She dithered for a moment, frozen by fear of discovery. Then she stumbled to her feet and dashed across the open ground, her heart in her mouth. What if someone was watching? What if there were pickets? The words blood-eagle scrabbled across her mind. Then she was amongst the trees and swamped in inky blackness, running blindly forward, though she had no idea which way to go.

She ran for several aimless minutes, then jerked to a halt, listening in the dark. The forest around her was as silent as a grave, and she could hear nothing to indicate that she was on the right track. She began to push forward again, moving as quietly as she could through the thick undergrowth.

The trees ahead were abruptly silhouetted against a flare of light, and Wynter crouched, staring, as, one after another, a series of torches were lit around the perimeter of a huge clearing. Soon the forest ahead was ablaze with light, a flaming heart at the centre of the darkness. Somewhere within that blinding radiance a great bass drum began to throb, its rhythm slow and deliberate.

The trees above Wynter s head came alive as unseen things began to call harshly in the rustling branches. Wide-eyed, Wynter peered up into the darkness. With a cry, something huge launched itself into the air above her. A chorus of croaking, angry caws followed as the occupants of the treetops fought amongst themselves. Ravens! The trees were full of ravens, woken from their sleep and set to quarrelling by the unexpected light. Wynter ducked her head, cursing, as twigs and bits of debris rained down on her. She blinked her eyes clear of dust, and began to creep forward as the enormous birds jostled and argued overhead.

It was difficult to focus against the light, and for a moment the Merron were nothing but black figures moving against a backdrop of fire. Then Wynter's eyes adjusted and she saw clearly. Ashkr and Embla stood side by side a short distance away, their backs turned to Wynter. At Ashkr's right hand was Christopher, at Embla's left, Wari, and all four stood to stiff attention, watching the ceremonies. Wynter peered beyond them, trying to take everything in.

At the centre of the clearing loomed an enormous, horseshoe-shaped structure of neatly stacked logs and bundles of twigs. A great, dark shape, it brooded in the flickering light of the torches. The space encircled by its arms cradled a deep, unyielding mass of shadow, against which the Caoirigh were illuminated like icons.

It is a pyre, realised Wynter suddenly. They have constructed a pyre. She shrank back, her fists closing against the loose leaf-mould, her mind trying to retreat They have constructed a pyre. For whom?

More torches flared to life, and they revealed another structure, towering behind the squat body of the pyre. At first Wynter thought it was a marble pillar, then she saw that it was the trunk of some enormous tree, severed from its roots and held upright by wedges and ropes. It had been trimmed of its branches and shaved of its bark. Sap wept from the pale wood, oozing in long, glowing rivers down its length.

Halfway up this pillar, perhaps twenty feet from the ground, a deep niche had been carved into the wood. Etched in shadow like the heart of the pyre, this space was just big enough for one person to stand within. Wynter stared at this wavering, man-sized patch of darkness, and the lump of terror in her throat grew so big that she could not breathe.

The Merron began to chant, and dark figures came forward, advancing on the twins. As they approached, Ashkr and Embla lifted their arms from their sides and held them out in identical poses of acceptance. Ashkr's hands were shaking.

Hallvor came from behind the pyre and stood to one side, her head bowed. Her bare arms were looped with coils of willow-bark cord. She looked as though she were wrapped all around with thin, dark snakes. Slowly, she lifted her arms to shoulder height, and Wynter saw that the ropes were decorated with many small medicine bags and crow feathers. The medicine-bags swayed like small, black malignant growths.

Ulfnaor stepped from the shadows. His dark hair was loose as usual and flowing around his shoulders, but he had dressed it with black crow feathers; they twirled and fluttered as he strode past Hallvor and came to stand before the Caoirigh. Solemnly, the Aoire kissed each twin on the cheek, and at each kiss, the surrounding people chanted something low.

Christopher and Wari crouched to pick something from the ground. There was a warm flash of firelight on copper as each man lifted a shallow metal bowl and turned to face the Caoirigh. Christopher's face was briefly outlined in fire. Wynter saw him glance at Ashkr, then he bowed his head and his expression was lost in shadow.

