The man stopped immediately and, without looking up, twisted his head slowly from side to side as if he had just heard some faint but familiar sound. There was a birdlike, almost serpentine, quality to the movement that set Ivaroth's teeth on edge. Casually, he rested his hand on his sword hilt.

'Greetings, traveller,’ he repeated, more loudly. ‘This is a harsh place to be wandering on foot. Where are you bound? Have you lost your camp?'

The head twisted again and the whole body craned forward slightly. Then an arm reached out and swept slowly from side to side as if seeking something in darkness. A long bony hand emerged from the ragged sleeve and, clawlike, groped at the air. But there was no reply.

Ivaroth's eyes narrowed at this seeming defiance and he eased his horse forward until he was by the man.

'I said, have you lost your camp?’ There was an unexpected harshness in his voice which surprised him. Had he heard it in someone else's he would have called it fear.

His smile faded and was replaced by a scowl. He reached down to seize the cowl and expose the face of this impertinent stranger, but as he did so, the bony hand swung round and gripped his wrist.

Ivaroth's fighting instincts registered several things simultaneously: the hand was the hand of an old man, and the stranger's posture was that of an old man, but the movement had been effortless, swift and accurate, and the grip was full of the green strength of youth.

He did not, however, dwell on these contradictions, but instinctively tightened his legs about his horse for support so that he could tear his arm free. Even as he did so, however, he felt the grip controlling his balance.

With his free hand he drew a knife from his belt, twisting it so that he could slash the extended arm.

A sigh rose up from the stranger. Not a sigh of sorrow or despair, but one of … satisfaction … recognition even.