it was that or die,’ said the poet. ‘We must help them.’

‘Why? I do not know any of them.’

‘Why? What do you mean why? They are people, Llaw, like you and me.’

‘No, they are not. I am safe and warm in a hut, and I have food. I am not trapped.’

‘I shall go to Groundsel,’ snapped Nuada, swinging from the bed. He stood and moved naked to the fire where his clothes were drying.

‘A pretty sight,’ said Arian. ‘Such fine, pert buttocks.’ He turned slowly to face her.

‘Make your jests, Arian. Laugh while babies die of cold. Laugh while women sob at their loss.’

Her smile faded. ‘I do not laugh at them,’ she said.

‘No, you do not even think of them. You disgust me — the pair of you. You are no better than the King; in fact you are worse. He condemns them to death in order to steal their wealth, but you condemn them for no reason at all.’

He dressed and tramped across the snow to the hall where some forty men were present — drinking, eating, telling stories. His arrival was greeted by a cheer and he waved to the men and moved on to stand before Groundsel.

‘I am glad you are alive,’ said the outlaw. ‘I missed you.’

He told Groundsel of the Nomads dying in the forest and the man shrugged. ‘They chose a poor time to run. Still, the snow might clear in a few days. Some of them will get through.’

‘Will you not help them, my Lord?’

‘Is there a reason why I should? Can they pay me?’

‘I do not know. But tell me — that magic moment we spoke of, how much was it worth?’

Groundsel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What has that to do with this?’ he whispered. ‘I was drunk… soft in the head. I regret what I said.’

‘Then put a price on your drunken words. How much gold is such a memory worth? Ten Raq? Twenty? A thousand?’

‘You know the answer,’ hissed Groundsel. ‘It is priceless.’

‘And that, my Lord, is how those people can pay you. No monsters to slay. No acts of courage. Just a gift to those who need it.’

‘And you, Nuada, what do you give?’

‘I have nothing.’

‘You have the twenty gold Raq I gave you, for your passage to Cithaeron. Will you pay that for grain?’

‘Yes, of course, but…’ Nuada blinked as Groundsel held out his hand, then opened his leather hip-pouch and counted out the coin.

Groundsel put the gold to one side and leaned forward. ‘And will you stay in the forest until I give you leave to go?’

‘Stay? I…’ He saw the look of dark triumph in Groundsel’s eyes and swallowed hard. In Cithaeron he could be rich again and live in a palace, with beautiful women to wait on him. The sun was bright and warm, the climate temperate. But here, amid the towering boredom?

‘Well?’ insisted Groundsel.

‘I will stay. But I too have a condition, my Lord. No more thefts from Nomads. I’ll stay for the hero Groundsel, not the robber killer.’

Groundsel chuckled and slapped Nuada’s shoulder. ‘I agree to your condition. Groundsel, the lying oath-breaker, the thief and the killer, gives you his word. For what it is worth.’

Despite the heavy cloak and the sheepskin gloves, two pairs of woollen leggings and fur-lined boots, Errin was bitterly cold. For two days he had followed Ubadai through the frozen forest, riding at a snail’s pace for fear of injuries to their mounts. Some trails, simple in summer, had become death-traps for riders, with ice-covered stones, holes part covered by snow, and trees heavy laden and ready to fall at a breath of wind. Ubadai had said nothing for the whole of the first day and when they had camped he had built a good fire, rolled into his blankets and slept until the dawn. Errin knew the tribesman was angry, and the Gabalan lord felt a large measure of guilt over it. He had freed Ubadai and the Nomad had no reason to follow him back into danger. But then he had had no reason to ride into Mactha fortress in order to rescue his former master either. It was baffling.

On the third morning, as the sky cleared, Errin gazed up at the rising sun.

‘Which way are we heading today?’ he asked Ubadai, as the tribesman rolled his blankets and strapped them to the saddle of his horse. Ubadai pointed to a trail through the trees.

‘But that’s east, isn’t it?’ asked Errin. Ubadai nodded, but said nothing. ‘Oh, come on, Ubadai, speak to me. Why are we heading east?’

The tribesman grunted something inaudible, then turned to face Errin. ‘No tracks, yes? Everywhere fresh snow. No chance to find woman. We go back.’

‘We ought to search a little longer — we’ve only been here two days.’

‘This is search. Two choices. The men either good or bad, yes. If good they walk through near Royal Road, to the south. If bad they swing back. Wait till Cartain is gone, deliver woman to Pertia Port when fleet comes in, yes? If they are good men, we have lost them. If bad, I think they come this way.’

‘That’s just a guess,’ said Errin.

‘Yes. But I am tracker, not wizard. They travel eastwards on first day — not very good reason for that.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘The cave yesterday where we rested? There were remains of two fires, and tracks to show three people — one with small feet but long stride. Only three people? Then why two fires? Woman sits apart.’

Errin shrugged. It was little to go on, but Ubadai was the masier in this venture. ‘You do not want to be here, do you?’ he said as he climbed into the saddle.

Ubadai mounted his horse and gave a sour grin, gesturing to the ice-covered trail. ‘You want to be here?’

‘That’s not what I meant; it is a duty for me. But why did you agree to come? Why did you come back for me in Mactha?’

