Brannog stared at the embers of the fire. On the table beside him were the remains of the last breakfast he would share with his daughter. He could still hardly credit that she had gone with them. Dawn had barely broken when the party of four had set out. Brannog had fed them and helped them load their packs. They had gone along the quay towards the mountains, and Sisipher had turned to wave briefly, not wishing to prolong her father's sorrow. He wondered if she knew how deep the sorrow went, how hard it was for him to accept that he had lost a second time. In some of the windows faces had withdrawn as though anxious not to witness Brannog's pain. And then the street was empty. Like an illusion of something that had never been, the party had gone.

He had come to terms with the fact that she could never stay in Sundhaven, but what would she have to face now? Should I have gone with them? he asked himself. But he would not interfere. She had chosen her own path and he must not make himself an obstacle along it. He stood up, collecting the plates. At least the skies had cleared and it seemed as if it would be a mild day. It might not last, so he must take the boat out and fish. Many of the others were already preparing for the tide.

Behind him he heard a familiar rustle of skirt, and he turned to see Eorna, carrying fresh logs. She wore a look of concern for him. ‘Have you slept?’ she asked him.

'A little.’

She put down the logs and automatically took the plates from him. Leaving them on the table, she groped for his hand. ‘Brannog, you think you are alone now. You needn't be,’ she said, unable to prevent herself from speaking her mind.

He withdrew his hand. ‘Leave me,’ he said softly.

She gripped him again. ‘Don't send me away.’

Angrily he pushed her, with more strength than he had intended. She stumbled, bruising herself on the table behind her. ‘Leave me!’ he barked. ‘I treat you no better than I should for the work you do. Have the place tidied. I have to take the boat out.’ He stalked past her, face thunderous. She bit her lip and snatched up the dishes. Quickly she took them away.

Outside, in the crisp air, Brannog cooled and admitted to himself that perhaps he had been too hard on Eorna. He would speak to her again, more gently. For now he wanted no one's company.

'Putting to sea?’ called a voice. Hengrom was striding toward him.

'Aye,’ Brannog nodded, shouldering a hawser.

'So they've already gone. The girl, too?’

'Aye. She took it upon herself as a duty.’

Hengrom studied his friend, seeing the anguish on his face. ‘It could not have been an easy decision.’

Brannog saw Hengrom's genuine concern. ‘No. Was I wrong to let her go?’

'A bird must fly, Brannog.’ Hengrom studied the high walls that towered over the village. ‘It will be a dangerous quest. I have not slept.’

'They were glad of the swords,’ Brannog told him, forcing a grin.

Hengrom returned the smile. ‘See, the weather has turned. We must make amends for the poor catches so far this season. Perhaps our strange friend has brought us luck. We need the harvest.’

Luck? thought Brannog. Or is this weather a gift? He went back to the hall to make final arrangements. When he was satisfied, he looked again for Eorna and found her in one of the kitchens with the other girl, Harla. He sent Harla outside for something, but Eorna would not look at him.

'Eorna, I spoke unkindly. I was distressed.’

She looked up at once. ‘I understand.’

'I should not have scorned you.’

She moved towards him, but he turned away. ‘Perhaps when you return,’ she said softly, ‘you will let me teach you that you are not alone.’

He stiffened. This was not what he meant. ‘No. I am glad of your concern for me. But you must expect nothing. I do not love you, Eorna.’

Eorna smiled. ‘I do not ask you to.’

'You must find another man,’ he said quickly, not wanting to prolong this, knowing that he would flare again.

She studied him, but did not respond.

'You need not work here if you wish to leave,’ he told her.

His words horrified her. ‘You wish to dismiss me?’

'No! But I ask nothing more of you than that you work for your keep. Nothing more. I will provide for you, but if you need a man, you must find another.’

She looked down, shamed by his cold words. ‘Very well. Will you give me time to find work elsewhere in the village?’

'If you must leave. There is no need.’ He left her, wishing he had not confused matters by coming back to apologise. Instead it seemed as if he had compounded his earlier actions.