The drums and the Merron chant stopped dead. In the heavy, crackling silence Ulfnaor drew his knife and slowly cut into Ashkr's outstretched forearm. Ashkr jerked slightly and his hands clenched, but that was all. To Wynter's horror, Christopher calmly lifted his bowl and caught the stream of blood that poured from Ashkr's wound. Ulfnaor repeated the ritual with Embla. The pale lady flinched as the knife cut her flesh, but then, like her brother, she stood perfectly still as her blood drained brightly into Wari's bowl. The sound of liquid trickling against copper was horribly loud.

This is not real, thought Wynter, this cannot be real. She tried to see Christopher's face, but it was turned from her.

The blood kept flowing, Embla and Ashkr standing patiently as it poured into the upraised bowls. Ulfnaor, his face cast into shadow, waited with his arms at his sides, his head angled downward. The sound of blood spattering onto metal, the harsh crackle of the torches, and overhead, the rustle of unseen wings were all that was to be heard for what felt like two lifetimes. Then the bright stream of liquid slowed, became a trickle, broke into an unsteady procession of heavy drops. Then stopped.

The drums beat out once more.

Embla swayed slightly, and Ashkr had lost some of the rigidity in his spine, but other than that they remained noble and aloof. Christopher and Wari turned and held out the bowls of blood. Once again, Wynter caught a brief glimpse of Christopher's face. It was blank and as empty of emotion as a death mask.

Not real, she thought again. Not real. She scanned the semicircle of darkly watchful faces, took in their intense solemnity, and brought her loam-stained hands to her mouth. Not real.

Ulfnaor dipped his hand into Christopher's bowl, turned, and with fingers of dripping scarlet smeared a line of blood down the centre of Hallvor's forehead. She smiled and closed her eyes. Ulfnaor murmured a question. Hallvor nodded her consent, and the Aoire painted her mouth.

With a murmured prayer, Hallvor licked the glistening colour from her lips.

Ulfnaor dipped his fingers again, and this time he marked Christopher's forehead, painting a shining red stripe from Christopher s hairline to just between his dark eyebrows. The Aoire paused, his dripping finger poised over Christopher's lips. Again, he murmured the question. There was the slightest moment of hesitation, a minute tightening of Christopher's mouth. Then he nodded, and Wynter moaned in revulsion as Ulfnaor painted Christopher's lips with Ashkr's blood.

Ulfnaor turned to perform the ritual on Wari, and Wynter stared at Christopher. His lips were trembling, his mouth gleaming scarlet in the torchlight. As Wynter watched, a large drop of blood formed on Christopher's lower lip, shivered and fell.

The Merron began to line up for their turn, and Ulfnaor's shadow once again darkened Christopher's pale face as the Aoire dipped his fingers into the copper basin. Just before he turned away again, Ulfnaor lifted his dark eyes. Wynter saw the shock on his face as he took in Christopher's still dripping mouth. Christopher met his eye. Ulfnaor paused for only a fraction of a second. Then, his body shielding Christopher from the others, the big man lifted his hand and with the ball of his thumb discreetly wiped the young man's mouth clean.

Christopher's eyes fluttered shut in relief, and Wynter had to rest her forehead against the ground for a moment as she fought the churning in her stomach.

One after another the Merron came forward, and each took the blood of the Caoirigh onto their brow and onto their tongue. Ashkr, Embla, Wari and Christopher stood unmoving, torchlight crawling across their faces. Hallvor stood to the side, the dark coils of rope looped in silent promise along her arms.

When all the Merron had been anointed, the healer took the empty basin from Christopher's hands and carried it into the black depths of the pyre. Ulfnaor took the basin of Embla's blood and led his people around the clearing. He dipped his hand as he went, casting dark, shining droplets before him, anointing the ground, as he had the people, with the life's blood of their most precious, their most beloved Caoirigh Beo.

Immediately, Christopher and Wari turned their attention to the twins. Wari took a cloth from his belt, pressing it to Embla's arm. He murmured to her and she nodded, her face turning so that Wynter caught a sliver of that perfect cheekbone, a brief glimpse of Embla's mouth. Christopher bent Ashkr's arm against a similar pad of cloth. He glanced up into the tall man's face, but they did not speak.

