'Leave him be!'

Masrick ignored him and knelt before Fell, the knife moving towards the forester's eyes. Obrin's foot rose and slammed into the officer's face, spinning him to the ground. There was a gasp from the soldiers. Masrick rolled to his knees, then screamed as his hand pressed down on the red-hot blade which was smouldering in the grass. He surged to his feet, his face crimson. 'By God you'll pay for that!'

'I am an acting captain,' said Obrin, 'promoted by the Baron himself. You are a lieutenant who just disobeyed an order from a superior officer. Where does that leave you, you jumped-up toad?'

'You have lost your mind,' sneered Masrick, 'and I will see you hang for your impertinence. No common man may strike a nobleman, be the common man a captain or a general. That kick is going to cost you dear!'

'Ah well,' said Obrin, with a broad smile, 'may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!' So saying, he took a step forward and slammed his 125.

fist into the officer's mouth, catapulting the man from his feet. Drawing his dagger, he moved in for the kill.

Something struck him a wicked blow on the skull and he staggered, half turning.

He saw Bakker raise his arm, then the cudgel struck his temple and he fell into darkness.

When he awoke he found himself tied to his saddle. Masrick was leading the column and they were approaching a small castle. Fell was walking beside Obrin's mount, his hands tied behind him and a rope around his neck. The other end of the rope was being held by the rider in front.

'You really did it this time, sergeant,' said a voice from his left. Obrin turned in the saddle to see, riding alongside him, Bakker. 'Now they're going to hang you!

Not before time, if you ask me. You always was a right pain in the groin. Never liked you.'

Obrin ignored him.

The castle gates loomed ahead.

7.

A SMIDIR HAD NEVER enjoyed great talent as a magicker. Though his powers of concentration were great, and his imagination powerful, he had always lacked what his tutors termed ability of release. Magic, he was told, involved the user surrendering control and merging his mind with the powers hovering beyond what the five senses could experience. For all his talent Asmidir had never been able to fully release. Now he sat in the main hall, a huge leather-bound book open on his lap. The script was in gold, carefully set upon bleached leather; it was an ancient Kushir script and he read it with difficulty.

Closing the book, he stood and moved to the long, oval table. Upon it was a golden dish, set on a stand above three small candles. Asmidir drew his dagger and began to speak. His eyes were closed, his spirit loose within the cage of his powerful body as his breathing deepened. The dagger blade cut into his forearm and blood welled, dripping into the heated dish where it sizzled and steamed.

Asmidir's voice faded away. Opening his eyes, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

It was done. Not brilliantly, not even expertly. Let it at least be adequate, he thought. Returning the dagger to its sheath he pressed his thumb against the shallow wound on his arm, applying pressure for some minutes. A dark-skinned servant stepped forward with a long linen bandage. Asmidir extended his arm, and the man skilfully applied it.

'Bring the officer here to me, Ari,' he told the servant. 'Also the man in green. You have prepared the refreshment I ordered for the soldiers?'

'Yes, lord. As you commanded.'

The servant took the bowl and departed the room. Asmidir returned to the log fire and settled himself into an armchair. He heard the sounds of hoofbeats on stone, and felt the cold blast of air as the main doors of the castle were pulled open to admit the soldiers.

127.

Rising from his chair, he turned towards the door just as the potbellied Lieutenant Masrick strode into sight with Kollarin the Finder behind him.

Masrick's face was discoloured, his lips thickened and split.

'Good day to you,' said Asmidir, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. 'It is good to see you again, Masrick.' The officer responded with a perfunctory handshake. A servant appeared. 'Fetch wine for our guests, Ari.' Masrick removed his iron helm and carelessly dropped it upon the highly polished table.

'The Baron wants to see you," said Masrick. 'You are to return with us to Citadel.'

'I think you mean that the Baron has requested my presence,' said Asmidir coolly.

'No, I said what I meant. He told me to bring you, and that's what I'll do.' Masrick lifted a hand to his smashed lips, probing them. 'I have two prisoners with me.

Does this place still boast a dungeon?'

'No,' Asmidir told him. He swung to Kollarin. 'And you must be the Finder,' he said, forcing a smile. 'I take it from the fact that you have prisoners that you have been successful.'

