He had vague recollections of old Wolfgar and the stories about his defiance of the King. It was a shame, in a different time and place he might have even suffered him to live, but any friend of his brother was a sworn enemy and besides, the old man had decided to go down fighting.

'Did you send for me?'

It was Corwin.

Bovai nodded, barely looking down at the man who was still wearing the robes of a monk. 'I expect you to get mounted and guide us.'

'The path they've left, I don't think you need a guide.'

Bovai could sense the fear. It would be just like Hartraft and Tinuva to have laid traps to slow the advance; there might even be a few left behind and this fat one was afraid of an ambush.

'Nevertheless, mount and go forward.'

'I think my services to you could be better rendered in other ways.'

Bovai finally looked down and fixed him with his gaze. 'You should have cut the boy's throat to make sure.'

Corwin had told him the boy had fallen to his death, but they had seen Richard's body lying on one of the tables in the long hall.

Corwin had cursed himself for having blurted out the young soldier's name upon seeing him. Had he kept silent, Bovai would never have known his error in judgment, but with the boy having fallen down the side of the path onto the rocks, Corwin had been convinced he was dead.

Bovai continued, 'If you had finished him, this chase would be finished. Hartraft and…' his voice trailed off, for the subject of his brother was not something to be shared.

'Tinuva,' Corwin whispered and gave the flicker of a smile.

Bovai's backhand caught Corwin across the cheek flayed open by Richard's dagger and the man staggered back.

'You have no right to dare mention his name in my presence,' Bovai snarled. 'I gave you a task and you failed. You failed to lure them into Brendan's Stockade, you failed to drive a wedge between them, you allowed the boy to escape and warn them.'

'I've served you for ten years,' Corwin said coldly, hand cupped over the side of his face, a trickle of blood leaking out between his fingers.

'And?'

Corwin hesitated.

'Go on.'

Corwin's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and crafty, like a cornered rat's.

'Your men have been whispering during the night. They are angry, exhausted. They know Tinuva is with Hartraft and they fear him. Many whisper that you are more interested in settling the affairs of your vendetta rather than finishing off Hartraft so they can go home.'

'Always the ferret, aren't you?'

'It is how I survive. The beauty of my betrayals are that men, even those of your race, trust me up till the moment I slip the dagger between their ribs or serve them a flagon of brandy. Don't waste that talent lightly. Our master has plans for me.'

'And you would betray me in a heartbeat if it furthered whatever dark goals you sought.'

Corwin smiled. 'Only should it serve our master. Otherwise, our paths are the same.'

Bovai snorted derisively. 'Nevertheless, ride forward.'

Corwin hesitated then bowed low in acknowledgment and turned away.

Golun rode up to join Bovai, his gaze locked on Corwin who was stalking away. 'I'd kill him now and be done with it,' he announced.

'Our master has need of him. He is to go south and prepare the way for an invasion in the next three or four years. Until I sit at Murad's right hand, or replace him, I cannot risk displeasing the Master.'

Golun seemed unconvinced. 'A traitor is always a traitor.'

'Like my brother up there?' Bovai whispered, nodding to the high pass.

The morning air was so clear that he still felt as if he could see him, in a small knot of several men, where the flicker of light from the dawning sun flashed off a bit of metal.

'Finish off the Marauders, that is what will give you glory, and reunite those who follow you now. Then worry about Tinuva.'

Bovai said nothing and merely nodded, his attention still focused on the crest of the mountain and the flicker of light.

The snow drifted down gently and when Dennis stopped walking it was the only sound, the whispering of the flakes as they came to rest on the overhanging branches and the forest floor.

He heard the snicker of a horse and turned, bow coming up instinctively, arrow already nocked. Then he lowered his weapon.

Roxanne, following his track, ducked low under a heavily-laden branch and came up to his side.

'I told you to stay back with the main column,' he said softly.

'I hunted here with my father for years. I can help.'

'Not now, not this kind of hunting,' he hissed. 'Go back.'

He set off again at the double, moving swiftly, daring to stay on the narrow trail. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon he had been haunted by the fear that Bovai would have sent a blocking force around to cut off this avenue of escape. Corwin knew the plan – he must have passed it along – and to run blindly forward with the hope that Bovai had not been able to set up a trap in time was a quick way to a certain death. If they were going to block the bridge, they'd have scouts out forward as well.

Down in the forest in the broad open valley the snow was not so deep, but now that they were ascending the next ridgeline the passage was getting difficult again. He had long ago taken off his cloak and slung it around his pack, but nevertheless he was breathing heavily, and sweat was soaking through his tunic.

Drenched as he was he knew he'd have problems with the cold once night settled.

He pressed on, inwardly cursing as the girl doggedly followed, at one point moving ahead of him, breaking the trail.

He finally came up by her side and grabbed hold of her reins.

'Damn you, go back.'

'You're ready to drop from exhaustion, Hartraft. Let someone mounted break the trail.'

'A mounted rider is a dead target in these woods,' he hissed. 'We do it on foot. Now go back.'

'The women and children back with the column need rest, a fire.'

'We don't stop.'

'What?'

'You heard me. We don't stop till we reach the bridge.'

Though his men knew the routine he had decided not to tell Wolfgar's people of his plan to keep marching: there was no sense in their anticipating the agony of a night march in a storm until they were already into it.

'That's still fifteen or more miles off – half of them will be dead by then,' she snapped. 'You can't push these people on a night march.'

Dennis reached up and grabbed her by the arm. 'Your father understood this and I would expect his daughter too. This is not some leisurely hike. They caught us by surprise and either we run them into exhaustion and they stop, or they catch us and slaughter us. We march through the night. Those that can't keep up, we give them a bow, a few arrows and hope they slow the moredhel down a bit, then finish themselves off.'

'Including the children?' she asked, her voice as cold as the evening chill.

He was tempted to give her a bitter response but then shook his head. 'No,' he whispered, 'of course not. Get some of the women to double up on the horses with them, they can hold a child if it falls asleep, but we keep moving.' He hesitated. 'I've ordered my men not to carry anyone who falls behind – if they do, I lose both the straggler and a good soldier. Everyone marches or they die.'

She nodded, eyes not on Dennis, but still surveying the forest. 'They didn't get ahead of you. I know this way. The moredhel would have to make a march of sixty miles or more to swing around the valley and come back out here to cut us off. Besides, there's half a dozen trails like this over this ridge. If there was a trap it would have been just on the far side of the pass back into the valley. You're free of them.'

'I don't survive by living on assumptions,' Dennis replied.

'Break the trail with my horse, otherwise it will be you who's left behind by tomorrow morning.'