‘Well, Harokas?’ said the Earl.
‘The man, Kypha, is dead. Somehow he contrived to drown in his bath,’ answered Harokas. ‘I hear the other business is finished.’
The Earl shook his head. ‘Nothing is finished. The man insulted me, through my son, then disgraced me publicly. Find him – and kill him.’
‘I am skilful with a blade, my lord – but not that skilful.’
‘I did not say fight him, Harokas. I said kill him.’
‘It is not for me to criticise …”
‘No, it is not!’ stormed the Earl.
Harokas’ green eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
‘I want him to know why he is dying,’ the Earl continued.
‘What should I tell him, my lord?’ asked Harokas. ‘That a hero of Bel-azar is doomed because he disciplined an arrogant boy?’
‘Beware, Harokas,’ the Earl hissed. ‘My patience is not limitless – even with those who have served me well and faithfully.’
‘It will be as you order,’ said Harokas. He bowed and left the study.
*
Kiall’s dreams were troubled. Again and again he saw the Nadren sweep down on the village, heard their wild battle cries and saw the sunlight gleaming on their swords and helms. He had been high in the woods, supposedly gathering herbs for the apothecary – but in reality he had been wandering, dreaming, imagining himself as a knight, or a bard singer, or a nobleman on a quest. In his fantasy he was a man of iron courage and lethal skills. But when the Nadren war cries sounded he had stood frozen to the spot, watching the carnage, the looting, raping and burning. He had seen Ravenna and the others hauled across the saddles of the conquering raiders and taken away to the south. And he had done nothing.
He knew then, as he knew now, why Ravenna had rejected him, and suffered again the pain of their meeting in the high meadow by the silver stream.
‘You are a dreamer, Kiall,’ she had said, ‘and I like you. Truly I do. But I need more than dreams. I want a man who will build, who will grow. I need a strong man.’
‘I can do all these things,’ he had assured her.
‘Only in your head. Now you must leave me. If Jarel sees you talking to me, he will be jealous. And it would not be wise for you to make Jarel angry.’
‘I am not afraid of Jarel. But I love you, Ravenna. I cannot believe that means nothing to you.’
‘Poor Kiall,’ she whispered, stroking his cheek. ‘Still the dreamer. Love? What is love?’ She had laughed at him then and walked away.
Kiall awoke. His body was warm under the blanket, but his face was cold. Raising himself on one elbow, he saw that the fire was dying. He added wood and sat up. Beltzer was snoring and Chareos remained in a deep sleep. The flames licked the fuel and rose. Kiall wanned his hands and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders.
He sniffed. The air inside the shelter was close and full of smoke, but still he could smell the rank odour emanating from Beltzer. This was no dream. Here he sat with the heroes of Bel-azar, on a quest to rescue a beautiful maiden from the clutches of evil. Yet in no way did the reality match the fantasies. A bad-tempered Swordmaster, a vile-smelling warrior, and two hunters who spoke barely a civil word to anyone but each other.
Beltzer snorted and turned over, his mouth open. Kiall saw that he had lost several teeth and that others were discoloured and bad. How could this fat old man ever have been the golden-haired hero of legend?
I should have stayed in the village, he told himself, and learned the apothecary’s skills. At least then I would have been able to afford to take a wife, and build a home. But no, the dreamer had to have his way.
He heard the crunching of boots on the snow outside, and fear rose in him as he pictured the Nadren creeping up on them as they slept. He scrambled to his feet and dressed swiftly. Then he heard Maggrig’s voice. Pulling on his boots, he dropped to his knees and eased himself out into the snow-covered clearing. The sky was a rich velvet blue, and the sun was just rising above the mountains to the east. Maggrig and Finn were skinning four white rabbits, the nearby snow spattered with blood.