'Yes,' said Kollarin. He moved to the hearth and reached out to touch the leather- bound book on the small table. Idly the man in green flipped open the cover. 'Ah, a Kushir grimoire. A long time since I have seen such a work. The scripting is very fine - resin dusted with gold and then varnished. Exquisite!'

'You read Kushir?' asked Asmidir, holding his expression to one of mild interest, while his heart beat against his ribs like a drum of war.

'I read all known languages,' said Kollarin. 'I do not wish it to sound like a boast, since it is a Talent I have possessed all my life, and not the result of dedicated study.'

The servant, Ari, returned with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Masrick accepted his without a word of thanks. Kollarin smiled at Ari and gave a short bow of the head. 'Not drinking with us, Asmidir?' Masrick asked.

'No.' Turning back to Kollarin, he asked, 'What will you do now that your hunt has been successful?"

'Successful?' queried Kollarin.

'Two prisoners. I understood you were hunting for a man and a woman.'

'We haven't caught the woman yet,' said Masrick, cutting in, 'but 128.

we will. We have the forester, Fell. The other prisoner is a renegade. He struck me! Loosened several teeth. By God, he'll pay for it when I get him back to Citadel.'

'It does look sore,' agreed Asmidir. 'Ari, fetch some of the special camomile ointment for this gentleman.' As the servant departed Asmidir seated himself before the fire, trying not to look at Kollarin as the man slowly turned the pages of the grimoire. 'So,' he said to Masrick, 'why does the Baron request my presence so urgently?'

'That's for him to tell you,' muttered Masrick. 'Now where can I lodge these prisoners? Do you have no rooms with locks?'

'Sadly, no. I suggest you bring them in here. Then at least you can watch them until you leave.'

'Until we leave,' corrected Masrick.

Asmidir rose and approached the officer. The black man was at least a foot taller.

'At the moment, my dear Masrick, I am putting aside your bad manners on the grounds that the blow to your face, and the subsequent pain, has made you forget your breeding. Understand, however, that my patience is not limitless. Try to remember that you are an insignificant second cousin to the Baron, whereas I am a friend to the King. Now get out and fetch your prisoners. I wish to speak with the Finder.'

Masrick's mouth dropped open, and his eyes narrowed. Asmidir read the fury there. The black man leaned in close. 'Think carefully before you react, moron. It is considered deeply unlucky to be struck twice in the face on the same day.'

Masrick swallowed hard and backed away. Asmidir swung away from him and crossed the room to where Kollarin waited. For a moment only Masrick hesitated, then he marched from the hall.

'You did not need the cloak spell,' said Kollarin softly. 'I refused to hunt the woman.'

'Very wise,' Asmidir told him, keeping his voice low. 'When you return to Citadel town I will see that one hundred silver pieces are delivered to you.'

'Very kind.' Kollarin's green eyes held Asmidir's gaze. 'But I shall not be returning to Citadel.'

'Neither shall I,' said Asmidir, with a wry smile.

Masrick returned to the hall and two soldiers led in the prisoners, ordering them to sit by the far wall. The officer marched up to Asmidir. 'I fear you were right, Lord Asmidir,' said Masrick. 'The events of the day shortened my temper. I ask your forgiveness for my ... abrupt manner.' The anger was still present in his eyes, but Asmidir merely smiled.

'We will say no more about it, my dear Masrick. Are your men being fed?'

'Yes. Thank you. How soon will you be ready to leave?'

Asmidir did not answer, but strolled across the hall and stood before the prisoners. 'I know you,' he said, addressing Obrin. 'You were in the fist-fighting tourney last winter. You lost in the final -stumbled and went down with an overhand right.'

'You have a good memory for faces,' Obrin told him. 'Now if I'd managed to hit the Cleatian with the same power that I used on goat-face there, I would have won.'

Masrick ran forward and aimed a savage kick which thundered against Obrin's shoulder. 'Be silent, wretch!' he shouted.

'Even kicks like a goat,' sneered Obrin.

Masrick drew his dagger. 'I'll cut your bastard tongue out!' he threatened.

Asmidir laid his hand on the officer's arm. 'Not here my friend,' he said. 'The rugs were expensive, shipped all the way from Kushir.