Soon afterwards, Eorna watched him board his boat and leave on the tide, together with other Sundhaven craft. Hardly a man was left in the village. For a while Eorna let her tears flow. With Brannog's daughter gone, she could have filled the gap in his life. But he had nothing but contempt for her. She had spoken openly to him, made herself vulnerable, but he had rejected her cruelly. Her tears ceased. She hardened herself. Very well. If I am to be cast out, she told herself, for she would interpret it no other way, I will remain no longer. And the silence you demanded of me, Brannog, you will not have. Your precious daughter's good name will be no better than mine. Already I am shamed by the tongues of the women, who think of me as your bedmate. Since you will not look with favour on me, I will not remain. She went to the tiny room that had been allowed her, and collected together the few things that were her own.

The fleet moved out into deep water swiftly. The sea was kind and the harvesting began. Each man put the visit of the stranger to the back of his mind, except for Brannog, who wondered again about the lull in the weather, and about power. Korbillian had said that in Ternannoc, men had controlled the storms. In Sundhaven the women worked cheerfully, thinking of the possible harvest. They gossiped about the night, speculating on the things their husbands had guardedly told them. There were more than a few dark clouds that had dispersed.

It was a boy-child, idly fishing from the rocks at the far end of the harbour by the crab pools, who first saw the riders. There was a narrow path (it could not be called a road) that wound up and along the coast to the south, rarely used and in the summer, overgrown. The boy saw horses picking their way down this path, some score of them, and sitting stiffly upon them were figures cloaked in drab grey, with muffling hoods against the cold. Frightened and fascinated, the boy could not move; his makeshift rod fell into the water.

When the leading rider threaded the part of the path that neared the rocks of the harbour, the boy was trembling. He could feel but not see the man's eyes searching every inch of him. Another rider pushed back his hood and addressed the boy.

'What village is this, child?’ His face was severe, gaunt, and there seemed no warmth in him, like one sent to chastise or punish. His expression seemed to say to the boy that already he had been judged and found in need of a good hiding. The boy found it hard to speak. The other rider, who had led the party, had not moved, but the boy could feel the eyes, as if a huge bird of prey hovered over him.

'Sundhaven,’ the boy managed to say at last, his voice trembling.

'Go, little rabbit,’ came the voice of the leading rider. It was deep, but without malice. ‘Skip to your people. Tell them the Deliverers are here. You are in no danger.’

'Thank you, sir,’ squeaked the boy, then tore away just as if he were indeed a rabbit, fleeing the shadow of a swooping eagle.

The second rider scowled after him, as if the flight of the child offended him. ‘Will they know about us, sire?’

'I doubt it. But they will have no reason to challenge us.’

“Will we find transgressors here?’

The hooded man laughed shortly. ‘You are too eager, Djemuta. Ours is a crusade into remote lands, and I expect little or no trouble. Exercise restraint. I know well enough your desire to serve our cause. You do not have to impress me.’ Without a sideways glance, the man edged his horse to the lead, making his way along the edge of the harbour towards Sundhaven. He had noticed the lack of boats. On such a calm day, the fleet would be out. He had wondered at the weather, for not long since, a storm had forced his men into a sea cave for three days. Yet today was almost freakish. The man paused. There was something in the water. He pointed.

At once Djemuta dismounted and went to investigate. ‘Wreckage,’ he called, with little interest. In the storm, any number of boats could have been destroyed.

'Bring what you can carry to me,’ was the command.

Djemuta reached from within the sleeves of his robe and used not a hand, but a steel, sickle-shaped claw to retrieve a fragment of wood from the shallows. He took it to his leader and held it up for inspection, the metal of his false hand gleaming.

The man on horseback made no attempt to take the proffered wood, nor did he push back his hood. ‘It is part of a ship,’ he said.

Djemuta instantly referred to the storm. ‘The wood—do you know its type?’ asked the other.

Djemuta's face clouded. ‘I have no skill in these matters, sire.’

'Of course not. Forgive me. I recognise the wood. You note how dark it must have been even before the sea got into it. There are no trees of that type in these lands. The fishermen get their wood from southern foresters at the fairs. That wood is from the islands to the far west, from Goldenisle. That ship was a long way from its native waters.’ Satisfied, he moved his steed away. Djemuta tossed the wood aside and remounted. Very little escaped the eyes of his master, Simon Wargallow.

The party moved on in silence to the first of the houses. No one had come out to greet them as they assembled at the quayside. Djemuta turned to another of the riders and nodded to him. The latter produced a curled brass instrument and gave three long blasts on it, and the sounds raced up and along the coastal heights. Gulls answered in noisy clouds, flocking out to sea, but in the village nothing stirred. Then a door opened and the aged figure of Gronen stepped out into the pale sunlight, squinting up at the gathered riders.

