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the bed and the faces of the two girls, the oldest of them not more than five.
    Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden light fading.
    Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow.
    ‘I wish I had been here sooner, little one,’ he said.
    He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two lengths of cord.
    Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and placed the body inside.
    As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him.
    ‘How is it that we are alive?’ asked the hunter.
    ‘The fever must have passed, my friend,’ Duvodas told him. ‘I am sorry about your son. I should have dug deeper, but I did not have the strength.’
    The man’s strong face trembled, and tears flowed, but he blinked them back. ‘The Eldarin did this to us,’ he said, the words choking him. ‘They sent the plague. May they all rot in Hell! I curse them all! I wish they had but one neck, and I would crush it in my hands.’
    The fist struck the old man full in the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Bright lights shone before his eyes and, disoriented, Browyn tried to rise. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the soft earth. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard the sound of smashing crockery coming from his cabin, and then an iron hand gripped his throat. ‘You tell, you old bastard, or I swear I’ll cut your eyes out!’
    ‘Maybe it was all just lies,’ said another voice. ‘Maybe there never was any gold.’
    ‘There was gold,’ grunted the first man. ‘I know it. He paid Simian with it. Small nuggets. Simian wouldn’t lie to me. He knows better.’
    Browyn was dragged to his knees. ‘Can you hear me, old fool? Can you?’
    The old man fought to focus on the flat, brutal face that was now inches from his own. In all his life he had enjoyed one great talent: he could see the souls of men. In this moment of terror his gift was like a curse, for he looked into the face of his tormentor and saw only darkness and spite. The image of the man’s soul was scaled and pitted, the eyes red as blood, the mouth thin, a pointed blue tongue licking at grey lips. Browyn knew in that moment that his life was over. Nothing would prevent this man from killing him. He could see the enjoyment of the torture in the blood-red eyes of the naked soul.
    ‘I can hear you,’ he said, tasting blood on his lips.
    ‘So where is it?’
    He had already told them about the single nugget he had found in the stream beyond the cabin. It was with this he had paid Simian for last winter’s supplies. But he had never found more, despite long days of searching. The nugget must have been washed down from higher in the mountains, and wedged itself in the bend of the stream.
    The third man emerged from the cabin. ‘There’s nothing there, Brys,’ he said. ‘He’s almost out of food. Maybe he’s telling the truth.’
    ‘We’ll find out,’ said Brys, drawing a dagger and pricking it under the skin of Browyn’s eye. The point was needle-sharp and the old man felt a trickle of blood on his cheek. ‘Which eye would you like to lose first, scum-bucket?’ he hissed.
    ‘Brys!’ the third man called out. ‘There’s someone coming!’
    The mercenary let go of Browyn’s throat and the old man fell gratefully from his grasp. Blinking, he strained to focus on the newcomer. He was a slim young man, with dark, close-cropped hair; over his shoulder he