Excerpt

In a high mountain valley, under the looming, starless canopy of night, campfires burned amid ancient ruins. Men, fighters all, sat or kneeled close to the flames, muttering, eating, joking, throwing dice. Off to one side, at the foot of a shattered, mossy pillar, two figures sat either side of their own fire. One was a lean-faced woman who frowned as she ran a small whetstone along the sabre that lay across her knees. The sleeveless leather jerkin she wore half-open was battered and scarred, yet carefully patched, much like the down-at-heel boots that lay on the ground nearby.

Her companion was a black-haired bear of a man, cloaked in heavy furs which only partly concealed a dented chestplate and mailed leggings. In a big, scarred hand he held a black bottle of wine but it seemed half-forgotten as he stared with amber eyes into the heart of the campfire. Flakes of ash whirled up into the cold, unforgiving night and an occasional spark flew across to land on the man's exposed hands. He appeared not to notice, just sat there with a gaze that was dark and steady, harsh as granite, sharp as a naked blade.

A burnt-through branch slumped into the centre of the fire. The flames quivered, sank a little lower. Keren Asherol paused from honing her blade, looked across, then shook her head.

"You're brooding again," she said mildly.

For a moment, no reply. Then: "Warhounds should think of the hunt, not the hunter."

His voice was deep, with no trace of weariness, the words well formed.

"More dreams, eh?"

Byrnak, Warlord of Northern Honjir and Protector of Bidolo, drained the wine and tossed the bottle away. He gave her a surly, hooded look. "Even the finest warhound can become a burden."

Keren met his gaze. "I think the word you're looking for is 'warbitch'."

A glittering, dangerous smile creased Byrnak's features. "A bitch who is lucky to have such a benevolent master." Reflected fireglow gleamed in his eyes and cast a sulphurous tinge across his face. "And what of you? - are your own slumbers tranquil?"

"Of course," she lied, resuming the sharpening of her sabre. Across the fire, Byrnak gave a derisive snort and went back to the flames.

Keren had last shared Byrnak's bed willingly six months ago, when it was spring and his brutal attractions had not palled. Since then she had preferred the solitude of her own bed, and the known hazards of her dreams. It was sixteen years since the Battle of Wolf' Gate but the horror and slaughter of it still crept up from the well of memory to fill her nights with rage and guilt.

Heat from the fire prickled her bare skin and heightened the numb ache of a scar on her lower right arm. A shaft of moist mountain air blew through the vast ruined antechamber where they sat, bringing smells of high wood and bush, earth and bark and rotting leaves. Then the wind shifted direction, drifting to her the odours of cooked meat and the sounds of the men clustered round their own fires. They were a strange mix, mostly rootless rogues from Honjir, Jefren and Anghatan, with a few odd ones like Yanama, a marsh raider from Ebro'Heth, or the daggerman Erruk from the moors of northern Yularia. There were no Mogaun, however. Keren listened to the quiet laughter and snatches of flutesong for a moment, smiled, then turned her sword over and began to work the other side. Once into the rhythm she glanced at Byrnak again - his stare was as unwavering as before, but now there was a kind of haunted anger to it.

What do you see? she thought. What do you fear?

Byrnak was a living mystery. Ragtalk among the men placed him variously as a lost prince of the Imperial blood, a renegade Rootpower mage, a black sorcerer from the Erementu hinterlands, or even a formless monster from the Rukang Sagas, returned in human shape. When pressed, he claimed to have been an iron mine slave, a pit fighter, and a chief's bodyguard in Rauthaz before a misjudgement with a battlestave caused him to flee south. It was so prosaic it could almost be true.

Byrnak let out a breath of noisy impatience, rose and went over to the saddlebags piled carelessly at the foot of one of the massive pillars. Keren watched him pull out another black bottle, uncork it with his teeth and take a hefty swig. Then, bottle in hand, he prowled around the crumbling antechamber, pausing occasionally to study a worn inscription or relief carving or to pick away a patch of dark moss. These were ancient ruins, perhaps from the time of the Jefren League, but there were still older ones littering these mountains. Keren once overheard a Fathertree priest tell a mage that kingdoms, conquerors and empires had washed across the continent of Toluveraz like waves on the shore. She had thought that an exaggerated comment at the time, but her wanderings since had shown her that there was something to it.

Suddenly, Byrnak uttered a vile oath and hurled the bottle against a crumbling wall. Dark wine splashed across the ancient stones and the muted chatter of the men faded away, their uneasy eyes glancing his way.

"Where are the scouts?" he snarled, hands clenching and unclenching. "Haven't they found that bastard scum Shaleng yet?"

Shaleng had been Warlord of Northern Honjir until two years ago when Byrnak and a band of dedicated followers infiltrated his stronghold outside the city of Kizar. Byrnak became the new Warlord, but Shaleng had escaped into hiding where he had gathered a gang of cutthroats and rapists whose increasingly daring - and bloody - raids were undermining Byrnak's authority.

"You're the one who taught them," Keren muttered sourly. "It's bound to take a little time..."

In one swift motion Byrnak stepped towards her, snatched the sabre out of her lap by the hilt and threw it point-first into the heart of the fire. Keren jerked away from the scattering of sparks, sprawling on her back.

"Gainsay me to my face once more, woman, and I'll kill you."

The savagery of his stare burned into her skull. He seemed to tremble with contained fury and a for momen Keren thought he was going to strike her. Then there was a commotion from out in the ruined hall and he looked up, breaking the terrible spell. A slender, black-clad youth dashed in and fell to his knees before Byrnak.

"My Lord, we have him!"

Byrnak stared at the youth with a joyful intensity and reached out to stroke the youth's brown curls. Keren kept her face blank, hiding her revulsion.

"Falin, my little hawk - where?"

The youth's face glowed with adoration.

"At the village of Wedlo, Lord. The raid began less than an hour ago."

Byrnak's grin was rapacious and with his hand still resting on Falin's head he looked at Keren.

"Take the second and third companies, cut off their retreat and any avenues of escape. I'll take the first and deal with Shaleng personally."

The camp was suddenly alive with activity as orders were given and fires were doused. Byrnak brought Falin to his feet and they both went off to one side. Keren rose and grasped the sabre's hilt, pulling it free. The leather-wound hilt was hot from the fire, embers still clinging to the blade, and for a moment it seemed that flames were coming from the blade itself. Then she knocked the sword against a blackened stone at the fire's edge and the embers fell away. "Captain?" said someone nearby.

No more, Keren thought, staring at her sabre. No more.

She turned to see Domas and Kiso, captains of the second and third companies, standing there. "Have all the scouts returned?" she said.

Domas smiled and nodded. "All safe, all back."

"Then ready the men. We've a hard night ahead."

As they hurried off she bent to pull on her boots, then took a rag from her belt and wiped the ashen smears from her sword before sheathing it at her waist. She was aware of Falin and Byrnak staring at her from across the ruined chamber but ignored them, buttoning her leather jerkin as she followed the captains out to where the horses were being harnessed and saddled.

There's nothing for me here, she thought bitterly. Why do I stay?