'I've always been good with children,' he said, with a wry smile.

'They have suffered a great deal,' said Danyal, 'but they will be better in a little while. Do you have any food?'

'How remiss of me. Come this way.'

He took them into the keep where the cook was preparing breakfast of hot oats and cold pork and they sat at the makeshift table. The cook served them with plates of oats, but the children, after one taste, pushed the dishes away.

'It's horrible,' said Miriel.

One of the men sitting nearby came to the table.

'What's wrong with it, princess?'

'It's sour,' she said.

'You have some sugar hidden in your hair. Why don't you sweeten it?'

'I haven't any sugar,' she said. The man leaned forward, ruffled her hair and then opened his hand to show a tiny leather sack sitting on his palm. He unfastened it and poured some sugar on the oats.

'Is there sugar in my hair?' asked Krylla eagerly.

'No, princess, but I'm sure your sister would not mind you sharing hers.' He added the rest of his small store to Krylla's plate and the sisters began to eat.

'Thank you,' said Danyal.

'A pleasure, my lady. I am Vanek.'

'You are a kind man.'

'I like children,' he said, then moved back to his table. Danyal noticed that he walked with a slight limp.

'A horse fell on him about two years ago,' said Sarvaj. 'Crushed his foot. He's a good man.'

'Do you have spare weapons here?' asked Dardalion.

'We captured some Vagrian supplies. There are swords, bows and breastplates.'

'Must you fight, Dardalion?' asked Danyal.

Reading the concern in her voice, Sarvaj switched his gaze to the young man. He looked strong enough, though his face was gentle – more of a scholar than a warrior, thought Sarvaj; he reached out and took Danyal's hand, saying nothing.

'You don't have to fight, sir,' said Sarvaj. 'It's not obligatory.'

'Thank you, but I have chosen my path. Would you help me choose a weapon? I am not skilled in such matters.'

'Of course. Tell me about your friend.'

'What would you like to hear?' asked Dardalion.

Sarvaj grinned. 'He seems more of a loner,' he said lamely. 'Not someone I would expect to see in the company of a woman and children.'

'He saved our lives,' said Dardalion, 'and that speaks more highly of him than his looks.'

'Indeed it does,' admitted Sarvaj. 'What is his name?'

'Dakeyras,' said Dardalion swiftly. Sarvaj caught the look on Danyal's face and did not press the matter; there were far more important issues at stake than a change of name. It was likely that Dakeyras was an outlaw, which six months ago would have meant something. Now it was immaterial.

'He spoke of Vagrian outriders. Did you see them?'

'There are just under five hundred soldiers,' said Dardalion. 'They were camped in a gully to the north-east.'

'Were?'

'They moved out an hour before dawn, seeking sign of your wagons.'

'You know a great deal about their movements.'

'I am a mystic, once a priest of the Source.'

'And you want weapons?'

'I have experienced a change of perspective, Sarvaj.'

'Can you see where the Vagrians are now?'

Dardalion closed his eyes, resting his head on his elbows. Seconds later he opened them again.

"They have found the tracks where you cut to the west. Now they are moving this way.'

'What regiment are they?'

'I have no idea.'

'Describe their armour.'

'Blue cloaks, black breastplates and helms that cover their faces.'

'Are the visors clear or embossed?'

'On the forehead is an image of a snarling wolf.'

'Thank you, Dardalion. Excuse me.' Sarvaj rose from the table and returned to the battlements, where Gellan was supervising the distribution of arrows to the men: quivers of fifty shafts allocated to each archer.

Sarvaj removed his helm and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

'You trust this man?' asked Gellan, after Sarvaj had given him the news.

'I would say that he is honest. I could be wrong.'

'We will know within the hour.'

'Yes. But if he's right we are up against the Hounds.'

'They are men, Sarvaj; there's nothing supernatural about them.'

'It is not the supernatural that worries me,' said the soldier. 'It is the fact that they always win.'

Waylander unsaddled his horse, stowing his saddlebags inside the Keep. Then he took his weapons to the decaying battlements of the western wall. Six throwing knives and two quivers of bolts for his crossbow he left leaning against the ramparts. Then he saw Dardalion and Sarvaj standing at a wagon below the eastern wall; here the wagons had been drawn in a line to create a pen for the oxen.

Waylander strolled across the courtyard. Dardalion had put aside the sword and scabbard he had taken from the dead robber and had selected a sabre of blue steel. The broadsword had been too heavy for the slender priest. Sarvaj produced a breastplate from under the tarpaulin. It was wrapped in oilskin, and when he brought it out into the sunshine it shone like silver.

'A Vagrian officer of the Blue Riders,' said Sarvaj.

'Made to order. Try it on.' Delving deeper into the depths of the wagon, he pulled clear a large parcel. Ripping it open he discovered a white cloak, trimmed with leather.

'You'll stand out like a dove among crows,' said Waylander, but Dardalion merely grinned and swept the cloak over his shoulders. Shaking his head, Waylander climbed on to the wagon where he selected two short swords of blue steel in matching black scabbards; these he threaded to his belt. The edges were dulled and he moved away to the battlements to hone them.

When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion's thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.

'You look ridiculous,' said Waylander.

'Most probably. But will it serve?'

'It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.'

'I do feel rather foolish.'

'Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.'

'No. I can't explain why, but this is right.'

'Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!'

'Will you not get yourself some armour?'

'I have my mailshirt. I don't intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.'

'I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,' said Dardalion.

'Gods of Mercy!' snapped Waylander. 'It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There's nothing I can teach you – just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!'

'By the way, I told Sarvaj – the soldier who greeted us – that your name was Dakeyras.'

'It does not matter. But thank you anyway.'

'I am sorry that saving me has brought you to this,' said Dardalion.

'I brought myself to this; don't blame yourself. Just try to stay alive, priest.'

'I am in the hands of the Source.'

'Whatever. Keep the sun to your back – that way you'll blind them with your magnificence! And get yourself a canteen of water – you'll find war dries the throat.'

'Yes, I'll do that now. I …'

'No more speeches, Dardalion. Fetch yourself some water and position yourself down there by the wagons. That is where the action will be.'

'I feel I ought to say something. I owe you my life … But the words are all trapped inside me.'

'You need say nothing. You are a good man, priest – and I am glad I saved you. Now, for pity's sake, go away!'

Dardalion returned to the courtyard and Waylander strung his crossbow, testing the strings for tension. Satisfied, he laid it gently on the stone rampart. Then, taking a short length of rawhide, he tied back his hair at the nape of the neck.