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small herd could clearly be seen from their position and they showed no interest in them. The season was too early for wolf-hunting, the grey timber beasts still high in the mountains. That left only Man.
    The sky darkened and rain lashed down,.-streaming from Llaw’s oiled leather shirt and drenching his green woollen leggings. Reaching up, he took hold of a thick branch and smoothly hauled himself into the sanctuary of the tree, climbing swiftly to the uppermost boughs where a crude wooden platform had been fastened and the branches above interwoven to form a thick roof. He sat down and parted the leaves so that he could see the riders. They were closer now, but still he could recognize none of them.
    He pushed his blond hair from his eyes and lay back, willing himself to relax. Why should he care who they were hunting? Had anyone cared when Llaw Gyffes had been taken? Had anyone come forward to speak in his defence? Feeling his anger mount, he swallowed it swiftly. What point would there have been? You cannot blame them, Llaw. The decision was set from the moment he had smashed the bastard’s skull!
    One moment was all it took to change a life. In that single heartbeat, the blacksmith had become the outlaw.
    The Duke’s soldiers had been seeking a Nomad merchant accused of treason and had already ransacked several homes — stealing what they wished - when they had come upon Lydia. The officer in charge of the search ordered his men out, but stayed within himself. Seconds later Lydia’s scream was heard by many of the neighbours, but they did nothing. Only a young slave boy had the courage to run to the smithy. Llaw had dropped his tools and raced back through the narrow streets. Two soldiers were outside his door, but before they could draw their swords he fell upon them, his huge fists hammering them senseless. One suffered a broken jaw, the other three fractured ribs. When the smith kicked in the door, smashing the bronze hinges, Lydia was lying across the bed, her eyes lifeless; the officer was buckling his belt.
    As Llaw Gyffes advanced into the room, the officer drew his sword and lunged. Batting the blade aside with the back of his hand, Llaw crashed a ferocious blow to the man’s face and the officer fell to his knees, the sword slipping from his fingers. Llaw moved to the body of his wife, seeing the purple bruising at her throat. Then a strangled cry of horror escaped from him and he turned on the stunned killer. Blow after blow he ripped into the man until at last the punished skull split and Llaw found himself kneeling over something unrecognizable. He staggered to his feet, his hands drenched in blood and brain, and stumbled from the house - into a fresh squad of soldiers. Llaw made no attempt to defend himself and they dragged him to the prison at Mactha.
    For two months he was kept in an airless dungeon, chained to a wall. They fed him maggoty bread and stale water and left him sitting amidst his own filth. It was in this state that he was dragged before the court.
    The trial was held in the Duke’s Hall, and many were the faces Llaw recognized in the balconies above, to his left and his right: friends, neighbours, associates. The Duke sat on a raised dais, flanked by his knights, as the prosecutor outlined the facts. Llaw’s anger flared as he heard the twisted version of events: there was a disturbance in the home of the blacksmith and a squad of soldiers, led by the Duke’s nephew, entered the house. There they found that the blacksmith, Llaw Gyffes, had murdered his wife. Valiantly Maradin had tried to subdue the man, but the blacksmith’s strength was prodigious and he had fought like a demon, killing Maradin and severely injuring two other soldiers.
    The Duke leaned forward, his baleful eyes locking to Llaw’s. ‘What do you say?’ he asked.
    ‘It does not matter, I think, what I have to say,’ Llaw replied. ‘All around this hall are men who know the truth. This... Maradin... raped and