Yet, in truth, they were far from his reach now. A native caution had quietly prevailed over his wilder thoughts and brought him to this desolate region where any pursuing avengers would be reluctant to follow and in any event, would be easily seen. And he was no callow youth. He had skills enough to survive here until … until what?

As always, Ivaroth's euphoria faded and a bitter desperation began to seep into his thoughts. How could he fulfil his destiny here? What great deeds could he do? What great armies raise? Were all his dreams no more than some jest by the gods to taunt him into madness as he finished his days as a wandering hermit, ranting at the howling wind?

A sudden stinging gust of wind struck him as if in confirmation of this conclusion, bringing him back sharply to the present and making him bow his head and crouch low over the horse's neck. As he did so, something caught his eye.

It was a figure in the distance; a small, but stark and ominous pillar in the bleak loneliness.

For a moment, fear tightened across Ivaroth's stomach.

Had he been pursued and found? Was this the vanguard of Ketsath's kin seeking revenge? Or his brother's followers?

Surely he couldn't have been so careless as to let them come so close unseen?

His mouth dried and his eyes flicked rapidly from side to side, seeking for signs of ambush. But nothing else was to be seen. Just the solitary figure walking towards him.

Yet there was an oddness about it. It moved strangely and seemed in some way to have a presence that was greater than that of a single man. Ivaroth scowled. As fear of avenging men faded he found a more primitive fear waiting. The ancient fear of the unknown; the ancient fear of strangers.