Asayaga bristled, raised his shield slightly, obviously ready to respond to the insult to his lineage.

'Don't move,' Dennis hissed, and even as he spoke there was a puzzled look on his face as if trying to remember something.

Asayaga, features turning red with anger struggled to maintain control.

'The Tsurani by my side is indeed a sworn enemy,' Dennis replied. 'But there is a darker enemy afoot. Whoever it was you had watching the rope bridge will tell you that.'

'He saw only an elf and a Natalese before he fled to bring warning.'

'We are pursued by the Dark Brotherhood. Tsurani and Kingdom soldiers will always lower their swords against each other and join to fight such a foe.'

'Damn you,' and there was a tense shrillness to the challenging voice. 'If they are chasing you now you've brought them down upon us! Clear out! I'll grant you the rights of parley no longer. Clear out, you sons of a herder who sleeps with his goats because they remind him of his sister!'

'Damn foul-mouthed fool,' Asayaga hissed. 'Maybe you were right, Hartraft. Once it's dark we storm the place.'

Dennis, however, let his shield drop to the ground and stepped forward another pace.

It was the wonderful insults that had triggered something. A memory of long ago, of boyhood, a memory of hearing such phrases, cherishing them, and repeating them to his friends, until one day his father overheard him and washed his mouth out with soured milk.

'I know that voice. Wolfgar, is that you?'

The voice did not reply.

'Damn it. Wolfgar? I remember you now. When I was a boy you use to chant the old ballads for my grandfather. You were the finest of bards of the northern frontier.'

Dennis took another few steps forward and cleared his throat.

'Kinsmen die, cattle die, I myself shall die, All that shall live after me, When I go to the halls of my sires, Are the songs that Wolfgar shall chant of the glory won in battle.'

He proclaimed the words in the old way, a deep baritone chant, his voice carrying far across the fields.

'You wrote those words,' Dennis said with a grin. 'I remember it well, you pox-eaten offspring of a pus-licking dog.'

There was no response until finally the gate cracked open and a wizened old man, leaning on a ornately carved and twisted staff slowly shuffled out.

It took more than a minute for him to cross the few dozen yards to where Dennis stood. He was so hunched over that the crown of his bald, liver-spotted head came barely to Dennis's shoulder. Like an ageing buzzard he craned his neck, twisting sideways so he could look up into Dennis's eyes.

'Oh, horse shit,' Wolfgar sighed. 'It is you.'

Dennis respectfully lowered his head in a formal bow. 'You were the greatest of bards ever to visit the Hartraft Keep.'

'Bountiful was the table of your grandsire,' Wolfgar said, his voice weak but suddenly revealing the richness of the training in his craft, 'for there is still fat at the root of my heart from the feasts he gave in my honour.' Bones creaking, he turned slightly to look at Asayaga. 'What in the name of all the devils is that? Is that little man typical of them, these Tsurani I hear of?'

'He is the captain of the band that joined my unit.'

Dennis could see Asayaga stiffen slightly and Wolfgar cackled.

'Proud as a peacock with a new feather sticking out of his ass, this Tsurani.'

'I did not join him,' Asayaga snapped. 'We have an alliance.'

'Oh, an alliance is it?' and Wolfgar's features clouded. 'Then you spoke the truth. The Dark Brothers are chasing you.'

'Yes.'

'Oh damn you,' Wolfgar sighed wearily. 'They suspected some of us were hiding hereabouts, but never bothered to look too hard, being troubled by other things. Now they'll be on us.'

'My men,' Dennis said and then he caught Asayaga's baleful gaze.

'Our men. We've been on the run for days. We need shelter, food, a place for our wounded to heal. I can offer you nothing in return but my bond one day to repay you. I ask this in memory of my father and grandfather who were honoured to call you their friend.'

'And if I refuse?'

Dennis drew closer, leaning over. 'I'll have to storm this place, Wolfgar and take it,' he whispered sadly. 'It's either that or my men will die. And you know the Hartrafts well enough to know we honour the pledge to our troops to see to their needs first. Don't make me fight you and your friends inside.'

Wolfgar sighed in the way only an old man could, the raspy whistle of his breath revealing an infinite weariness with the ways of the world. He craned his neck further around, his squinting gaze focused on the western sky. 'Storm coming again. Maybe it will block the passes for a while.'

Dennis followed his gaze and saw the wisps of high clouds beginning to darken the early evening sky. The old man was right, by morning it would be snowing again. 'I need shelter now,' he said and this time there was a cold insistence to his voice. 'I'll ask only one more time as a friend.' He paused and then shook his head. 'I'd prefer it if we clasped hands in memory of my sires who were your friends and patrons long ago. Once the storm is passed and my men rested we'll clear out and try to throw the Dark Brothers off from you.'

'No, it's too late for that now,' Wolfgar replied. 'The damage is done.'

He squinted, looking at Asayaga again.

'Someone as short as you most likely won't eat much anyhow. Come on, you bastards, bring your men inside.'

ELEVEN. RESPITE

The morning was cold.

Dennis Hartraft leaned against the wall of Wolfgar's stockade, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, hood up to block out the cold wind sweeping down from the west.

He wondered if he'd ever really be warm again. The world was forever cold it seemed, seeping into his bones, and his heart. He knew it was a cold of the mind, not the body, for even though it was now winter in this valley, the cold he felt on the wind was nothing compared to the bitter freezing they had endured the last three days of their chase. Then Dennis reconsidered: not a cold of the mind, but a cold in his soul.

Perhaps it was Wolfgar who triggered it, memories better left dead…

A long-ago winter morning standing on the battlement wall, watching the first snow of winter drifting down, the wonder of it all for a child of seven, heavy flakes swirling, a bard kneeling by his side, laughing as he caught the flakes on his tongue or held out his mittens to catch one, then hold it up close to look at its intricate design until it melted away.

He remembered so clearly the sound of laughter, looking down into the courtyard below, a little girl running in circles, arms wide, shouting that she was a snowflake riding on the wind, the bard chuckling softly, telling him he knew a secret, that the little girl liked him.

Years later, again a snowfall and the little girl had grown, and they were to be married, standing arm in arm on the battlement, both of them sharing the memory of the bard, laughing, wondering if there was a way he could be found and invited to perform for their wedding.

And yet another snowfall, the flicker of fire, the screams…

He lowered his head, pushing that thought away. Never let that back in, never.

'Remind you of something?'

Dennis took a deep breath, blinking hard, his features falling back into the mask he presented to life. He turned.

Wolfgar was ever so slowly climbing the steps to the battlement, staff wobbling, the old man hanging on to it with both hands, taking one step at a time. Dennis almost reached out to help him, but knew better: old men had their pride, especially this one.

At last Wolfgar was at his side, hood drawn up over his head, frail body wrapped in heavy layers of furs. He looked up and smiled crookedly. His lips were blue and Dennis knew that wasn't from the cold, for his breath came in a raspy gurgle and his pale eyes were watery.