‘Plenty stupid, maybe,’ muttered Ubadai, edging his mount forward.

For two hours they rode until they slithered down a steep slope towards a small grove of pine trees. Ubadai drew his mount to a halt and slipped his bow from under his saddlebags. He strung it, then blew on his fingers to warm them.

‘What is it?’ asked Errin, coming alongside. ‘Smell the air,’ ordered Ubadai and Errin lifted his head but could detect little, save perhaps a hint of woodsmoke and a subtle, faintly unpleasant odour reminiscent of the farmyard.

‘What do you make of it?’ asked Errin. ‘Death,’ whispered Ubadai. ‘And something else. Animal — wolf, maybe.’

‘Why are we whispering?’

‘We are downwind. It will not know we are here. Better ride back, maybe.’

‘If it is a wolf pack, we will scare them away. It might be Sheera… in trouble,’ he added swiftly.

‘I do not like the feel of this,’ said Ubadai. ‘My skin crawls. I have good skin and it knows where it wants to be… and it doesn’t want to go in there.’

Errin grinned. ‘You’ve hunted wolves before. And bears — even a lion, if I recall. We’re both fine archers.’ An eerie howling came from the grove, the sound magnified beyond any wolf call Errin had ever heard. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘you might be right. I think this is a case for discretion.’ But just as he was about to wheel his horse back to the slope, another sound broke the silence — a woman’s scream.

Errin cursed and spurred his horse into the trees. ‘You have no bow!’ shouted Ubadai, galloping after him.

Errin’s mount thundered into the clearing, saw the giant wolf creature with its sabre talons and huge snarling jaws and desperately tried to swerve. But the ice under its hooves offered no purchase and it slid to its haunches. Errin hurled himself from the saddle as the stallion cannoned into the beast and both animals went down, the beast slashing its talons through the horse’s neck. Blood fountained over the monster’s grey-white fur. The dying horse lashed out with its hooves, hurling the beast to the snow. The stallion struggled to rise, but the beast was upon it once more, rending and slashing. Errin climbed to his feet and drew the curved short sword given to him by Cartain; it was razor-sharp and beautifully made, but it seemed like a child’s toy now, as he stared at the enraged beast. Errin swung his head — Sheera stood nearby, white-faced, holding a smouldering branch. He ran to her. The beast looked up from the dead stallion and climbed slowly across its carcass, staggering and almost falling. Rising to its hind legs, it moved towards the man and woman. Errin stepped in front of Sheera, placed his hand over his buckle and whispered, ‘Ollathair.’

Instantly the advance of the beast seemed to slow. Errin waited until the creature was almost upon him, then ducked under a slowly moving sweep of the taloned arm and rammed his sword into the beast’s belly.

Sheera appeared alongside him, thrusting the branch into the creature’s mouth. In that instant Errin could see the talons moving towards the girl and he let go of his sword and dived at her, dragging her clear.

Behind them Ubadai leapt from the saddle, notched an arrow to his bow, dre\V and loosed his shaft which sped through the air to punch into the beast’s neck. The creature staggered and fell on all fours; then it rolled to its side and died.

Errin climbed to his feet, his eyes scanning the clearing for any further monsters. To his right there was a human leg and across the clearing lay the grisly remains of another victim. Satisfied there were no other beasts, he once more touched the buckle of his belt and turned to Sheera.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I…’ Recognition showed in her eyes and she stepped back from him.

‘Errin? What are you doing here?’

‘I was looking for you. Cartain was worried; he said the men you were with were probably in the employ of Okessa.’

‘I think they were. But of all the men to rescue me — why did it have to be you?’

He shrugged. ‘It is pleasant, lady, to have succeeded in something.’

Her face darkened. ‘Do not think it absolves you from blame over my sister’s murder. It does not! Nothing ever will.’

‘I loved Dianu and I would have done anything to save her. But I did not ask her to stay for me, nor did I know she was in danger. I do not much care whether you believe that; it is immaterial to me.’ He moved to the beast and dragged his sword clear, wiping it clean of blood on the creature’s fur. Reversing the sword, he pushed it at Sheera. ‘You want to kill me, lady? Do it! Go on, take the sword and push it home.’

She turned away. ‘I was angry when I told Cartain I wanted you dead. I do not desire that — but neither do I desire your company.’

‘You have little choice in that, Sheera. I am here to escort you to Pertia Port and then to Cithaeron. Once there you can do as you please.’

‘I am not going to Cithaeron. I will find Okessa and see him dead. And if there was any sense of honour in you, you would do the same. You say you loved Dianu? What a way to prove it — running to Cithaeron.’

Errin took a deep breath, pushing back his anger.

‘In Cithaeron we can raise an army. Here we can do little save run around a winter forest hoping we do not get lost, which may be all right for spoilt little girls but it doesn’t suit me. Now gather your things.’ As he turned away from her she grabbed his arm to swing him round and her fist cracked into his jaw. Ubadai winced as he watched the blow crash home. Most women did not know how to punch, but he had to admire the smooth swing and the explosive contact. Errin was unconscious before he hit the snow.

Ubadai strolled across and knelt by the unconscious nobleman, then he looked up at the astonished Sheera.

‘I like you, girl,’ said Ubadai. ‘You plenty stupid.’