“We have enemies,” said the other, still in that mildly ironic tone, “whom we made deliberately, made ourselves, and are now finding a little harder to un make. We have watched you for some time, Roric No-man’s son. If you come with us, it must be of your own free will. A mortal, a man like you, may be able to help us, as well perhaps with another issue we are considering…”

“Then you are not a mortal yourself?” Roric asked slowly. It was sometimes said that warriors on the field of battle saw the Wanderers striding in their midst, but his battle was not yet joined-and he himself had never expected to see one of the lords of voima out of legend come to meet him.

But before the other could answer there came the sound Roric had been straining for the last four hours, of stealthy feet scrunching on gravel.

He was on his feet in an instant, his back pressed against the guesthouse wall. The moon in rising had left a slice of darkness here, and he would see the warriors well before they saw him. No time now to wonder about the lords of earth and sky. “It’s been pleasant having this little conversation,” he muttered to the person beside him, “but I think we will have to postpone the rest.”

Good, they had brought a torch with them; the fir rosin smoked and sizzled, and the flame burned orange. Their dazzled eyes would never pick him up. Especially now: clouds came up abruptly in a clear sky and darkened the moon.

He breathed very quietly, thinking fast. He had intended to sell his life as dearly as possible, but now he had another plan.

The guesthouse door was around on the side. They knocked; the sound was of a sword hilt wrapped in a cloak. “Open the door for us, Roric,” called a guttural voice. He recognized it; it was Gizor One-hand, whom he had distrusted even when still a boy. “We just want to tell you something.”

I’m sure you do, he thought. The note in Gizor’s falsely friendly voice would have been a warning even if he had been lying inside asleep.