The priest, startled by the irreverent display, had watched Dennis leave the group and then stepped up to Gregory's side and glanced up at the towering Natalese, but Gregory simply shook his head and looked around at the company. All were silent, save for the sound of a few desultory shovels striking the icy soil; all of them were gazing at their leader as he walked away and passed into the edge of the surrounding forest.

Gregory cleared his throat again, this time loudly and having caught the men's attention he motioned for them to get on with the work at hand.

'He hates me,' Father Corwin said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

'No, Father. He just hates all of this.' Gregory nodded at the wreckage of battle that littered the small clearing: the trampled-down snow – much of it stained a slushy pink – broken weapons, arrows, and the fifty-two Tsurani corpses that lay where they fell, including the wounded who had been finished off with a knife across the throat.

His gaze was fixed on the priest. 'The fact that you accidentally caused this fight, that wasn't your fault.'

The priest wearily shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I was lost out here and didn't know the Tsurani were so close behind me.'

Gregory stared straight into the pale-blue eyes of the old priest but the priest looked straight back at him, not flinching, not lowering his gaze even for an instant. Mendicant priests of any order, even those of the Goddess of Purity, had to be tough enough to live off the land and whatever bounty providence offered. Gregory had no doubt that the mace at the priest's belt was not unblooded and that Father Corwin had faced his share of dangers over the years.