The soldiers and the captain trooped after him and Kollarin entered the small dungeon. On the floor was the last corpse. Kollarin stood for a moment staring down at the man. He had been castrated, and then the genitalia had been pushed into his open mouth. Kneeling beside him, Kollarin touched his hand to the cold stone floor and closed his eyes. Images poured into his mind. He let them flow for a few seconds, then closed them off. Remaining where he was for a moment more, he gathered his thoughts and rose, turning to face the captain. 'What do you wish to know?' he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
'How many were involved in the attack? Where are they now?'
'There was no attack, captain,' said Kollarin softly. 'The raped woman lay where this man is now, pretending to be unconscious. When he too desired a piece of the vile action she stabbed out his eyes - as you can see.' The captain did not look down. 'She used her fingers. Then she took his dagger and killed him with it. She was in great pain herself at the time - but then you know that.' Kollarin turned. 'She fell to her knees and vomited there, then sat for a moment or two upon the cot.' Moving past the captain he stepped out into the dungeon corridor. 'Still holding the dagger she made for the stairs. The other guard was returning. He said something, but it is unclear to me. She killed him, then made her way up the stairs.' Kollarin followed in her footsteps and found a smear of blood upon the stairwell wall. Touching his ringers to it he closed his eyes once more. The captain and the soldiers were pressing in close. 'Ah yes,' said Kollarin.
'Here she paused for a moment. She is thinking of three men, two soldiers... and you, captain. She has decided to seek them out and kill them. But she is weak, and bleeding. She castrates this guard too, but has little energy to spare. She is thinking of a tavern, trying to remember where it is. She has heard the men speak of spending the evening there.'
'The Blue Duck!' said one of the soldiers.
'And that's where she is heading?' asked Redgaer. Kollarin nodded.
Was heading, captain. This was some while ago.'
Redgaer Kushir-bane pushed past the Finder and ran up the stairs, the soldiers pounding after him.
Kollarin followed. The four men ran through the streets, arriving at the Blue Duck tavern in time to see the crowd gathered around the bodies of the two soldiers. Kollarin pushed through and squatted down by the bodies.
'When did this happen?' he heard Redgaer demand.
'Moments ago,' said a voice. 'It was a woman. We saw her making off.'
Kollarin touched his hand to the blood on the dead Will Stamper's throat. Then he jerked and almost fell. A voice boomed into his mind. 'Delay them!' It was not a command, nor yet a plea.
Kollarin was surprised, but not shocked. Spirits of the dead had spoken to him before. Yet none had been as powerful as this one. For one fleeting moment he saw a face, hawk-nosed, with deep-set grey eyes and a beard of bright silver. Then the face faded. Kollarin remained where he was for a few seconds more, gathering his thoughts. He was a Hunter, a Finder. His reputation was second to none, and he valued this above all else. Kollarin never failed. He had trailed killers and thieves, robbers and rapists, cattle thieves and assassins. Never before had he been asked to hunt down an innocent woman, brutalized by her captors. Never before had a long-dead spirit interceded on behalf of a victim.
Kollarin rose and stretched his back.
'Where is she heading, man?' demanded Redgaer.
'I can't say,' said the Finder. 'Her mind was very confused at this point.'
'Can't say?' sneered Redgaer. 'It's what you are paid for, man.' Kollarin knew just where she was, heading out through the open North Gate, with half a mile to go before the safety of the tree line. He looked at Redgaer and smiled.
'As she lulled these men, captain, she was thinking of you. She was wondering how she could reach you, and draw a sharp knife across your testicles.' Redgaer winced. 'After that she wandered away into that alley there. Perhaps she is still there - waiting.'
'That leads to the North Gate, sir,' said one of the soldiers. 'There is a stable there. We could get horses.'
Redgaer nodded. 'Follow me,' he ordered, and ran off.
Kollarin remained where he was, staring down at the dead Will Stamper. The thoughts of dying men were often strange, almost mundane sometimes. But this man had tried to speak on the point of death. Two words. Kollarin shook his head.
What a time to say, 'I'm sorry.'
*
The more Fell considered his encounter with the old man, the more he believed it was a dream. That being so, he asked himself, why are you sitting here in the cold waiting for dawn to rise over Citadel town? He smiled ruefully and poked the dying camp-fire with a long stick, trying to urge some life into the little blaze. Fell's sheepskin cloak was damp from the recent rain and the fire had not the strength to warm him. It spluttered and spat, fizzled and sank low. He glanced at the sky. Dawn was still an hour away. He was sitting with his back against the shallow depression of a deep boulder, the fire set against a second tall stone.
The forester looked down at the last of the wood he had gathered. It was also damp. To his left Fell could see the twinkling lights of the Cinder-wings. He hoped they would come no closer. Fell had no wish to be visited by the ghosts of painful memories. The Cinders were clustered under an oak branch twisting and moving, their golden wings of light fluttering in the dark. When he was a child Fell had caught one of them, and rushed it home to his parents. In the light of the cabin it had proved to be nothing more than a moth, with wide, beautiful wings and a dark, hairy body. Lying dead in his hand it had seemed so ordinary, yet out in the woods, its wings glowing with bright light, it had been magical beyond imagining.
'You are lucky, boy,' his father told him. 'You are too young to have bad memories. Trust me, as you grow older you will avoid the Cinders.'
How true it was. When Fell was sixteen he had been walking through the night, following the trail of a lame wolf. He saw the flickering of Cinder-wing lights and walked in close to see them fly.
Instantly the vision of Mattick's soon-to-be-drowned face filled his mind, the child reaching out to Fell as the undertow dragged him towards the rapids. Fell couldn't swim, and could only watch helplessly as the child was swept over the rocks, the white water thrashing around him. The face hovered in Fell's mind and he dropped to his knees, tears coursing his cheeks. 'It was not my fault!' he cried aloud, then scrambled back from the glowing insects. After that he gave the Cinder-wings a distant respect.
The rain began again, and the Cinders vanished from sight. Fell shook his head. 'A great fool you are,' he said, aloud, watching the drops of rain settling on the longbow. The bowstring was safe and dry in his belt pouch, his quiver of twelve shafts behind him and under his cloak, but Fell did not like to see his favourite hunting bow at the mercy of the weather. It was a fine bow, made by Kereth the
Wingoran. Horn-tipped, it had a pull of more than ninety pounds. Fell, though not the finest of the Loda bowmen, had not missed a killing shot since purchasing the weapon. An arrow would sing from the string, streaking to its target and sinking deep through skin, flesh and muscle. It was important for a deer to die fast. Ideally the beast would be dead before it knew it, therefore the meat remained tender and succulent; whereas if the creature was frightened, its muscles would tense and harden and the meat would stay that way. Fell's bow supplied choice meat.
'What are you doing here, Fell? Following a dream you don't believe in?' he said aloud. The words of the dream man came back to him. 'In three days outside the mails of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.'