‘When did this happen?’ he heard Redgaer demand.
go
‘Moments ago,’ said a voice. ‘It was a woman. We saw her making off.’
Kollarin touched his hand to the blood on the dead Will Stamper’s throat. Then he jerked and almost fell. A voice boomed into his mind. ‘Delay them!’ It was not a command, nor yet a plea. Kollarin was surprised, but not shocked. Spirits of the dead had spoken to him before. Yet none had been as powerful as this one. For one fleeting moment he saw a face, hawk-nosed, with deep-set grey eyes and a beard of bright silver. Then the face faded. Kollarin remained where he was for a few seconds more, gathering his thoughts. He was a Hunter, a Finder. His reputation was second to none, and he valued this above all else. Kollarin never failed. He had trailed killers and thieves, robbers and rapists, cattle thieves and assassins. Never before had he been asked to hunt down an innocent woman, brutalized by her captors. Never before had a long-dead spirit interceded on behalf of a victim.
Kollarin rose and stretched his back.
‘Where is she heading, man?’ demanded Redgaer.
‘I can’t say,’ said the Finder. ‘Her mind was very confused at this point.’
‘Can’t say?’ sneered Redgaer. ‘It’s what you are paid for, man.’ Kollarin knew just where she was, heading out through the open North Gate, with half a mile to go before the safety of the tree line. He looked at Redgaer and smiled.
‘As she lulled these men, captain, she was thinking of you. She was wondering how she could reach you, and draw a sharp knife across your testicles.’ Redgaer winced. ‘After that she wandered away into that alley there. Perhaps she is still there – waiting.’
‘That leads to the North Gate, sir,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘There is a stable there. We could get horses.’
Redgaer nodded. ‘Follow me,’ he ordered, and ran off.
Kollarin remained where he was, staring down at the dead Will Stamper. The thoughts of dying men were often strange, almost mundane sometimes. But this man had tried to speak on the point of death. Two words. Kollarin shook his head.
What a time to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
The more Fell considered his encounter with the old man, the more he
believed it was a dream. That being so, he asked himself, why are you
sitting here in the cold waiting for dawn to rise over Citadel town? He
smiled ruefully and poked the dying camp-fire with a long stick, trying
to urge some life into the little blaze. Fell’s sheepskin cloak was damp
from the recent rain and the fire had not the strength to warm him. It
spluttered and spat, fizzled and sank low. He glanced at the sky. Dawn
was still an hour away. He was sitting with his back against the shallow
depression of a deep boulder, the fire set against a second tall stone.
The forester looked down at the last of the wood he had gathered. It
was also damp. To his left Fell could see the twinkling lights of the
Cinder-wings. He hoped they would come no closer. Fell had no wish
to be visited by the ghosts of painful memories. The Cinders were
clustered under an oak branch twisting and moving, their golden
wings of light fluttering in the dark. When he was a child Fell had
caught one of them, and rushed it home to his parents. In the light of
the cabin it had proved to be nothing more than a moth, with wide,
beautiful wings and a dark, hairy body. Lying dead in his hand it had
seemed so ordinary, yet out in the woods, its wings glowing with
bright light, it had been magical beyond imagining.
‘You are lucky, boy,’ his father told him. ‘You are too young to have bad memories. Trust me, as you grow older you will avoid the Cinders.’
How true it was. When Fell was sixteen he had been walking through the night, following the trail of a lame wolf. He saw the flickering of Cinder-wing lights and walked in close to see them fly. Instantly the vision of Mattick’s soon-to-be-drowned face filled his mind, the child reaching out to Fell as the undertow dragged him towards the rapids. Fell couldn’t swim, and could only watch helplessly as the child was swept over the rocks, the white water thrashing around him. The face hovered in Fell’s mind and he dropped to his knees, tears coursing his cheeks. ‘It was not my fault!’ he cried aloud, then scrambled back from the glowing insects. After that he gave the Cinder-wings a distant respect.