Reluctantly, Will stood and followed Malcolm. Now that the healer mentioned it, he was ravenous, he realised. And bone tired. His Ranger training told him that it was always wise to rest and recuperate when the chance arose. But there was one task left to be done, he realised.

'Malcolm,' he called and the little healer turned, his eyebrows raised in a question. Before he could say anything, Will continued. 'Thank you. Thank you so much.'

Malcolm grinned and made a dismissing gesture with his hand.

'It's what I do,' he said simply. Forty Bacari made his move shortly before dawn.

He knew it was the time when people's spirits were at their lowest ebb – when a sentry would become drowsy and careless. The first hint of grey in the eastern sky, the first sign of the pre-dawn light signalling the impending end of the dark hours, would give a false sense of relaxation and security. When the light came, the hours of danger were over.

That was the way people's minds worked – even trained warriors like the tall, broad-shouldered one who was now on watch.

The assassin had listened carefully as Malcolm and Horace had discussed their security arrangements for the night.

'We'll take alternate watches,' Horace had said. 'Will's exhausted and he needs a proper night's rest to get his strength back.'

The healer had agreed immediately. Will had been under immense strain – both physically and emotionally – and he could use a full night's sleep without interruption. Worn out as he was, he had refused to go to sleep before he saw signs that Halt was recovering. Halt's breathing had become deep and even, and there was colour back in his face, instead of the grey pallor that they had seen in the past few days. And his arm, when Malcolm inspected it, was almost back to normal. There was no swelling, and none of the ominous-looking discolouration that had surrounded the graze. The graze itself was almost healed over now as well.

Bacari lay, apparently sleeping, watching through slitted eyes as the night wore on. He could feel his own strength returning as the antidote counteracted the poison in his body. In the small hours of the morning, Malcolm woke Horace to take the last watch. Bacari waited an hour as the young warrior sat hunched, a little way from the camp fire. From time to time, he heard him stifle a yawn. Horace was weary as well. The past few days hadn't exactly been a rest cure for him and he'd gone without a lot of sleep. Now, in his second spell of guard duty for the night, it was beginning to catch up with him. He shifted position and breathed deeply. Then he blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes, forcing them wide open.

Within a few minutes, his shoulders had sagged and his eyelids began to droop again. He stood up and patrolled around the camp for some minutes, then returned to sit again.

Eventually, inevitably, he began to doze. He wasn't fully asleep and any small noise would rouse him instantly. But Bacari made no noise at all.

Will had refastened his thumb and ankle cuffs after Malcolm had administered the antidote. Slowly, carefully, Bacari stretched his bound hands down behind his back until he was touching the heel of his drawn-up right boot. He twisted the heel and there was a faint click as a small sharp blade shot out of a recess there. Gently, he began to saw the rawhide thong between the two cuffs up and down along the razor edge. The blade was short and several times the rawhide slipped away from it. Once, he gritted his teeth as he accidentally cut himself. But after half a minute's silent, steady work, the thong parted and his hands were free.

He waited several minutes before his next move, making sure that he had made no sound or movement to alert Horace. But the broad-shouldered figure remained still, head hunched forward and shoulders rising rhythmically with his breathing.

Bacari brought his hands round to the front and drew his knees up under his chin so that he could reach the ankle cuffs that bound him. He felt around in the dark until he found the release knot and twisted it. Instantly, the pressure on his ankles faded as the two loops widened. He slipped the twin loops over his feet, then carefully stripped the severed cuffs from his wrists as well. Now he was free.

But still he waited, allowing circulation to return to his limbs, mentally rehearsing his next sequence of actions.

He would kill Horace first. He had the means at his disposal. Then he would take the warrior's dagger – Bacari was no hand with a sword – and hamstring the two smaller horses. He would mount the larger horse and make his escape.

Later, at a time of his choosing, he would return to finish off the other two. Or not. Bacari was a pragmatist. He would enjoy having revenge on Will and Malcolm but if, by doing so, he would disadvantage or endanger himself, he would forego the pleasure. He was, after all, a professional and there was no profit in simply killing them for the sake of a little revenge. On the other hand, if Tennyson were willing to offer a bonus of some kind…

While he had been turning this over in his mind, he had been preparing for his attack on Horace. His cloak was fastened at the neck by a draw string. Carefully, he undid the knot at one end and slipped it out of the sewn fold that it was threaded through. The drawstring was in reality a thin cord and it measured some fifty centimetres in length. He wound the cord round each of his hands several times, leaving a long loop between them. Then, cat-like, he rose into a crouch and stole across the camp site towards the dozing figure of Horace.

Horace came awake in panic as he felt something whip over his head and then tighten inexorably around his throat, dragging him back away from the fire, cutting off his air and strangling any attempt he made to call out. He felt a knee in his back as Bacari used it to gain extra purchase, straining backwards on the garrotte and pulling Horace's head back so that he was off balance and unable to struggle effectively.

Too late, Horace realised what was happening and tried to force his fingers under the cord, between it and his neck. But it was already biting too deep and set too securely and there was no way he could relieve the dreadful pressure.

He looked desperately at the three sleeping figures around the camp fire. Will was exhausted, he knew. There was little chance that he would hear any sound. Malcolm wasn't attuned to this sort of life. He couldn't expect help from that quarter either. And Halt, of course, was still sleeping off the effects of the poison.

Even the horses were too far away to notice anything amiss. They had wandered further in the copse of trees, looking for grass. Besides, Ranger horses were trained to warn of danger and movement coming from without, not within.

He tried to call out but could manage only a small awkward croak. The minute he did so, the noose around his neck tightened even further and he started to black out as his body and brain were starved of oxygen.

His struggles, already ineffectual, weakened further and as Bacari felt it happen, he increased his pressure. Horace felt he was looking down a long tunnel now. He could see the camp site as if he were looking through a circular hole, where the outer edges were black and impenetrable. His lungs cried out for air and he plucked feebly at the cord around his neck. Too late, he thought to thrash out with his legs to make some sort of noise. But he was too weak to accomplish anything more than a feeble movement.

Horrified, he realised he was dying. The horror was mixed with a senseless fury as he realised it was Bacari who would kill him. It was galling to think that the assassin would triumph over him after all.

'Will!'

The shout rang through the trees. For a moment, Bacari was taken by surprise and the pressure on Horace's windpipe relaxed. Horace gasped and shuddered, managing to drag in one short breath before the noose tightened again. Who had called? It was a familiar voice. He tried to place it, then, as he blacked out, he realised who it had been.