In the dream Tarantio became the boy, fear of death filling him with terror. And the faces of the men Dace had killed to break free became old friends and comrades of past skirmishes.
An old man's face floated before him. 'The truth burns, Chio,' it said. 'The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.'
Tarantio awoke in the faint light of the pre-dawn. As always he came fully awake immediately, senses alert and mind sharp. It was the only period of the day when Dace was absent, and Tarantio felt at one with himself and the world. He took a slow deep breath, revelling in the emotional privacy.
The sound of cloth scraping on stone came from his left and Tarantio sat up. The huge form of the redbearded warrior Forin was kneeling over the body of Kiriel, furtively searching through the dead boy's pockets.
'He has no coin,' said Tarantio softly.
Forin sat back. 'None of us have coin,' he grunted. 'Three months' back pay, and you think we'll get it now -
even if we make it back to the border?'
Tarantio rolled to his feet and stepped outside the cave. The sun was clearing the eastern mountains, bathing the forest with golden light. The harsh cold stone of the cliff, corpse-grey in the twilight of the night before, now shone like coral. Tarantio emptied his bladder, then returned to the cave.
'It was that damned woman . . . Karis,' said Forin. 'I'll bet she's a witch.'
'She needs no sorcery,' said Tarantio, swinging his sword-belt around his waist.
'You know her?'
'Rode with her for two campaigns. Cold she is, and hard, and she can out-think and out-plan any general I ever served.'
'Why did you quit her service?' asked the giant.
'I didn't. I was with her when she fought for the Duke of Corduin. At the end of the season she resigned and joined the army of Romark. He was said to have offered her six thousand in gold. I don't doubt it is an exaggeration -but not by much, I'd wager.'
'Six thousand!' whispered Forin, awed by the sum.
Tarantio moved to Kiriel's body. The boy looked peaceful, his face relaxed. He could have been sleeping, save for the statue stillness of his features. 'He was a good lad,' said Tarantio, 'but too young and too slow.'
'It was his first campaign,' said Forin. 'He ran away from the farm to enlist. Thought it would be safer to be surrounded by soldiers.' The big man looked up at Tarantio. 'He was just a farm boy. Not a killer, like you - or me.'
'And now he's a dead farm boy,' said Tarantio. Forin nodded, then rose and faced the swordsman.
'What drives you, man?' he asked suddenly. 'Last night I saw the light of madness in your eyes. You wanted to kill me. Why?'
'It is what we do,' whispered Tarantio. He walked to the mouth of the cave and scanned the tree-line.
There was no sign of the pursuers. Swinging back, he met Forin's gaze. 'Good luck to you,' he said.
Dipping into his pouch, he produced a small golden coin which he tossed to the surprised warrior.
'What is this for?' asked Forin.
'I was wrong about you, big man. You're a man to match the mountains.'
Forin looked embarrassed. 'How do you know?'
Tarantio smiled. 'Instinct. Try to stay alive.' With that he headed off towards the west.
If he could avoid his pursuers for another full day, they would give up and return to the main force.
Two days was generally all that could be allowed for hunting down stragglers. The main purpose of such hunting-parties was not merely for the sport, but to prevent small groups of mercenaries re-forming behind the advancing line. Once the following group realized their quarry had separated, they would likely turn back, Tarantio reasoned.
As he walked on through stands of birch and alder and oak, Tarantio's mood lightened. He had always liked trees. They were restful on the eye, from the slender silver birch to the great oaks, gnarled giants impervious to the passing of man's years. As a child - in the days before Dace - he had often climbed high trees and sat, perched like an eagle, way above the ground. Tarantio shivered. It was growing cold here in the high country, and Fall flowers were in bloom upon the hillsides. It would be good to rest in Corduin.
The war had not touched it yet, save for shortages of food and supplies. Tarantio had ventured some of his wages there with the merchant, Lunder. With luck his investments would pay for a winter of leisure.
The ground below his feet was muddy from recent heavy rain, and his left boot leaked badly, soaking through the thick woollen sock which squelched as he walked. For an hour he moved on, leaving a trail a blind man could follow, heading always west. Then, as he passed beneath a spreading oak he leapt up and drew himself into the branches. Traversing the tree, he jumped down on to a wide rocky ledge. Mud from his boots stained the stone, and he wiped it clear with the hem of his heavy grey coat before moving on more carefully over firmer ground. Leaving no tracks, he headed north-west.
For another hour he travelled, moving with care, always keeping a wary eye on his back-trail, and rarely emerging on to open ground without first scanning the tree-line. Now, high above the point at which he had switched direction, he climbed into the branches of a tall beech and settled down to watch the trail. From a pouch on his sword-belt he drew the last of his dried meat, tore off a chunk and began to chew.
Before he had finished his meagre meal the pursuers came into sight. There were eight of them, armed with bows and spears. At this distance they looked insect-sized as they inched their way down the hillside, pausing below the oak. For a while they stood still, and Tarantio could imagine the argument among them. From the point where they now gathered, the distance to any one of four different towns or cities was around the same. To the west, beyond the mountains, was the lake city of Hlobane.
North-east lay Morgallis, capital of the Duke of Romark. To the south was Loretheli, a neutral port, governed by the Corsairs. And to the north-west — Tarantio's destination - the oldest and finest city in the Duchies, Corduin.
For a little while the men searched the area for sign of Tarantio's trail. Finding nothing, they held a hurried meeting, then turned back the way they had come.
Tarantio leaned back against the bole of the beech and allowed himself to relax. He had left his helm back at the cave, along with the crimson sash that signalled his service with the new Duke of The Marches. Now there was nothing that linked him to any of the four combatants. Once again he was a free man, ready to offer Dace's services to the highest bidder. Dropping down from the tree, he continued on his way throughout the afternoon, crossing valleys and heading for a distant lake that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. It was long and narrow, widening at the centre and flaring at the tip, like the tail of a great fish. There was a small island at the centre, on which a stand of pine reared against the backdrop of the mountains. The sun was warmer now and Tarantio shrugged off his heavy jacket, laying it on a flat rock.