'You cried in your sleep,' she said softly.

'I am sorry if it wakened you. Tell me, does Hewla still live in Skarta?'

'She has a cabin north of the town.' The girl was frightened, but she gave Waylander directions and he left the merchant's house, saddled his horse and rode north.

The cabin was badly built; the unseasoned wood was beginning to warp and mud had been pushed into the cracks. The main door was poorly fitted and a curtain had been hung behind it so as to cut down the draughts. Waylander dismounted, tethered his horse to a stout bush and knocked on the door. There was no answer and he moved inside warily.

Hewla was sitting at a pine table staring into a copper dish filled to the brim with water. She was old and almost bald, and even more skeletal than the last time Waylander had visited her two years before.

'Welcome, Dark One,' she said, grinning. Her teeth were white and even, strangely out of place amidst the ruin of her face.

'You have come down in the world, Hewla.'

'All life is a pendulum. I shall return,' she answered. 'Help yourself to wine – or there is water if you prefer.'

'Wine will be fine,' he said, filling a clay goblet from a stone carafe and sitting opposite her.

'Two years ago,' he said softly, 'you warned me against Kaem. You spoke of the death of princes, and of a priest with a sword of fire. It was pretty, poetic and meaningless. Now it has meaning … and I wish to know more.'

'You do not believe in predestiny, Waylander. I cannot help you.'

'I am not a fatalist, Hewla.'

'There is a war being waged.'

'You surprise me.' His tone was ironic.

'Close your mouth, boy!' she snapped. 'You learn nothing while your lips flap.'

'I apologise. Please go on.'

'The war is on another plane, between forces whose very nature we do not understand. Some men would call these forces Good and Evil, others refer to them as Nature and Chaos. Still others believe the power is of one Source that wars on itself. But whatever the truth, the war is real. I myself tend towards the simplistic: good and evil. In this struggle there are only small triumphs and no final victory. You are now a part of this war – a mercenary who has changed sides at a crucial time.'

'Tell me of my quest,' said Waylander.

'I see the global view does not excite your interest. Very well. You have allied yourself with Durmast, a brave decision. He is a killer without conscience and in his time has slain men, women and babes. He is without morality, neither evil nor good – and he will betray you, for he has no understanding of true friendship. You are hunted by Cadoras, the Scarred One, the Stalker, and he is deadly for, like you, he has never been bested with the sword or the bow. The Dark Brotherhood seek you, for they desire Orien's armour and your death, and the Ventrian emperor has ordered a team of assassins against you for killing his nephew.'

'I did not kill him,' said Waylander.

'No. The deed was arranged by Kaem.'

'Go on.'

Hewla gazed into the bowl of water. 'Death is being drawn to you from every side. You are trapped at the centre of a web of fate and the spiders are closing in.'

'But will I succeed?'

'It depends on your definition of success.'

'No riddles, Hewla. I have no time.'

'That is true. Very well then, let me explain about prophecy. Much depends on interpretation, nothing is clear-cut. If you were to take your knife and hurl it into the forest, what chance would you have of hitting the fox that killed my chickens?'

'None at all.'

'That is not strictly true. The law of probability says you might kill it. And that is the size of your task.'

'Why me, Hewla?'

'Now that is a question I have heard before. If I could lose a year for every time it has been asked, I would be sitting before you as a virgin beauty. But it was honestly asked and I will answer it. You are nothing in this game but a catalyst. Through your actions a new force has been birthed in the world. This was born the moment you saved the priest. It is invulnerable and immortal and will ride through the centuries until the end of time. But no one will remember you for it, Waylander. You will fade into the dust of history.'

'I care nothing for that. But you have not answered my question.'

'True. Why you? Because you alone have the chance, slim as it is, to change the course of this nation's history.'

'And if I refuse?'

'A pointless question – you will not.'

'Why so sure?'

'Honour, Waylander. You are cursed with it.'

'Do you not mean blessed?'

'Not in your case. It will kill you.'

'Strange. I thought I would live for ever.'

He stood to leave, but the old woman raised her hand.

'I can give you one warning: beware the love of life. Your strength is that you care not about death. The powers of Chaos are many and not all of them involve pain and sharp blades.'

'I do not understand you.'

'Love, Waylander. Beware of love. I see a red-haired woman who could bring you grief.'

'I shall not see her again, Hewla.'

'Maybe,' grunted the old woman.

As Waylander stepped from the cabin, a shadow flickered to his left and he dived forward as a sword blade whistled over his head. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled to his knees, his knife flashing through the air to take his attacker under the chin. The wounded man sank to his knees, tearing the blade loose, blood gushing from his throat as he toppled forward. Waylander swung round, scanning the trees, then rose and walked to the corpse. He had never seen the man before.

He cleaned his knife and sheathed it as Hewla stepped into the doorway.

'You are a dangerous man to know,' she said grinning.

His dark eyes fixed on her wrinkled face, 'You knew he was here, you crone.'

'Yes. Good luck on your quest, Waylander! Walk warily.'

Waylander rode east through the darkest section of the forest, his crossbow primed and his dark eyes scanning the undergrowth for movement. Above him the branches interlaced and shafts of sunlight splayed the trees. After an hour he turned north, the tension growing within him causing his neck to ache.

Cadoras was not a man to be taken lightly. His was a name spoken in whispers in the darkest alleyways of forbidden cities: Cadoras the Stalker, the Dream Ender. It was said that none could match him for cunning and few for cruelty, but Waylander dismissed the more wild stories, for he knew how legend could add colour to the whitest of deeds.

For he, of all men, could understand Cadoras.

Waylander the Slayer, the Soul Stealer, the Chaos Blade.

Saga-poets sang dark songs about the wandering assassin, the stranger, the Waylander, choosing always to finish their tale-telling with Waylander's exploits as the fires guttered low and the tavern dwellers prepared for a walk home in the dark. Waylander had sat unnoticed in more than one inn while they entertained the crowds with his infamy. They would begin their performances with stories of golden heroes, beautiful princesses, courageous tales of shadow-haunted castles and silver knights. But as the hours passed they introduced an edge of fear, a taste of terror, and men would walk out into darkened streets with fearful eyes which searched the shadows for Cadoras the Stalker, or for Waylander.

How the poets would dance with glee when they heard that Cadoras had been paid to stalk the Slayer!

Waylander turned west along the line of the Delnoch mountains until he entered a large clearing where some thirty wagons were waiting. Men, women and children sat at breakfast fires while the giant Durmast walked among the groups collecting his payments.

Once out of the trees, Waylander relaxed and cantered in to the camp-site. He removed the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings; clipping the weapon to his belt, he slid from the saddle. Durmast – two leather saddlebags drooped over one huge shoulder – spotted him and waved. Moving to a nearby wagon, he heaved the bags inside and wandered back to Waylander.