The procession came back around. Ulfnaor still casting bright drops of blood left and right. The drums throbbed their slow, unhurried beat. Solemnly, the Merron arranged themselves on either side of the pyre, and Ulfnaor, the bowl in his hands, disappeared into its waiting shadows.

In the ensuing quiet, Ashkr said something, very softly. Christopher looked up at him, his eyes full, and Embla reached across and took her brother's hand. Abruptly, the drums ceased, and the Merron turned to face the Caoirigh, their eyes writhing pits of shadow. There was an overwhelming sense of now. Feverishly, Wynter groped about in the leaves until she found a branch. She pulled it against her thigh, staring at Christopher, waiting for him to move.

The Merron spoke, their voices as flat and sonorous as the worshippers in a Midlander's Mass. From the darkness of the pyre came Hallvor, her arms outstretched, her ropes writhing hungrily in the light breeze. The drums began to beat again, very loudly.

Hallvor strode up to Embla. Smiling gently, she said something.

Embla took an involuntary step back, and Ashkr's hand tightened against hers, halting her retreat. He smiled at her, and whispered. Embla's eyes overflowed as she stared into his loving face, and Ashkr leant in so that their foreheads were touching. He whispered again in brotherly reassurance. Then Hallvor reached between them and took Embla's hand. Ever so gently, she turned Embla away from her brother. For a brief moment the twins remained in contact, their foreheads touching, then Embla was forced around to face the crowd.

The lady faltered for only a moment, then she straightened and flung out her arms.

"Ar Fad do Chroi an Domhain," she said, her voice cracking. And then, louder and with real strength and conviction, she cried, "Ar fad do Chroi an Domhain!"The congregation roared its joy.

Still smiling, Hallvor took Embla's outstretched arms and brought the lady's hands together in an attitude of prayer. Deftly, she tied Embla's joined hands with twists of black rope. The drums grew louder and the Merron crooned low. Some of them began to sway, their eyes drifting shut.

Hallvor quickly looped the rope around Embla's body, binding the pale lady's arms against her chest. She cast a loop around Embla's neck and down around her bound wrists, then yanked the rope tight. Then, holding the free end in her hands like some form of lead, the healer turned to her people, her arms outstretched in triumph.

"Feach!" she cried, "Feach! Caora an Domhain!"

The Merron whooped, lifting their arms over their heads in a single rising clap.

Suddenly all the women of the group rushed forward, hands out, and they crowded around Embla, petting her and kissing her cheek. Tenderly, they patted Embla's back and touched her hair, supported her with hands on her elbows and arms around her waist. Hallvor led them around the back of the pyre. Embla walked calmly amongst them, her head down, her face turned from Wynter's view. Wari followed discreetly in her wake.

Wynter stared, wide-eyed, as the women disappeared from view, then she desperately switched her attention to Christopher. Surely he must act soon? Surely he could not allow the Merron to split the twins apart?

The blood on Christopher's forehead had trickled down each side of his nose and run in scarlet tracks under his eyes. His mouth was smeared with red. As Wynter crouched in the shadows, clutching her pathetic branch and willing him to act, he stood motionless by Ashkr's side, his face blank, and did nothing.

The women led Embla to the back of the clearing. The men stayed behind, staring at Ashkr whose breathing was very shallow and fast. Within the shadows of the pyre, the patch of waiting darkness that was Ulfnaor shifted slightly and the torches glittered in his eyes. There was a long, patient stillness.

Suddenly, Ashkr took a step back, and Christopher straightened in surprise. For the first time, Wynter saw his blank mask fall aside and that familiar, blade-like determination rise up in his face. He tilted his head, gazing up at Ashkr, his eyes questioning.

Wynter lifted her branch, ready to leap forward. She had no plan of action. Like herself, Christopher had no sword, no shield, no knife. No hope, she thought desperately, hoisting the branch. We have no hope.

