'You're getting old, Waylander,' said Kaem.

The door burst open and a young man ran in, carrying a bow with arrow notched to the string.

Waylander's arm shot forward and the young man collapsed with a black-bladed knife in his throat. Waylander ran to the door, hurdling the corpse.

'You'll die for that!' screamed Kaem. 'You hear me? You will die!'

The sound of sobbing followed Waylander as he ran down the wide stairs, for the dead man was Kaem's only son…

And now the hunters were searching for his killer.

Wrapped in his blankets with his back against a jutting rock, Waylander heard the old man approach, the coarse cloth of his robes whispering against the long grass. 'May I join you?'

'Why not?'

'It is a glorious night, is it not?'

'How does a blind man define glorious?' 'The air is fresh and cool and the silence a mask – a cloak which hides so much life. To the right there, a hare is sitting, wondering why two men are so close to his burrow. Away to the left is a red fox – a vixen by the smell – and she is hunting the hare. And overhead the bats are out, enjoying the night as am I.'

'It's too bright for my liking,' said Waylander.

'It is always hard to be hunted.'

'I had a feeling you knew.'

'Knew what? The feeling of being hunted, or the fact that the Dark Brotherhood are seeking you?'

'Either. Both. It does not matter.'

'You were right, Waylander. I was seeking you and there is an ulterior motive. So shall we stop fencing?'

'As you wish.'

'I have a message for you.'

'From whom?'

'That is not part of my brief. And also it would take more time than I have to explain it to you. Let me say only that you have been given a chance to redeem yourself.'

'Nice of you. However, there is nothing to redeem.'

'If you say so. I do not wish to argue. Soon you will reach the camp of Egel where you will find an army in disarray: a force doomed to ultimate defeat. You can aid them.'

'Are your wits addled, old man? Nothing can save Egel.'

'I did not say "save". I said "aid".'

'What is the purpose of aiding a dead man?'

'What was the purpose in saving the priest?'

'It was a whim, damn you! And it will be a long time before I allow myself another such.'

'Why are you angry?'

Waylander chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound.

'You know what has happened to you?' asked the old man.'You have been touched by the Source and those are the chains you rail against. Once you were a fine man and knew love. But love died, and since no man lives in a vacuum you filled yourself not with hate but with emptiness. You have not been alive these past twenty years – you have been a walking corpse. Saving the priest was your first decent deed in two decades.'

'So you came to preach?'

'No, I am preaching in spite of myself. I cannot explain the Source to you. The Source is about foolishness, splendid foolishness; it is about purity and joy. But against the wisdom of the world it fails, because the Source knows nothing of greed, lust, deceit, hate, nor evil of any kind. Yet it always triumphs. For the Source always gives something for nothing: good for evil, love for hate.'

'Sophistry. A small boy died yesterday – he hated no one, but an evil whoreson cut him down. All over this land good, decent people are dying in their thousands. Don't tell me about triumphs. Triumphs are built on the blood of innocence.'

'You see? I speak foolishness. But in meeting you I know what triumph means. I understand one more fragment.'

'I am pleased for you,' mocked Waylander, despising himself as he spoke.

'Let me explain,' said the old man softly. 'I had a son – not a dazzling boy, not the brightest of men. But he cared about many things. He had a dog that was injured in a fight with a wolf and we should have killed the dog, for it was grievously hurt. But my son would not allow it; he stitched the wounds himself and sat with the hound for five days and nights, willing it to live. But it died. And he was heartbroken, for life was precious to him. When he became a man I passed on everything I had to him. He became a steward, and I left on my travels. My son never forgot the dog and it coloured everything he did …'

'Is there a point to this tale?'

'That depends on you, for you enter the tale at this juncture. My son saw that everything I had left him to care for was in peril, and he tried desperately to save it. But he was too soft, and raiders came to my lands and slew my people. Then my son learnt the error of his ways and became truly a man, for he now knew that life often brings hard decisions. So he gathered his generals and worked on a plan to free his people. And then an assassin slew him.

'His life was ended … and as he died all he could see was a failure, and a terrible despair went out from him that touched me a thousand leagues away.

'A terrible rage filled me and I thought to kill you. I could, even now. But then the Source touched me. And I am now here merely to talk.'

'You son was King Niallad?'

'Yes. I am Orien of the Two Blades. Or, more exactly, I was Orien once.'

'I am sorry for your son. But it is what I do.'

'You speak of the death of innocents. Perhaps – had my son lived – many of those innocents would also have lived.'

'I know. And I regret it … but I can't change it.'

'It is not important,' said Oren. 'But you are important. The Source has chosen you, but the choice is yours.'

'Chosen me for what? My only talent is hardly one your Source would admire.'

'It is not your only talent. You know of my early life?'

'I know you were a great warrior, never beaten in battle.'

'Have you seen the stature of me in Drenan?'

'Yes. The Armour of Bronze.'

'Indeed. The Armour. Many would like to know its whereabouts and the Brotherhood seek it, for it threatens the Vagrian empire.'

'Is it magic then?'

'No – at least, not in the sense that you mean. It was made long ago by the great Axellian. Superb workmanship and the two swords are of a metal beyond compare – a silver steel that never dulls. With that Armour Egel has a chance – no more than that.'

'But you said it carries no magic?'

'The magic is in the minds of men. When Egel wears that Armour it will be as if Orien has returned. And Orien was never beaten. Men will flock to Egel and he will grow – he is the best of them, an iron man of indomitable will.'

'And you want me to fetch this Armour?'

'Yes.'

'I take it there is some danger involved?'

'I think that is a fair assessment.'

'But the Source will be with me?'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not.'

'I thought you said I was chosen for this task. What is the point of having aid from a God without power?'

'A good question, Waylander. I hope you learn the answer.'

'Where is the Armour?'

'I hid it in a deep cave high up the side of a tall mountain.'

'Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Where?'

'Do you know the Nadir Steppes?'

'I am not going to like this.'

'I take it that you do. Well, two hundred miles west of Gulgothir is a range of mountains …'

'The Mountains of the Moon.'

'Exactly. At the centre of the range is Raboas …'

'The Sacred Giant.'

'Yes,' said Orien, grinning. 'And that's where it is.'

'That is insane. No Drenai has ever penetrated that far into Nadir lands.'

'I did.'

'Why? What purpose could you have had?'

'I wondered that at the time. Put it down to a whim, Waylander; you know about whims. Will you fetch the Armour?'

'Tell me, Orien, how much of a mystic are you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Can you see the future?'

'In part,' admitted Orien.

'What are my chances of success?'