He had attention only for the two people in the driving seat of the tented wagon he had been following since it had left the settlement at Menagh three hours to the north.

One of them was a tall old man wrapped in a heavy cloak whose cowl had slipped briefly to reveal a shining and utterly hairless head. The other was a boy, shorter, thin, and still too young to have hair on his chin. Their features were shaded by the awning that sheltered them from the weather. They were probably itinerant tinkers with nothing of great value in their wheeled dwelling. Declan had never before killed an old man or a boy, but he was so cold and hungry and angry that if they did not give him food, no matter how little they had for themselves, he might do just that.

Trying to still the chattering of his teeth and angry with impatience, Declan pulled his ragged cloak more tightly about him and began gradually closing the distance to the wagon, but keeping among the trees and undergrowth that bordered the rutted track the tinkers were using. He would wait until they had stopped for the night, probably in the wooded region a few leagues ahead, and were preparing their evening meal before making his attack. He checked that his long-axe was moving freely in its shoulder harness and at his waist the gladius, which had failed to protect the life of its former Roman owner, was also easy in its scabbard.

The sunset had died to a red smudge in the sky behind him and the trees ahead were showing black and silver rather than green in the strengthening light of the full moon when the wagon turned off the track into a small clearing and stopped. The old man climbed to the ground slowly while the boy jumped down and began unharnessing their horse.