As Obrin's laughter sounded, Masrick paled, and his hand trembled. But he slammed the dagger back in its scabbard.

The servant returned, carrying a small enamelled pot. As he paused beside Masrick and bowed, the officer looked at the tall servant. 'Well, what do you want?'

Ari held out the pot. 'What is this?' Masrick asked Asmidir.

'A healing ointment. Apply it to the lips and you will see.'

Masrick took the pot and removed the lid. The ointment was cream-coloured.

Dabbing a finger to it, he spread some on his injury. 'That is good,' he said.

'Soothing! Where did you obtain it?'

'My servants are a&Al-jiin,' said Asmidir. 'They are very skilled with potions.'

Kollarin was only half listening to the exchange, but the words Al-jiin cut through him like a sword of ice. Standing beside the hearth he stiffened, his green eyes flicking to Ari. The man was tall and slender, his skin the colour of age-polished oak; he had a prominent nose, not negroid like Asmidir, but curved and aquiline.

In that moment 130.

Kollarin wondered how he could ever have been convinced the man was a servant. He glanced at his wine goblet. It was still almost full. How much had he drunk? One mouthful? Two?

Ari turned slowly, his deep dark stare pinning Kollarin. The servant seemed to glide across the room. 'Are you well, lord? asked Ari. 'You are looking pale.'

'I am well at this moment,' said Kollarin. Reaching out with his Talent, he touched the other man's mind... and recoiled as if he had thrust his hand into a fire.

'Perhaps you should sit down, lord,' offered Ari.

'Am I to die here?' pulsed Kollarin.

'If my Lord wills it so,' came the response. 'If you will excuse me,' he said aloud, 'I have duties to attend to.'

'By all means,' said Kollarin. Ari turned and left the hall and once more Kollarin reached out, seeking not the mind of the servant but choosing instead the soldiers who were waiting outside. He pictured the solid cavalryman, Klebb.

Nothing. One by one he sought out the others.

Still nothing. Were their thoughts being shielded, he wondered?

Sitting by the fire he closed his eyes and dropped his spirit to the second level, opening his mind to more general astral emanations. He felt the castle and its great age, and beyond it the forest and the heartbeat of eternity.

From here it was a simple matter to find the third level. Kollarin gasped. Moving through the castle he could see the restless, disembodied shapes of lost spirits, murdered men who did not yet know they had died.

His eyes snapped open.

All dead. Twenty-eight soldiers, drugged and then strangled. All that remained were the two guards in the room, and Masrick himself. Kollarin's mouth was dry and he reached out for his wine. What are you doing, fool? Leaving the goblet where it stood, he rose and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Am I under sentence? he wondered.

Asmidir crossed the hall. 'You seem preoccupied, my boy,' he said.

Kollarin looked up into the black man's face, seeing the power there, and the cruelty. 'YourAl-jiin have completed their work,' he said softly. 'Where does that leave me?'

'Where would you like to be left?' Asmidir asked.

'Alive would be pleasant.'

'What are you two whispering about?' asked Masrick, picking up Kollarin's goblet and draining it. He belched and then sat down.

'We were talking about life and death, Masrick,' said Asmidir, 'and the slender thread that separates both.'

'Nothing slender about it,' said the officer. 'It is all a question of skill and courage.'

'What about luck?' asked Asmidir. 'Being in the wrong place at the wrong time?'

'A man makes his own luck,' replied Masrick.

'I'm not sure that's true,' said Asmidir. 'But let us put it to the test. Would it be lucky or unlucky were you to find the woman, Sigarni?'

'Lucky, of course,' answered Masrick. 'You know where she is?'

'Indeed I do.' Asmidir clapped his hands twice. A line of warriors filed silently into the room; tall men in black cloaks and helms, all carrying sabres of shining steel. They wore black mail-shirts which extended to their thighs, and black boots reinforced with strips of black steel. Across their chests each wore a thick leather baldric, complete with three throwing knives in jet-black sheaths. Kollarin moved back against the wall as the warriors fanned out. He recognized the servant Ari, though the man now looked like a prince of legend.

Masrick was also watching them. 'What is the meaning of this?' he asked.

Asmidir chuckled and without turning his head he gave an order. 'Kill the guards,'