Ashkr lifted his beautiful hands, as if trying to form words with them. He spoke quietly, his eyes huge and liquid. At his words, all the urgency left Christopher's posture, and resignation and sorrow numbed his face once more. He did not speak, just nodded, squeezed the tall man's arm and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Across the clearing, the women had gathered at the foot of the big pillar. They were helping Embla onto some kind of platform. Wari, his face twisted with the agony of his wounded shoulder, began hauling a rope, hand over hand, and slowly Embla was hoisted from the ground. Gradually she rose higher and higher against the surface of the pillar until she reached the man-sized patch of darkness that had been carved into the body of the trunk. Wari ceased his steady hauling and secured the end of the rope, leaving the platform suspended, fifteen, maybe twenty feet off the ground, holding Embla on level with that wavering, black hollow in its surface.

Wynter stared up at the pale lady-out of reach, now, completely beyond saving-and her eyes filled and overflowed with tears. There was no plan, she realised. There would be no rescue. Numbly, she lowered the branch to the ground and sank into the leaves.

Embla stood on the suspended shelf of her platform, gazing serenely down on Ashkr. The crow feathers on the rope around her neck rose and fell against her white skin, a medicine pouch nestled against her breast like a black toad. Ashkr took a deep breath, straightened his back, and bowed. His sister tilted her head fondly, then without further hesitation, stepped backward into the shadow of the niche.

Still Ashkr hesitated. Looking down at his wrist, he slowly closed his fingers on the plaited band of silver and copper there. Suddenly he turned, grabbed Christopher on either side of his face, and pulled him forward, kissing him on the mouth. Wynter leapt in shock. Christopher's hands clenched and his spine stiffened, but he did not pull free. The kiss lingered, gentle, heartfelt, desperate, then Ashkr broke away, and, without looking back, strode purposefully towards the pyre.

As Ashkr approached, a torch flared to life within the darkness. The interior was revealed, and the sight of it filled Wynter with despair. Ulfnaor stood waiting, the flaring torch in his hand. Behind him, an eight-foot stake threw unsteady shadows against the log walls. On either side of him, the corpses of the twins' beautiful stallions knelt as if in prayer. Their massive heads were bowed, their foreheads touching the ground at their bent knees. It seemed for all the world as if they were paying obeisance to the tall, blond man who now strode through the ranks of his people and into the heart of his funeral pyre.

As Ashkr passed amongst the Merron men, they reverently touched his hair, his shoulder, the bracelets on his arms. He accepted this without any reaction. Three of the warhounds lay dead on the ground near the entrance to the pyre. Ashkr stepped across their bodies and walked between the hunched forms of the horses and past Ulfnaor. He came to a halt at the stake. Laying his palm against the smooth wood, he looked beyond it to the stars. For a moment he contemplated the sky. Then he turned, leaned his weight against the stake, lay back his head, and shut his eyes.

The women by the pillar began to sing, their voices sweet and high.

Hallvor came swiftly around the corner of the pyre. Wynter could hardly see now through her tears, but she watched as Hallvor bound Ashkr to the stake and Ulfnaor piled birch bundles around Ashkr's feet and up to his chest. The men fetched more tinder from behind the pyre and piled it around the bodies of the horses and around the warhounds, up and up until the interior of the pyre was stacked with brittle kindling. Hallvor took a large pitcher and slowly poured oil onto the branches at Ashkr's feet, singing as she did so. Then, smiling, she kissed Ashkr and left.

Alone now, Ulfnaor stood at the foot of the stake and gazed up at the man he'd protected for so long. Ashkr was watching the stars, his head pressed back against the wood. Ulfnaor's eyes abruptly overflowed. He shook his head. He spoke. Ashkr glanced down, and at the sight of the Aoire's tear-stained face, he smiled reassuringly. It's all right, that smile said, I'm all right. Gesturing with his chin, he indicated that Ulfnaor should leave. Ulfnaor faltered for just a moment longer, then he bowed and walked stiffly between the stacks of kindling until he was outside the pyre. Ashkr turned his attention back to the sky.

High above him, Embla stood in her little altar of shadows and she, too, was watching the stars. Wynter could see her chest rising and falling rapidly, the medicine pouch swaying between her bound wrists. The song of the women drifted up to her, as bright and as clear as the stars themselves. Behind the pillar, Wari stood poised, his sword resting lightly on the taut line of a rope that rose up from him into the darkness and out of Wynter's sight.

