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carried a heavy woollen coat of storm-cloud grey, and around his waist was a sword-belt from which hung two short swords. Browyn could also see the hilt of a throwing-knife in the man’s knee-length boot. As the warrior came closer Browyn rubbed sweat from his eyes … the blows he had taken must have blurred his senses. The newcomer had not one soul – but two. The first was almost a mirror image of the man himself, darkly handsome, but golden light radiated from the face. But the second … Browyn’s heart sank. The second had a face of corpse-grey, and a shock of white hair like a lion’s mane. The eyes were yellow, and slitted like those of a hunting cat.
    ‘Good morning,’ said the newcomer, laying his coat over a tree-stump. Moving past the three mercenaries, he helped Browyn to his feet. ‘Is this your cabin, sir?’ Browyn nodded dumbly. ‘Would you object to me resting here for a while? It is a long walk from the lowlands, and I would be grateful for your hospitality.’
    ‘Who do you think you are?’ shouted Brys, storming forward. The newcomer leaned to the left, his right foot slamming into the mercenary’s stomach, hurling him from his feet. Brys slumped to the ground, howling in pain. Dropping his dagger, he gasped for breath and continued to groan.
    ‘You two will need to carry your friend back to his horse,’ said the young man amiably.
    ‘Kill him!’ grunted Brys. ‘Kill the bastard.’ The other two men did not move or speak.
    The newcomer knelt beside Brys. ‘I think your friends are brighter than you,’ he said, picking up the man’s dagger and slipping it back into the mercenary’s sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man. ‘Do you have any salt?’ he asked.
    Browyn nodded and the newcomer smiled. ‘You have no idea what a relief that is.’
    ‘What the hell’s the matter with you two?’ shouted Brys, struggling to his knees.
    ‘He’s Tarantio,’ replied one of them. ‘I saw him fight that duel in Corduin. I’m right, aren’t I?’ he said, looking at the newcomer.
    ‘Indeed you are.’
    ‘There’s no gold here,’ said the mercenary. ‘We would have found it.’
    Tarantio shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’
    ‘Are you going to kill us?’
    ‘No. I am not in a killing mood.’
    ‘Well, I am, you scum-sucking bastard!’ shouted Brys, drawing his sword.
    ‘Brys! Don’t!’ shouted his comrades. But he ignored them.
    ‘ You’d better let me take him ,’ said Dace.
    ‘ No ,’ answered Tarantio. ‘ Sigellus trained us both, and I am not afraid .’
    ‘ Don’t try to disarm him ,’ warned Dace. ‘ Just kill the whoreson .’
    The mercenary attacked, his sword slashing towards Tarantio’s head. The two short swords flashed up to block the stroke, but Brys was ready for the move and spun to his left, his elbow slamming against Tarantio’s cheek. Tarantio staggered back, vision blurring. Brys aimed a wild cut at Tarantio’s head. The blade slashed high, as Tarantio dropped to one knee and then surged upright, the left-hand blade snaking out. Brys made a desperate block, but the weapon pricked his shoulder, tearing the skin of his chest. Brys fell back. He grinned. ‘You’re good, Tarantio,’ he said. ‘But you are not that good. I am better.’
    ‘ He is right, you know ,’ said Dace. ‘ He’ll wear you down and kill you. Let me have him .’
    Brys launched a sudden attack, sword raised high. As Tarantio made to block, the voice of Dace hissed at him: ‘ He’s got a knife in his left hand! ’ Tarantio leapt back – then launched himself forward. The move caught Brys by surprise and before he could react Tarantio’s right-hand sword had slashed down on his hand. Three fingers were chopped away, the dagger falling clear.
    ‘You bastard!’ screamed Brys, charging forward. Terrible pain exploded in the mercenary’s body … his sword fell from his hand and he stared down at the blade embedded in his belly. An agonized groan burst from his lips as