He moved with remarkable speed, making no sound and seeming to glide snake-like over the ground on his belly. He could see the other man still – a dark crouching shape in the night – and hear the slight sounds that he made. Halt, even moving on his belly, was gaining ground on him, approaching him from directly behind and downhill.

Once, his quarry stopped moving and glanced quickly around him. He was obviously no novice at this game. But Rangers weren't novices either. In fact, they were past masters at this form of unseen movement. As the crouching man stopped, Halt froze instantly. His face was up but he knew it was shadowed by his cowl. He also knew that if he dropped his head to hide his face, the movement would catch the other man's eye.

Trust the cloak. He'd dinned that lesson into Will's brain hundreds of times. Now he took note of it himself. The man's gaze passed over him, seeing nothing to alarm him. Then he faced back up the hill and began moving again. After a few seconds to make sure it wasn't a feint, that the man hadn't seen anything he felt was suspicious, Halt followed.

He was only a few metres behind his quarry now. He realised he could actually hear the man breathing. He's tense, Halt thought. With his veins charged with adrenaline, the stalker's breath was coming more heavily – probably without his realising the fact.

If he looked around now, cloak or no cloak, he was bound to see Halt right behind him. It was time to act. Halt rose slowly from the ground and crept forward in a low crouch, one of the strikers clenched in his right fist.

Perhaps Halt made some infinitesimal noise, or perhaps the other man just sensed a presence behind him, but he started to turn, a few seconds too late. Halt swung an overhand blow and brought the striker knob down hard onto the man's skull, just behind the left ear. He felt the shock up his arm as the man emitted a strangled grunt and collapsed, limp as a rag, onto the ground.

Still in a crouch, Halt grabbed him under the arms and quickly dragged him into the shelter of the rocks. Abelard looked at him curiously, but made no sound.

'Good boy,' Halt said briefly. The horse responded by raising then lowering his head.

'Let's see what we have here,' Halt said and rolled the unconscious man onto his back. The would-be stalker was armed with a small arsenal of weapons. There was a short sword slung across his back. In addition, he had a long stabbing dagger in a belt sheath, another smaller knife in a scabbard strapped to his left forearm, and a third tucked into the cuff of his boot. Halt examined them briefly. Cheap weapons, but kept well sharpened. He tossed them to one side. There was a length of cord looped around the man's left shoulder. It was just over a metre in length and had a weighted ball at either end. A bolo, Halt recognised, a hunting weapon designed to be whirled around the head and thrown at a target's legs. When the rope snagged the target, the weighted ends would whip around, tripping the victim and binding its feet together. Drawing his saxe knife, Halt cut the weights off the end and tossed them into the gorse.

The man was wearing a soft hat, folded up to form a narrow brim, and a thigh-length jacket of rough wool, belted at the waist. Halt fastened the stalker's thumbs together with a pair of wood and rawhide thumb cuffs. Slipping the man's patched and shabby boots off, he fastened his big toes with another pair of cuffs, wrinkling his nose at the rank smell of the man's feet. When his prisoner was secured, he slipped his hands under the man's arms and dragged him to a large rock, leaning his shoulders against it. Then Halt sat down to wait for him to regain consciousness.

After several minutes, he moved away from the downwind position he had taken, his nose twitching again.

'Those feet of yours smell like something crawled into your boots and died there,' he said softly. There was no reply.

It was some fifteen minutes later that the man emitted a shuddering sigh. His eyelids flickered open and he shook his head to clear it.

Involuntarily, he tried to reach up to rub his eyes, then discovered that his hands were fastened securely behind his back. He struggled briefly against the restraint, then winced and uttered a cry of pain as the leather thong of the thumb cuffs cut into the soft skin at the base of his thumbs.

'Stay still and you won't hurt yourself,' Halt told him quietly.

The man looked up in alarm, registering Halt's presence for the first time. The Ranger had been sitting, quiet and unmoving, only a few metres away. Halt now saw a bewildered look pass over the unshaven face as the man tried to recall what had happened, how he had arrived in this predicament. From the expression on his face, he had no idea. Then bewilderment gave way to anger.

'Who are you?' he demanded roughly. His aggressive tone left no doubt that he was used to berating people to get his own way.

Halt smiled thinly. Had the man known anything about the grey-bearded figure sitting opposite him, that alone would have been enough to set alarm bells ringing. Halt rarely smiled, and even more rarely was it a sign of good humour.

'No,' he said calmly, 'I think that's my question. Who are you? What's your name?'

'Why should I tell you?' the Outsider demanded. His tone was still blustering and overbearing. Halt scratched his ear reflectively for a second or two, then replied.

'Well, let's just take stock of the situation, shall we? You're the one who's sitting there trussed up like a Yuletide goose. You can't move. Your head probably aches. And for the time being you have two ears.'

For the first time, a shadow of fear passed across the man's face. Not so much at the statement that he was tied hand and foot, more at the non sequitur about his ears.

'My ears?' he said. 'What have they got to do with it?'

'Just this,' Halt told him. 'If you don't stop talking as if you're in charge of things, I'll remove one of them for you.'

There was a whisper of steel on leather as Halt drew his saxe knife. The razor-sharp blade gleamed dully in the starlight as he held it up for the Outsider to see.

'Now,' he repeated, 'what's your name?'

The thin smile had disappeared from Halt's face now and there was an edge in his voice that told his prisoner the time for discussion was past. His eyes dropped from Halt's, the light of anger in them quickly fading.

'It's Colly,' he said. 'Colly Deekers. I'm an honest mill worker from Horsdale.'

Horsdale was a large town some fifteen kilometres away. Halt shook his head slowly. He slid the, saxe back into its sheath but somehow the disappearance of the weapon did nothing to raise Colly's spirits.

'Ah, Colly,' he said, 'we're going to get on a lot better if you stop trying to lie to me. You may be from Horsdale but I doubt that you're a mill worker. And I know you're not honest. So let's just leave those details out of our conversation, shall we?'

Colly said nothing. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. This was, after all, the man that he'd been sent to find – and to kill if the opportunity arose. And he had no doubt that the stranger was well aware of the fact. His mouth was dry all of a sudden and he swallowed several times.

'My friends will pay you if you release me,' he said. Halt regarded him, head tilted quizzically to one side.

'No they won't,' he replied scornfully. 'They'll do their best to kill me. Don't be so ridiculous – and don't take me for a fool. It annoys me and you're in no position to do that. I might change my mind about my plans for you.'

Colly's mouth was drier than ever now.

'Your plans for me?' he said. There was a slight croak in his voice. 'What are they?'