At the pyre, Ulfnaor ordered the men aside and they lined up neatly on either side of him, gazing at Ashkr. The Aoire held the blazing torch aloft, as if to show it to his people, and turned slowly in place. As he turned, Wynter saw Ulfnaor search the tree line. He found Christopher and deliberately locked eyes with him. Still turning, Ulfnaor maintained eye contact, until finally, Christopher, his mouth twisted in bitter despair, nodded. Then the Aoire dropped his head, and completed his slow turn until he was, once again, facing the pyre.

Christopher stepped backwards into the trees.

Silently, Ulfnaor raised the torch above his head. His people roared. Ulfnaor hesitated only a moment, then Wynter saw his shoulder jerk, his arm whip forward, and he threw the torch. It flew through the air, flaring and sparking, tumbling end over end, and landed irretrievably in the tinder at Ashkr's feet. The oil-soaked wood roared to life, and Wynter leapt recklessly to her feet, the branch dropping from her hand. She wailed, but her voice was drowned by the Merron's roar as the fire raced its way towards Ashkr's body.

The blond lord cried out in fear, throwing back his head as the flames flared around him. At his voice, Embla snapped her head around. She saw the rising smoke and she howled, pressing herself back into the shadows, turning her face away. Christopher froze in the darkness of the undergrowth, his eyes fixed on the now crackling heart of the pyre.

Suddenly Ashkr began to scream-high and uncontrollable. His voice seemed to break a spell and Christopher spun with a cry, diving behind a tree. Wynter leapt to fly after him, thinking he was trying to escape. But, instead of running, Christopher fell to his knees, scrabbling at the base of the tree. He almost fell over as he surged back to his feet. He had something in his hands. He was struggling with it. Wynter saw that it was his crossbow. Suddenly everything fell into place for her.

Oh hurry, she thought, pushing her way through the bushes towards him. Christopher, hurry!

The drums still beat out their violent rhythm, but Ashkr's screams seemed to have shocked the men into stillness, and they stood, motionless and staring, as he thrashed against his bonds. The women, too, had stopped singing and they stood, wide-eyed, their faces turned to the pyre. High above the drums and Ashkr's agony and the vast rush of the flames, Embla could be heard howling and weeping in torment at her brother's pain.

Christopher, hidden in the trees, fumbled the lever on his crossbow. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it, but, as Wynter pushed towards him, he finally engaged the bolt. He jerked the bow to his shoulder. He took aim. Then his eyes overflowed, obscuring his vision, and he had to lower the bow again and dash his arm across his face.

Abruptly, Ashkr's screaming turned to shrieks and Wynter had to clap her hands to her ears. Within the pyre, the flames had eaten their way up Ashkr's body. His tunic and his beautiful hair were alight. With a cry of revulsion, Christopher slapped the crossbow to his shoulder and fired.

Wynter understood now why Ulfnaor had shooed his people to either side of the pyre. He had been leaving a space for Christopher to fire through, a clear path straight to the heart of the flames. Wynter saw the bolt's dark shadow speed between the ranks of men. There was a hard thud, and Ashkr's cries ceased. The sound of drums and fire rushed in to fill the void.

There was a moment of stunned stillness amongst the Merron. Wynter crouched, terrified, expecting them to see the bolt sticking from their Caora's chest, expecting them to turn as one and fix their eyes on Christopher You know what they do. You know what they do if they catch you. But Ashkr was hidden by a sudden wall of fire as the kindling to the front of the pyre began to burn in earnest, and the Merron just stood in silence, listening to the flames rush upwards to heaven.

Christopher staggered backwards, the crossbow dropping to his side. High above, Embla still howled her anguish to the stars, mourning her brother and everything else she'd lost. But even as Wynter began to push her way through the bushes and crawl towards Christopher, the Merron began to sing, and the lady's grief was muffled beneath their voices and the incessant drums. Numbly now, almost without thought, Christopher reloaded the bow, took staring aim, and fired. The high thread of Embla's despair cut off in mid-wail.

