The sound made Ivaroth hesitate and he peered down at the cowled head, his face betraying both anger and curiosity. The head turned upwards to meet his inquiry and the cowl slipped back to reveal the face of the stranger.

It was the face of an old man, lean and haggard and with an unhealthy whiteness about it. But what made Ivaroth start was the sight of the ragged bandage bound about the man's eyes.

Blind!

Thoughts flooded into Ivaroth's mind. A blind man, here? So far from the normal range of any of the tribes. How? Most of the tribes either dispatched the blind or treated them as holy men. None that he knew would simply abandon them.

And the man did not have the look of a tribesman nor, for that matter, one of the southern city people.

He felt a brief touch of fear. It was said that across the great plains, far to the west, were other lands, strange mysterious lands full of great wonders, and peopled by tribes that were both beautiful and terrible.

Could this old man be …

The grip about his wrist tightened and he found himself being pulled down.

'I have been asleep. Lost in my torment. And now I am found again.’ The old man's mouth moved, but it seemed to Ivaroth that there was one sound in his head and another in his ears.

And there was a monstrous, insane delight in the voice. Ivaroth tightened his grip on his knife.

'I am not forgotten after all. I am guided yet. Guided to this place … to this man.'

The old man turned his head away from Ivaroth and took in a deep breath. He was like some predatory animal catching the scent of its prey and knowing that only patience was needed now before he would feed.

'Guided to this place so rich in the ancient power.’ The bandaged eyes turned back to Ivaroth. ‘And to you.'

A primitive terror filled Ivaroth at the recognition alive in the old man's face. His knife hand would not move.