'I was back with Bovai and his attacking column when we caught a Kingdom scout who, after some persuasion, said you Marauders were nearby. My mission was to get south, but the wonderful thing about the moredhel is they think in terms of years and decades rather than days and months. So Bovai sent me out to find you, infiltrate your ranks, but to leave Hartraft alive. With final revenge so close, Bovai must be half-mad to have Dennis's blood on his own dagger, not mine. After you're all dead, I'll return to my original mission.' He laughed. 'Actually it was quite masterful the way I ruined that trap you were setting for the Tsurani. In fact, they were about to head off in the opposite direction when I led them back to you and triggered a nice little slaughter.'

'But as for Hartraft, believe me young Richard, it would have been easy enough to poison him this last month, but Bovai wants the pleasure of that kill. Besides, I only had enough poison hidden on me for one more job, and figured I'd need that to help with my escape when the time came to lead Bovai through this pass.'

'You bastard!' Richard cried, feeling at last for his dagger.

'Oh lad, it's a sin to curse a holy brother.' Corwin snickered at the joke. 'Bovai's waiting down in those woods, boy. I just saw signs of him yesterday. Once you and your friends are dead he will attack. I'm sorry son, but it's time to die. Since I like you, let's make this easy. Just lie back and close your eyes. I promise it won't hurt.'

Richard, soul filled with terror, fumbled with his dagger, and held it up, gasping in agony with every movement.

'All right then,' Corwin whispered coldly. 'Now I'm afraid it will hurt, lad. I don't like defiance. Have you ever seen a man have his tongue carved out and then listened to him drown on his own blood? It's really quite interesting.'

Corwin sprung, but his bulk played against him as Richard staggered to one side. Richard felt a hot slash across his arm even as his own blade cut across Corwin's face, laying open his cheek to the bone.

Corwin, bellowing in rage, dived back in, blade flashing. Richard backed up, left hand clasped to his side, strength draining away and then the world seemed to spin around as he fell off the outcrop of rock. He fell, world tumbling end over end and then there was darkness.

He awoke to agony, the salty taste of blood in his mouth, and experienced a moment of terror, as he expected to see Corwin above him, having already cut out his tongue.

He waited for a moment, cautiously looking around, and then tried to sit up, but the slightest movement sent a wave of agony through him. Coughing, he spat up a foam of blood.

He tried to make sense of his surroundings, for the ground seemed to rise up beside him. He blinked and realized he was not where he had fought Corwin, but on a ledge a few feet below his hiding spot. He must have fallen over the edge when Corwin struck him. He wondered why he was still alive, then considered the drop.

The fat false-priest could hardly have climbed down to finish him off, and probably thought him already dead, or close enough that the cold would complete the task. And the slash he had given him to his face probably had him off somewhere trying to staunch the flow of blood.

With hazy vision he looked around and then, ever so slowly, stood up, with every muscle crying out in pain. He saw a small rock at knee level protruding from the face of the bank and stepped upon it.

Heaving himself upward, he almost fainted as he gripped the ledge above. Knowing he had but one chance, he forced himself to take a deep breath and pulled himself over. Then he collapsed on the ground and passed out.

Consciousness returned some time later and Richard sat up slowly. He looked at the angle of the sun and realized no more than an hour had passed. He got to his unsteady feet and looked around. The monk was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling, he wove his way back down to the camp. The fire still snapped and crackled in the hut, and there, lying around the fire, were Bewin, Hanson and Luthar. Poisoned by Corwin.

The realization filled him with rage. He leaned over, gasping and coughing and specks of blood splattered onto the snow.

I'm bleeding inside, I'm dying, he thought.

He looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he heard horses approaching. Were they coming already?

Looking up at the sun, he judged that it was well past noon. Corwin must have left him for dead more than an hour ago. Already they could be on the move.

Another spasm of coughing overtook him and he sat down, feeling such an infinite weariness that he was tempted to lie down by the fire and sleep. He fought it off, knowing that it was the dark shadow. Absently, he picked up the sack of brandy lying by Bewin, then remembered what it contained and threw it aside.

Crawling over to the corporal he slowly worked the waist-belt off of the dead man then opened his own tunic. Reaching into Bewin's haversack, he pulled out the field-dressing that Hartraft insisted all of his men carry. For the first time he looked at the puncture wound on his right side between his two lowest ribs. A thin trickle of blood seeped out and with each breath he could almost feel the air leaking away. He pressed the bandage up against the wound then ever so slowly wrapped Bewin's belt around his chest and cinched it in tight to hold the bandage in place. The effort caused him to cry out in anguish. Unable to button his tunic, he left it open and stood up.

Amazingly Corwin had not thought to take the horse tied off behind the hut. It was an old nag, used to haul extra supplies up to the watchers, and was there in case a messenger ever had to get back quickly. Richard knew that the monk didn't like horses, but still he should have taken the beast along – or killed it.

It wasn't even saddled, but the effort of doing that now was beyond him. He led the horse around to the side of a rough-hewn table set in front of the cabin. Richard crawled up on to the table and then clawed his way onto the back of the horse.

Facing down the mountain, back towards Wolfgar's Stockade, he set off. He knew in his soul that it was now a race, twenty miles against death. Who would win the race he wasn't sure. To gallop the old horse would have her wheezing in minutes and probably kill him with blood loss. To walk would mean a half-day's ride back to the garrison.

He gritted his teeth and urged the horse into a canter, settling in with a rocking motion that caused him more pain than he thought he could endure. He held onto the reins and vowed to remain conscious until he reached the Captain.

Throughout the day, except for the brief outdoor ceremony at sunrise, the Tsurani had remained inside the long house, but now, with the setting of the sun, the door had been opened and Asayaga stepped out. Dennis had just completed the sunset parade inspection and his men had stayed in place, talking quietly about the Tsurani.

Asayaga, dressed in full armour approached Dennis and saluted. 'It is the custom to have a feast at the end of the Atonement Day. We request your presence as guests.'

Dennis simply nodded, not sure what to say.

'Will you and your men please follow me?'

Asayaga led the way into the long hall. The great table had been scrubbed clean, plates were laid out, fresh rushes were on the floor, the room was filled with a sweet cloud of incense. The Tsurani were arrayed around the table, an open place between each of them and Asayaga motioned for Dennis's men to take the empty places.

Wolfgar, his daughters, and the other members of the household were already present down to the smallest child. Dennis accepted the place pointed out by Asayaga which placed him between the Tsurani captain and Wolfgar. The Kingdom soldiers were silent, looking around curiously.