Before Wynter could reach him, Christopher staggered away into the darkness, muttering and sobbing. All his numb restraint, all his tenacious self-control seemed to have fled, and his progress through the undergrowth was clumsy and carelessly loud.

Wynter, equally careless, flung herself after him. "Wait!" she sobbed, rushing blindly forward, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. "Wait!"

She staggered into him unexpectedly, and the two of them almost fell. Christopher spun and flung a punch. He was not anticipating so small a target, and he missed. His fist whistled through the air just above her head, and Wynter ducked. Thank God she was short! Christopher's punches were swift and fiercely directed. Had Wynter been taller, she would no doubt have had the bones of her nose smashed up into her brain. Christopher's momentum toppled him into her, bringing them both to the forest floor, and he raised the butt of the crossbow, intending to smash her across the head with it.

"It's me!" she cried. "It's Wynter!"

He went limp and they lay tangled for a moment, their hearts thundering in the darkness. Behind them, the Merron shouted in unison, a long rising "HaaaaaAH!" There was a monstrous crack, and a pained creak, like a big door opening. Wynter turned to look, but the clearing was no more than a patch of flame in the darkness There was a loud, yawning groan, then the ground leapt beneath them as a huge boom shook the forest floor. Ravens surged from the trees above, cawing in alarm.

"Embla," moaned Christopher. Wynter pushed herself from him and crawled forward, staring through the trees. He curled immediately into a tight ball, muttering.

They would have done that to her, thought Wynter numbly. What an awful way to die. She thought of that rushing plummet downwards, and the great smacking pressure; tons of wood crushing you into the mud, and she thanked God for Christopher, and his recklessness and his bravery in saving Embla from such a death.

There was silence from the Merron, and for a moment only the harsh calls of the ravens cut above the angry noise of the fire. Smoke and the pleasant smell of roasted meat drifted through the darkness. Wynter knew the smell would become awful soon, as all human burnings did. The smoke would turn oily, carrying a wretched stink that would not leave the nostrils for days. It was a stench she had hoped never to endure again. They will smell of it, she thought. When we travel with them. They will stink of Ashkr's death.

Christopher moaned again. Wynter could hear him scrabbling softly in the dirt as he crawled through the bushes. Then another sound rose up through the flame-roar-the Merron, yipping and whooping, breaking from their shock and coming to life, celebrating the final, the most precious sacrifice of their Caoirigh an Domhain.

Christopher staggered to his feet and Wynter turned to find him dimly outlined in firelight, leaning against a tree. "Women go to the earth," he rasped. "Men to the fire." His eyes flashed as he turned his head to stare at her. "Despite what they say, it ain't what we do. I ain't never seen it before... Only ..." He shook his head, his face creased in pain. When he spoke again, his voice was too harsh, too loud as if to counteract his tears. "Only the old religion still worship this way, and only when they are desperate, and frightened."

He sobbed and covered his mouth to hold back his distress. The light subsided a little, and Wynter crouched in the darkness, staring at him in the dimness. Only the flaring outlines of his cheekbones, the glitter of his eyes and the bright tracks of his tears were visible. "She chose them specially, didn't she? To support everything she says about my people. She chose them, knowing they'd never be understood."

Behind Wynter, figures moved against the flames and music was rising, joyful and wild. These people, who had been so kind to her and so generous, were dancing now and singing as they celebrated the murder of their own. Wynter nodded, and scrubbed her wet cheeks. Yes, Christopher was absolutely right. These people confirmed every malicious thing the Shirkens had ever claimed about people of difference. Their vicious campaign against the pagan Merron would be very difficult to argue against after this, and with them, all the others-the Jews, the dissenters, the Musulmen, the reformists-all would burn in the same fires.

"Razi will never understand," she whispered. Embla once again rose to her mind, all that beauty and all that kindness wilfully slapped down into darkness. Wynter put her hand to her mouth, the firelight trebling and doubling as her eyes filled again.

