Sorrow touched her then and she stood and wandered away from the house, heading for the sanctuary of the waterfall pool. This was where she always came when events left her saddened or angry. It was here she had been found on that awful night when her parents were slain: she was just sitting by the willow, her eyes vacant, her blonde hair turned white as snow. Sigarni remembered nothing of that night, save that the pool was the one safe place in a world of uncertainty.

Only tonight there was no sanctuary. A man was dead, a good man, a kind man.

That he was stupid counted for nothing now. She remembered his smile, the softness of his touch and his desperation to make her happy.

'It could never be you, Bernt,' she said aloud. 'You were not the man for me. I've yet to meet him, but I'll know him when I do.' Tears formed in her eyes, misting her vision. 'I'm sorry that you are dead,' she said. 'Truly I am. And I'm sorry that I didn't come to you. I thought you wanted to beg me back, and I didn't want that.'

Movement on the surface of the pool caught her eye. A mist was moving on the water, swirling and rising. It formed the figure of a man, blurred and indistinct. A slight breeze touched it, sending it

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moving towards her, and Sigarni scrambled to her feet and backed away.

'Do not run,' whispered a man's voice inside her mind.

But she did, turning and sprinting up over the rocks and away on to the old deer trail.

Sigarni did not stop until she had reached her cabin, and even then she barred the door and built a roaring fire. Focusing her gaze on the timbered wall, she scanned the weapons hanging there: the leaf-bladed broadsword, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows, the daggers and dirks and the helm, with its crown and cheek-guards of black iron and the nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Moving to them she lifted down a long dagger, and sat honing its blade with a whetstone.

It was an hour before she stopped trembling.

Gwalchmai's mouth was dry, and his tongue felt as if he had spent the night chewing badger fur. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes, and the bouncing of the dog-cart caused his stomach to heave. He broke wind noisily, which eased the pressure on his belly. He always used to enjoy getting drunk in the morning, but during the last few years it had begun to seem like a chore. The great grey wolfhounds, Shamol and Cabris, paused in their pulling and the cart stopped.

Shamol was looking to the left of the trail, his head still, dark eyes alert. Cabris squatted down, seemingly bored. 'No hares today, boys!' said Gwalch, flicking the reins. Reluctantly Shamol launched himself into the traces. Caught unawares, Cabris did not rise in time and almost went under the little cart. Angry, the hound took a nip at Shamol's flank. The two dogs began to snarl, their fur bristling.

'Quiet!' bellowed Gwalch. 'Hell's dungeons, I haven't had a headache like this since the axe broke my skull. So keep it down and behave yourselves.' Both hounds looked at him, then felt the light touch of the reins on their backs.

Obediently they started to pull. Reaching behind him, Gwalch lifted a jug of honey mead and took a swallow.

Sigarni's cabin was in sight now, and he could see the black bitch, Lady, sitting hi the dust before it. So could Shamol and Cabris and with a lunge they broke into a run. Gwalch was caught between the desire to save his bones and the need to protect his jug. He clung on

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grimly. The cart survived the race down the hill, and once on level ground Gwalch began to hope that the worst was over. But then Lady ran at the hounds, swerving at the last moment to race away into the meadow. Shamol and Cabris tried to follow her, the cart tipped and Gwalch flew through the air, still clutching his jug to his scrawny chest. Twisting, he struck the ground on his back, honey mead slurping from the jug to drench his green woollen tunic. Slowly he sat up, then took a long drink. The hounds were now sitting quietly by the upturned cart, watching him gravely. Leaving the jug on the boardwalk, he stood and walked to where the cart lay. Righting it he moved to the dogs, untying the reins. Shamol nuzzled his hand, but Cabris took off immediately towards the woods in search of Lady. Shamol ambled after him.

Gwalch recovered his jug and went into the house. He found Sigarni sitting at the table, a dagger before her. Her hair was unwashed, her face drawn, her eyes tired.

Gwalch gathered two clay cups and filled them both with mead, pushing one towards her. She shook her head. 'Drink it, girl,' he said sitting opposite her. 'It'll do you no harm.'

'Read my mind,' she commanded.

'No. You'll remember when you are ready.'

'Damn you, Gwalch! you're quick to tell everyone's fortune but mine. What happened that night when my parents were butchered? Tell me!'

'You know what happened. Your ... father and his wife were lulled. You survived.

What else is there to know?'

'Why did my hair turn white? Why were the bodies buried so swiftly? I didn't even see them.'

'Tell me about last night.'

'Why should I? You already know. Bernt's ghost came to me at the pool."

'No,' he said, 'that wasn't Bernt. Poor, sad Bernt is gone from the world. The spirit who spoke to you was from another time. Why did you run?'

'I was ... frightened.' Her pale eyes locked to his, daring him to criticize her.

Gwalch smiled. 'Not easy to admit, is it? Not when you are Sigarni the Huntress, the woman who needs no one. Did you know this is my birthday? Seventy-eight years ago today I made my first cry. Killed my

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first man fourteen years later, a cattle raider. Tracked him for three days. He took my father's prize bull. It's been a long life, Sigarni. Long and irritatingly eventful.'

Pouring the last of the mead, he drained it in a single swallow, then gazed longingly at the empty jug.

'Who was the ghost?' she asked 'Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.' She shivered and looked away.

'I can't.'

Gwalch chuckled. 'There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni. Nothing.'

