“Defeat implies there was some form of contest,” he replied in a quiet tone, turning back to the cave. “Enjoy the tea. Leave the cup when you go, I only have the one.”

The cup shattered on the lip of the cave as he ducked his head to enter, turning to look upon her furious visage with narrowed eyes.

“It seems,” Lyrna said, “I have suffered many trials to come here and beg aid from a man who has suffered no more than humiliation, wallowing in self-pity whilst his people face ruin and enslavement.”

“Humiliation?” he asked, then began to laugh. “That’s why you think I’m here? Did your own people ever shun you, Highness? Did they turn their gaze from you at every opportunity, teach their children insults they were too craven to hurl themselves? Watch men you sailed with for years spit on your shadow? All because you failed in a murder they had lusted after for a generation. I did not exile myself, I was exiled. I am here because I can go nowhere else. My face is known in every port from here to Volaria, and I’ll find a well-earned noose waiting in every one.”

“Not in my ports,” she said. “I’ll pardon every ship you ever ransomed, every scrap of treasure you ever stole. Even every murder.”

“I never murdered. Never killed a man save in a fair fight.” He drew up short as something drew his gaze out to sea. Lyrna turned to see a familiar sight. The red shark was back, it’s full size revealed for the first time as it circled the Sea Sabre with slow flicks of its tail.

“Never seen one come that close to a ship and not attack,” the Shield said.

“If you come with me, I promise an interesting tale that might explain it.”

They stood side by side, watching the shark for a while, the Shield’s face unreadable. “Belorath says you blame yourself for not dying,” she said when the shark dived down into the murky depths. “That’s why you’re here. Waiting for the death you were cheated of.”

“I wasn’t cheated of anything. I was punished. Al Sorna knew well leaving me alive was a far worse fate than merely killing me.”

“I know Lord Al Sorna and he is not cruel. He spared a helpless man, that is all.”

Ell-Nestra gave the faintest of laughs. “I saw his eyes, Highness, heard his words. He saw my soul and he knew I deserved death.”

“Come with me and perhaps you’ll find it. Live and I’ll have the South Tower yards craft you the finest vessel you could dream of, the hold filled with bluestone from end to end.”

“Keep the bluestone, and the ship. I’ll trade it.”

“For what?”

He was too fast, grasping her arms and pulling her close, pressing his lips to hers. She shouted, feeling his tongue probing as her lips parted. Fury gripped her and she bit down. He released her, laughing and spitting blood on the stone. Lyrna glared at him, her heart thumping as she wished the throwing knife still hung about her neck. Instead all she could do was rasp at him, “And you said Al Sorna was cruel.”

“Not cruelty, Highness,” he replied, lisping a little as his tongue continued to leak blood. “Curiosity. And not yet satisfied.” He gave a practised and elegant bow. “Allow me to fetch my meagre belongings and I’ll join you forthwith.”

CHAPTER THREE

Frentis

Illian proved a far better archer than she had a cook. Her arms lacked the muscle for a bow so Davoka had given her a crossbow, the camp’s cook-pots soon benefiting from her new-found skill as she returned from the daily hunt with braces of wood pigeon, pheasant or rabbit. The faith-hound bitch had rarely strayed from her side since that first night around the fire and she named her Blacktooth for the permanently discoloured fang she displayed whenever she growled.

“Thin pickings today,” she said, dumping a single pheasant next to the fire. “I think this part of the forest is running out of game.” She turned an imperious eye on Arendil. “Pluck that for me, will you, boy?”

“Pluck it yourself, snotnose.”

“Peasant!”

“Brat!”

Frentis got up and wandered away as they continued to bicker, eyes tracking over the camp as he moved. Janril Norin was teaching the basics of the sword to some younger recruits, mostly boys no more than fifteen. Davoka sparred with Ermund, something she did most days now as the young knight recovered his strength. They fought with quarterstaffs, the clearing echoing with the sound of colliding wood as they whirled and danced around each other. Frentis knew a little of Lonak customs and wondered if she wasn’t auditioning a new husband judging by the intensity of her expression as they sparred.

