Richard wholeheartedly was behind that opinion, but given his position in the company with the death of Jurgen, he knew better than to offer any comment.

The nightmare of the moment of Jurgen's death came back to him whenever he slept – the way Jurgen seemed to hang in the air above him, the spear covered with his heart's blood, the eyes looking into his, his strange, detached smile as the light fled from his eyes.

And Hartraft. The way the commander looked at him, the coldness which had not broken once in the past month, that tortured him, too.

The lazy hours passed. Occasionally he would stand to stretch then sit back down. Towards mid-morning he thought he saw something moving down on the plains. He shaded his eyes, straining to see. It almost looked like a horseman, briefly glimpsed for a moment, apparently chasing a second horse, then the trees on the lower slope, several miles away, blocked his view.

Should he call Bewin?

He decided to wait, to remain still and watch, but the long minutes passed, and he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks, that it was just two horses with no one astride the second. The two horses turned and disappeared back under the trees. With nothing to point out he knew he'd look foolish.

He settled back. Strange how this all had turned out. He had expected the war to be far different – armies arrayed, valiant lancers to the fore in full armour, trumpets blaring, banners flying, the chance to fulfil all the childhood dreams of glory.

And yet, in the past month, he had seen instead a savage murder-match in the forest, men grappling like animals in the driving rain and snow, long, exhausting hours of running with terror at one's heels, the brutal killing of the troll which squealed in terror as its life slipped away; then the final mind-numbing march up the mountain slope.

No trumpets, no mentioning of his name in a dispatch back to the King, no jovial brotherhood around the campfire. And as for the enemy, that was the boy Osami, his own age, just as frightened as he was, the two of them secretly sharing a stolen bottle of brandy, shaking dice together and gambling over a few coins which Osami treasured as if they were jewels. And then there was the boring endless tedium of inspections, bringing in firewood, or toting the kills that the hunters made back to the compound.

He heard voices behind him and looked back. He couldn't see anything because the camp was well hidden on the reverse slope, but it sounded like Brother Corwin, – he heard a booming laugh, a snatch of a comment from Bewin rejoicing that the monk, having climbed all this way, had thought to bring along a skin filled with brandy. He started to move, then thought it best to remain diligent and to keep careful watch. Looking up at the sun, he judged that in another hour at most it would be time for his relief and then he could sit with the monk and have a sip of brandy.

Strange that Brother Corwin would come up this far, but the monk had taken to disappearing for days at a time, out to gather herbs hidden beneath the snows which might help to heal the half-dozen men down with the flux and the few wounded who were slow to mend.

An hour or more passed and Richard wondered if Bewin knew just how carefully he was doing his job, not drifting back to seek a few minutes' warmth by the fire, but staying, instead, at his post no matter what the temptations Corwin had brought along.

Again he caught a glimpse of movement – the herd of horses which had been out in the middle of the valley had been edging closer towards the woods which flanked the slope, then shied back, breaking into a run for several hundred yards before settling back down.

'A beautiful day, isn't it young Richard?'

He turned. It was Brother Corwin, laboriously coming up the slope, his heavy breathing making clouds of steam before his face, holding the hem of his monk's robe up as he kicked through the icy crust of snow.

Richard smiled. If he had had any friend in this last month it had been Corwin. The monk had shown him many of his secrets of healing: how to stitch a wound, pull an arrow and to staunch bleeding, his compassion shared equally on both sides and he had praised Richard for his own gentle touch and friendliness to young Osami.

Richard half-stood but the monk motioned for him to be seated. 'Don't show yourself, lad, one never knows who is watching below.'

'I haven't seen anything this morning, Brother, other than a few horses.'

'Still, the woods always have eyes.'

Corwin sat down by his side.

'Why? Do you think they are down there?'

'It's fair to think so. They know we are here.'

'Then why not attack us?'

'Because as long as there are watchers up here you can give sufficient warning. Three or four archers could tie them up for hours while a messenger was sent back. This is the only pass from the northern valley. I know, I've walked these woods for weeks.'

'Its so peaceful,' Richard sighed. 'One would almost think there is no war.'

'Oh there is war, young Richard.'

The way he said it caused Richard to turn and look into the monk's eyes.

And at that same instant Richard felt the blow of the dagger plunging into his side.

It struck with a violence he could never have imagined, an agonizing pain that drove the breath out of his lungs and he fell backwards, gasping.

Even as he fell back he could not believe what had just happened. Corwin stood up, dagger in his hand and smiled.

Richard, terrified, trying to breathe and yet unable to do so, looked at him, wide-eyed.

'Why?' he gasped.

There was almost a hint of sadness and pity in Corwin's eyes. 'I'm sorry, my son. I actually like you. Too bad, you were such a handsome young lad. Such a waste it seems.'

'Bewin!' He gasped the cry out, clutching his side, struggling to stand.

'No sense in calling for him. They're all dead.'

'What?'

'Poison in the brandy. Easy enough. I don't think they even realized they were dying, just a quiet drifting off to sleep. Quite peaceful actually. Then I cut their throats to make sure.'

'Bewin!'

A cross look clouded the rotund brother's features. 'They're dead, Richard. It's an old trick, I've used it a number of times.'

'Who are you?' Richard sobbed.

Corwin smiled again. 'Hartraft should have figured it out. I've been hunting him for quite some time. Years ago I was sent to his stinking little village to kill him, his father and grandfather but couldn't get close enough to poison their drink.' Corwin laughed and shook his head. 'Besides, I realized a better plan to punish the Hartraft clan. Strange he didn't remember me when I came across you all out in the forest, but then again I've put on a few pounds since, and no longer looked like the holy relic merchant I once posed as.'

Richard leaned over, coughing, frothy droplets of blood spraying on to the snow.

'I opened the pass the night his village fell. Just like here, poisoned the guards and stabbed the one still on watch, then sat back and watched the Tsurani storm in. Far more amusing to let one foe kill another. I followed the attack, knowing where the escape-hole was to get out of the keep. Too bad about the girl – the bolt was actually meant for Dennis, but in a way it was far more delightful in its results. It was kinder to her to kill her, rather than have her mourning her husband, and far crueller to have him watch her die, don't you think?'

'Who are you?' Richard gasped again.

'A servant of Murmandamus,' Corwin announced coldly. 'Long ago I was told to kill the Hartrafts. His father's estates were a vital key in my master's plans. Oh, I've stalked Dennis on and off over the years, but this cursed war made it damn difficult to close in on him.'

Corwin smiled, using the hem of his robe to wipe Richard's blood off his dagger.