"She spared Razi," whispered Christopher. "He, too, was destined for the pyre. Everything they love... everything they love should go with them to An Domhan. Solmundr and Boro-and Razi-should have burned." He closed his eyes. "All the Caoirigh had to do was ask, but they didn't. They spared them. Razi will never understand, Iseult! He'll-" Christopher turned abruptly, shoving his way through the dark undergrowth, disappearing into the blackness of the trees. Wynter turned back for a moment to the firelight and the singing. Then she stumbled to her feet and pushed after him, following the sound of his clumsy progress until she caught up. She slipped her arm around his waist, and they staggered together through the darkness, heading for the tent.

The dogs were howling. Wynter could hear them scrabbling and running to and fro, their barks coughing to abrupt silence as they hurled themselves to the ends of their chains. Christopher dropped to a crouch in the shadows at the tree line, and Wynter hunkered by his side, silently scanning the empty camp. There was no sign of intruders. After a moment of wary surveillance, they darted across the moonlit space between forest and tents, then slunk around the shadows until they could observe without being seen.

The warhounds were in a frenzy of distress, all their attention focused on Ashkr's tent. As Wynter watched, Boro flung himself to the end of his chain and scrabbled desperately against the earth in a futile attempt to reach the door. Christopher rose to his feet and lowered his crossbow, listening. From within the tent, barely audible above the noise of the hounds, came sounds of a muted struggle. Something clattered softly and there was a faint cry, choked off almost immediately. Boro howled and flung himself once again at the tent.

Wynter and Christopher took off in a run, heading straight for the door. Sliding to a halt, they pushed their way through. Christopher dived left, Wynter dived right, and both came to a frozen halt-in similar attitudes of shock and despair.

"No!" shouted Wynter, rolling to her hands and knees and shooting forward.

With a choked cry, Christopher flung his bow aside and scuttled forward to join her. "You bastard," he screamed. "You bloody ..." His words were lost as he shoved his arms under Solmundr's shoulders and heaved upwards, taking the warrior's weight. Wynter scurried around behind the tether pole and struggled to free the belt by which Solmundr was attempting to hang himself. It wasn't hard to do, the pole was only about four feet high, and once Christopher had shoved Solmundr upwards and supported him against the wood, Wynter found it easy to slip the tether pin free of the belt and let the loose end slip back through the tether ring.

She staggered back, and Christopher and Solmundr slithered down, coming to rest in a tangled heap at the base of the pole. Christopher scrabbled at the man's neck, digging his fingers underneath the tight leather, and worked the buckle free so that Solmundr could breath. Solmundr gasped and heaved air into his lungs, howling in despair.

Flinging the belt to one side, Christopher spun back around, his face scarlet with rage. "You bastard!" he screamed again. "Don't you dare!" The warrior slid to his side on the scattered cushions, sobbing, his arms coming up over his head, and Christopher instantly curled around him. He knotted his scarred hands in the rich fabric of Solmundr's tunic and in the tangled waves of his sandy hair. "You owe me!" he sobbed. "You owe me."

Wynter's legs started to shake and she let go, sliding her weight down the tether pole until she was kneeling on the cushions, her forehead resting against the smooth wood. She closed her eyes and listened to the men weep. Then she turned and crawled across the mats and the furs until she got to Razi.

Still unconscious, and untroubled now by his former discomfort, Razi slept innocently on. Wynter laid her forehead against his temple, trying not to think about the morning, and about what they would tell him when he woke. After a while, she pushed the cushions to one side and lay behind him, her head resting between his shoulder-blades, her hand on his neck. His pulse thudded steadily beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and for the rest of the night she just lay there and listened to him breathe.

Cold Morning.

"Get your hands off him!" snarled Wynter. The look on her face must have been unmistakable, because Hallvor stepped back immediately and moved aside so that Wynter and Christopher could help Razi to his feet.

At the door, a warrior stared in, her eyes wide with curiosity, and Christopher snarled at her, "Croch leat! Agus na bi ag stanadh."

Razi, startled at Christopher's sharp tone, turned to blink uncertainly at him. Christopher glanced up into his shocked face and adjusted his grip on Razi's waist. "It's all right," he murmured. "We've got you."

"What happened to me?" slurred Razi, his voice thick.

Christopher looked away. "It's all right," he said again, miserably. He glanced across at Wynter who was supporting Razi from the other side. She nodded and the three of them began to make their way to the door.