But, though treacherous, Ivaroth was no coward. And he had met no man yet who had defied him and not died or yielded for his pains. Involuntarily he shrugged his shoulders loose, eased his sword in its scabbard and checked his spear and his several knives; belt, sleeves, and, with a twitch of his calves, those in his boots. Then he turned the horse towards the distant figure and gently urged it forward.

For a while, it seemed that he came no nearer to the figure. Indeed, it was almost as if it were in some other place that must remain ever beyond reach. Ivaroth felt the unease of a strange dream rising within him.

He shook his head vigorously. You should've eaten before, he rationalized. You're just light-headed through lack of food and too much travelling today.

Then the unease was gone and the figure was just a man walking hesitantly over the hard ground.

Ivaroth admitted to a twinge of both disappointment and distaste as he neared the man. The stranger was wearing a dirty and unkempt robe, the large cowl of which was pulled over his bowed head. Briefly he seemed to Ivaroth to be the personification of his own dark thoughts of a moment ago; a wandering hermit ranting at the howling wind.

He was not given to idle musing however, his thoughts being invariably pragmatic. It was a pity the man didn't have a horse, but he looked old and feeble and he might have food or drink about him even though he carried no pack. Ivaroth soon concluded that a little effort now might well save him a day's hunting. All that remained to be done was to check that the man had no companions nearby.

A friendly smile lit up Ivaroth's face. To those who knew him closely, it was an indication that it was time to make a discreet leave-taking.

'Greetings, traveller,’ he said jovially, halting his horse some way in front of the still-approaching figure.