A running figure emerged from the trees some thirty paces ahead. He was wounded, and dragged his left foot; in his hands was a huge wooden club. A wolf burst into view and leapt. The man turned, the club flashing in the moonlight to crunch against the wolfs ribs, stoving them in. It landed with a thud ten feet away from him.

He was big, bigger than any man Waylander had ever seen, and he appeared to be wearing a gruesome mask decorated with a white sphere at the forehead. The lower part of the mask had a lipless mouth, lined with fangs. Waylander could not see him clearly, but he did not look like a Nadir.

More wolves came into sight and the man bellowed his fury and frustration, then limped to a tree and turned to face the pack. They spread out in a cautious semi-circle and crept in upon him. Suddenly one darted from the right and he turned to meet it. Immediately another beast sprinted from the left and leapt. The man fell back as the jaws snapped shut just short of his throat. He lashed out with his club, but a third wolf ran forward.

A crossbow bolt flashed through its neck, and it slumped to the ground.

Waylander yelled at the top of his voice and spurred the horse into a gallop. The wolves scattered, but not before a second beast died with a bolt through its brain. The man at the tree sagged and fell forward. Waylander sprang from the saddle and tied the reins to a stout bush. He reloaded the crossbow and scanned the undergrowth. The wolves were gone … for now.

He moved to the man, who was now kneeling, his hand clamped to a badly bleeding wound on his upper arm.

'You are lucky, my friend,' said Waylander.

The man looked up … and Waylander blanched.

He was wearing no mask. He had but a single eye at the centre of his forehead, wherein were two pupils each rimmed with gold iris. His nose was missing; two membrane-covered slits stretched beneath his eye. And his mouth was nightmare.

Shaped like an upturned V, it was lined with fangs sharp as arrow points. Once Waylander had seen a huge white fish with a mouth such as this, and he had never forgotten it. It had filled him with fear at the time, and made him vow never to enter the sea.

But this?

His crossbow was ready and he contemplated stepping back and loosing both bolts into the man-creature before it could attack him. But his great round eye closed and he slid to the ground.

It was almost too good an opportunity to miss and Waylander backed to his horse, ready to ride away. But he could not. Some contrariness in his nature made him stop and return to the wounded thing.

As he had with Dardalion so long before, Waylander stitched the wounds to the creature's arm and leg and then bandaged them as best he could. He was naked, but for a moth-eaten loincloth of old fur, and Waylander wrapped him in a blanket and prepared a fire. After an hour the creature's eyes opened and he sat up. Waylander offered him some dry meat and he took it without a word. The fangs closed on it and it disappeared.

'Can you talk?' asked Waylander.

The great eye merely looked at him. Waylander shrugged and passed more jerked beef which vanished instantly into the cavernous mouth.

'Can you understand me?'

The creature nodded.

'I cannot stay to help you. I am being hunted. Beasts and men. You understand?'

The creature lifted his hand and pointed south.

'That's right, they are coming from the south. I must go, but I will leave you food.'

Waylander walked to his horse, stood for a moment and then unpacked his blanket roll, removed two long hunting knives which were bone-handled and razor-sharp. He took them back to the fire. 'Here. You may need these.' The man-creature reached out. His fingers were incredibly long, the nails curved into dark talons which curled around the bone hilts as he raised the knives to his eye. His reflection came back at him and he blinked and looked away; then he nodded and pushed himself to his feet, towering over Waylander.

The assassin swallowed hard. It was difficult to read the expression on the monster's face, but Waylander was uncomfortably aware of the two knives in his hands.

'Goodbye, my friend,' he said, forcing a smile.

He went to his horse and stepped into the saddle, wrenching the reins clear of the bush. The creature moved forward, its jaws moving and a low grunting noise issuing forth which caused Waylander's mount to back away. The creature's head tilted to one side with the effort he was making.

'Udai rend,' he said. Not understanding, Waylander nodded and moved away.

'Urbye vrend.'

Understanding at last, Waylander turned in the saddle and waved.

'Goodbye, friend,' he called and rode into the darkness.

21

On the mountain pass east of Purdol, two young men ate a breakfast of cheese and bread while swapping tall stories concerning the legendary whores of Purdol Docks. The sun was shining and the taller of the two – a five-year soldier named Tarvic – stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff path, staring out over the desert to the north. He had been pleased to get this assignment; watching a cliff path was a lot less dangerous than defending a rampart.

He was still grinning when an arrow entered his throat and punched up through the roof of his mouth and into his brain.

The second soldier looked round as he staggered back, his hands twitching.

'What's wrong, Tarvic?' called Milis. As Tarvic fell back, his head bouncing from a jagged white rock, Milis saw the arrow and his mouth dropped open. The fear surged through him and he began to run. An arrow chipped him from the rock to his right and flashed by his face. Legs pumping hard, Milis sprinted towards the cave. Something hit him hard in the back, but it did not slow him.

The cave entrance loomed and twice more he was struck from behind, but there was no pain and he made his way into the security of the tunnel. Safe at last, he slowed his pace.

His face crashed into the rocky floor as the ground leapt up at him. He tried to rise, but his arms had no strength. He began to crawl, but hands pulled at him, turning him over.

'The Vagrians are coming,' he said.

'I know,' said the Vagrian, drawing his knife across Milis' throat.

He was alone, as he had always been alone. He sat by the murky waters of a lily-covered pond and stared at his reflection in the silver steel blade of the hunting knife. He knew he was a monster; the word had been hurled at him since the beginning – along with stones, spears and arrows. He had been hunted by horsemen carrying lances, by wolves with sharp fangs and cunning minds, and by the long-toothed snow tigers which came down from the mountains with the winter ice.

But he had never been caught. For his speed was legend and his strength terrifying.

He pushed his broad back against the bole of a willow and lifted his great head at stare at the twin moons high above the trees. He knew by now there was only one moon, but the pupils of his huge eye could never focus as true eyes. He had learned to live with that, as he had learned to live with the other savage gifts nature had bestowed on him.

For some reason his memory was sharper than most, although he did not realise it. He could remember vividly the moment of his birth, and the face of the old woman who guided him into the world from the black-red tunnel of the Void. She had screamed and let him fall and he had hurt himself, twisting his arm under his body and hitting the edge of a wooden bed.

A man entered then and picked him from the floor. He had taken a knife, but another woman's scream had stopped him dead.

For a little while he remembered feeding at the breast of a dark-haired, sad-eyed young girl. But then his teeth grew, pointed and sharp – red blood had mixed with the milk and the girl had cried as she fed him.