Grealin sat with Thirty-Four, the torturer carefully enunciating every Realm Tongue phrase the master taught him. “My name is Karvil,” he said in his odd lilting tones, the Realm words barely coloured by an accent. The days following his abandonment of the pain drug had been hard, seeing him shivering and sweating in his shelter, sometimes clamping a stick in his mouth to stop his screams. At night he rarely slept for more than an hour, Frentis remaining at his side as he writhed and whimpered, often convulsing as he voiced desperate pleas in Volarian. Frentis wondered if they were his own or his victims’.

“That’s the name you’ve chosen?” Frentis asked the former slave.

“For now,” he replied. “I am having difficulty in choosing. You may continue to call me Thirty-Four if you wish.”

He moved on, finding Master Rensial with their small but growing stable of horses. He had them tethered in a narrow clearing away from the main camp where he spent all his time now, pausing only to sleep or eat the food Arendil or Illian brought him, proving no more capable of remembering their names than he was Frentis’s.

“Need corn, boy,” he told him, checking the hooves of a mare they had taken a few days before, a tall hunter ridden by a finely dressed Volarian who had unwisely decided to go in search of boar in company with only a handful of guards. Thirty-Four’s questioning had revealed him as the son of some minor Imperial luminary with only one useful morsel of intelligence: Lord Darnel was now in command of Varinshold.

“This could play to our advantage,” Master Grealin had said. “The Fief Lord is not famed for his intelligence.”

“Best not to underestimate him, brother,” Ermund responded. “A wild cat can’t argue philosophy but it’ll kill you just the same.”

Frentis gave Rensial the same answer he had given several times before. “Corn is in short supply, master.”

“Corn builds muscle,” the mad master went on blithely, moving to the next horse, a veteran stallion taken from the Free Cavalry. It had a greying muzzle but retained considerable power in its muscle-thick limbs and neck. “Warhorse needs corn. Grass is too thin.”

“I’ll make every effort to secure some, master,” Frentis said, as he usually did. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Ask Master Jestin if he can see his way to forging more shoes. Three of these have thrown them already. When you’ve done that the tack needs cleaning.”

Frentis watched him brush the stallion’s coat, seeing the blank devotion in his eyes. “Yes, master.”

? ? ?

He toured the pickets next, pausing to converse with the former City Guard corporal who had charge of the south-facing watch. “No sign?”

“None brother. Been at least half a day now.”

Draker and Ratter had gone on a reconnaissance that morning, at their own insistence which was unusual. Frentis suspected they had gone to retrieve some long-buried loot concealed close to the city and surmised they had little intention of returning. It was a source of considerable surprise that they had lingered so long already, as was their failure to shirk danger when brought on a raid.

Good luck to them, he decided, having waited until dusk with no sign of the thieves’ return. Be halfway to Nilsael by now.

“We’ve some brandy left from last week’s raid,” he told the corporal, rising from the concealed watch-post. “Come get your share when your shift’s done.”

A short whistle sounded, signalling possible danger and he immediately sank down again, eyes peering into the dim tree-line. After a few seconds the sound of laboured breathing could be heard, Draker stumbling into view shortly after. The weeks of meagre rations and hard living had denuded much of the outlaw’s weight but he still had difficulty maintaining a decent lick of speed for any distance. He duly collapsed on seeing Frentis emerge from hiding, falling to all fours and gasping for breath.

“Ambush,” he breathed as Frentis held out a canteen. The big man took it and poured the water over his face before taking several large gulps. “We got took. Those slave-soldier bastards and a couple of Renfaelins, hunters to trade by the look of them.”

“Where’s the rat?” the corporal asked.

“Killed him didn’t they? Took their time about it too. They left me to stew over it but I got free.”

“Got free how?” asked Frentis.

“Worked me bonds loose didn’t I? Every outlaw knows that trick.”

“Bonds? They didn’t chain you?”

Draker shook his head dumbly.

Frentis raised his head, ears alive to the song of the forest, straining for the faintest sign . . . There, faint but clear, barking. Renfaelin wolfhounds, not slave-hounds.