Reaching across the table she took his hand, stroking it tenderly. 'Oh,come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won't you help me?'

'I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don't remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle ofyour own urine. Your eyes were blank, and you were slack- jawed. I had a friend with me; his name was Taliesen. It was he - and another - who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are strong enough to turn the key. That's what he told me.'

'So,' she said, snatching back her hand, 'your only advice is for me to return to the pool and face the ghost? Yes?'

'Yes,' he agreed.

'Well, I won't do it.'

'That is your choice, Sigarni. And perhaps it is the right one. Time will show. Are you angry with me?'

'Yes.'

'Too angry to fetch me the flagon of honey mead you have in the kitchen?'

Sigarni smiled then, and fetched the flagon. 'You are an old reprobate, and I don't know why you've lived so long. I think maybe you are just too stubborn to die.'

Leaning forward she proffered the flagon, but as he reached for it she drew it back. 'One question you mustanswer. The Slaughterers were not human, were they?' He licked his lips, buthis eyes remained fixed on the flagon. 'Were they?'

she persisted.

'No,' he admitted. 'They were birthed in die Dark, Hollow-tooths sent to kill you.'

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'Why me?'

'You said one question,' he reminded her, 'but I'll answer it. They came for you because of who you are. And that is all I will say now. But I promise you we will speak again soon.'

She handed him the flagon and sat down.

'I cannot go to the pool, Gwal. I cannot.'

Gwalchmai did not answer her. The mead was beginning to work its magic, and his mind swam.

The Baron Ranulph Gottasson ran a bony finger down the line on the map. 'And this represents what?' he asked the blond young man shivering before him.

Leofric rubbed his cold hands together, thankful that he had had the common sense to wear a woollen undershirt below his tunic, and two pairs of thick socks.

His fleece-lined gloves were in his pocket, and he wished he had the nerve to wear them. The Baron's study at the top of the Citadel was always cold, though a fire was permanently laid, as if to mock the Baron's servants. 'Are you listening, boy?'

snarled the Baron.

Leofric leaned over the table and felt the cold breeze from the open window flicker against his back. 'That is the river Dranuin, sir. It starts on the northern flank of High Druin and meanders through the forest into the sea. That is in Pallides lands.'

The Baron glanced up and smiled. The boy's face was blue-tinged. 'Cold, Leofric?'

'Yes, sir.'

'A soldier learns to put aside thoughts of discomfort. Now tell me about the Pallides.'

I'm not a soldier, thought Leofric, I am a cleric. And there is a difference between the discomfort endured through necessity and the active enjoyment of it. But these thoughts he kept to himself. 'The largest of the clans, the Pallides number some six thousand people. It used to be more, but the Great War devastated them. In the main they are cattle-breeders, though there are some farms which grow oats and barley. In the far north there are two main fishing fleets. The Pallides are spread over some two hundred square miles and live in sixteen villages, the largest being Caswallir, named after a warrior of old who, legend claims, brought the Witch Queen to their aid in the Aenir Wars.'

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'I don't care about legends. Just facts. How many people in Caswallir?'

'Around eleven hundred, sir, but it does depend on the time of the year. They have their Games in the autumn and there could be as many as five thousand people attending every day for ten days. Of course, these are not all Pallides.

Loda, Farlain, and even some Wingoras will attend - though the Wingoras are all but finished now. Our census shows only around one hundred and forty remain in the remote Highlands.'

'How many fighting men?'

'Just the Pallides, sir?' asked Leofric, sitting down and opening a heavy leather- bound ledger. The Baron nodded. 'It is difficult to estimate, sir. After all, what constitutes a fighting man in a people with no army? If we are talking men and older boys capable of bearing arms, then the figure would be ..." He flicked through three pages, making swift mental calculations, then went on:'... say...

eighteen hundred. But of these around a thousand would be below the age of seventeen. Hardly veterans.'

'Who leads them?'

'Well, sir, as you know there is no longer an official Hunt Lord, but our spies tell us that the people still revere Fyon Sharp-axe, and treat him as if he still held the tide.'

Lifting a quill pen, the Baron dipped the sharpened nib into a pot of ink and scrawled the name on a single sheet of paper. 'Go on.'

'What else can I tell you, sir?' asked Leofric, nonplussed.

'Who else do they revere?'

'Er ... I don't have information on that sir. Merely statistics.'

The Baron's hooded eyes focused on the younger man's face. 'Find out, Leofric.

All possible leaders. Names, directions to their homes or farms.'

'Might I ask, sir, why are we gathering this information? All our agents assure us there is no hint of rebellion in the Highlands. They do not have the men, the weapons, the training or the leaders.'

'Now tell me about the other clans,' said the Baron, his quill at the ready.

Ballistar sat perched on the saddle of the small grey pony and stared around at the village of Cilfallen. Despite his fears, he gazed with a sense of wonder at this unfamiliar view. The pony was only ten hands high, barrel-bellied with short stubby legs - a dwarf horse for a dwarf. And yet, Ballistar estimated, he was now viewing the world from around six feet high, seeing it as Fell or Sigarni would see it.

Fat Tovi emerged from his bakery, and smiled at the dwarf. 'What nonsense is this?' he asked, transferring his gaze to the man on the black gelding who was waiting patiently beyond Ballistar.

'The sorcerer Asmidir has asked me to cook for him,' said Ballistar boldly, though even the words sent a flicker of fear through him. 'And he has given me this pony.

For my own.'