'What business do you have here?’ he called.

The leader inclined his head and spoke politely, though he did not reveal himself. ‘I have to ask a few simple questions.’

'Who are you?’ snapped Gronen, who had had a bellyful of strangers. These looked as if they could be fighting men. They had a military bearing. If so, they had no business here. The Emperor's men? No, not dressed in the drab grey. They were not seamen either.

'We are Deliverers,’ said their spokesman. ‘We perform works in the name of peace and goodwill.’

'What works?’

'Merely to ascertain that all is well in such places as these. Sundhaven, is it?’

'Aye.’ Gronen knew the boy had told them.

'Your men are at sea? Have you a leader?’

Gronen did not answer.

'Perhaps you act for him, old man. We will not remain long. All that I ask is that you allow my men to rest their horses for a while. The recent storm tired us greatly. My men have their own provisions, and will not ask of yours. Water, perhaps?’

'Of course,’ agreed Gronen. If that were all they sought, it would be impolite to refuse them. But he wished the men were here. This hooded figure troubled him. Why should the man so cover himself? Was he diseased?

'I would like to talk with you,’ he told Gronen. ‘Will you admit me into your home?’

'Talk about what?’

'Simple things. I am a man of the law.’

'What law?’

'The common law of the land. The unwritten law.’

'Who do you serve?’

'All men.’ The figure dismounted. Gronen liked his words less each time he spoke, but he ushered him into the house. If these men brought trouble, they would act at whim, effortlessly superior. Without the fishers, Sundhaven was at their mercy.

Inside the house, Gronen motioned the man to a seat. The latter accepted with a bow, and at last removed his hood. His face differed greatly from the familiar faces of Sundhaven. In particular he had large, liquid eyes, deep brown, and a smooth complexion that spoke of the sun and not the winds of the north. His hair was jet black, cut short to his head, the angles of his face sharp in the interior lighting of the house. His lips were too full, exaggerated a little by the flattish nose, and his mien was a little pompous if not arrogant, as though most things around him afforded him a degree of amusement.

He asked for and was given water. ‘I know nothing of this law you speak of,’ said Gronen. ‘But the men of Sundhaven have no crimes to confess to.’

'I am sure you are right. Tell me, though; I have heard from a passing source, and an idle one, possibly that gods are worshipped in these mountains. Can this be true?’

The question was totally unexpected. Gronen frowned. ‘Gods? But these are creatures of myths, no more, surely. I know of no village within say, a hundred miles of the coastland, where gods are spoken of. But the range is a long one and stretches well beyond our regions.’

'None are worshipped in secret?’

Gronen laughed dryly. ‘Grown men do not dally with such ideas!’

'And what of powers? Strange powers?’

Gronen felt the abrupt coldness pumping into his old veins. ‘What powers?’

'Unnatural powers. Peculiar happenings. Word, perhaps, of travellers making claims that would be scoffed at.’

The room was silent. So this was it, thought Gronen. The truth. They had come for Korbillian, like hounds upon the scent. But why? If Guile had told the truth, the Emperor's men were glad to be rid of him. Gronen remembered the vow of the fishers. No matter how reasonable these Deliverers were, Sundhaven owed them nothing. ‘I do not understand. There are no such powers.’

'No magic?’

'Your questions are strange. Have you come so far to ask about things that do not exist? Forgive me, but there are places where you would be abused for speaking of magic.’

The man laughed. ‘Indeed, old fellow! But you misunderstand me. I keep the law. When I find men who preach magic, or gods, when I come across such transgressors, I have to act. But I have heard enough. I am satisfied.’ He stood up slowly, innocently, and made for the door. Gronen followed him outside. Could that be all? Surely not.

'There is power in the sea,’ he said. ‘And the storm that came gave us many sleepless nights.’

'In such a storm, I imagine that ship must have been wrecked in your bay,’ said the man, again with his hood drawn up. His back was to the elder, but somehow there was a grim menace in his words now. Gronen did not answer. So he knew about the ship?

'I saw the remains,’ said the Deliverer.

'A terrible business. None survived.’

'I see. Men of Sundhaven?’

'No. We never saw them. The sea swallowed them and left us only their broken ship. From the far south, by its lines.’

The Deliverer turned. ‘How distressing. Death at sea. An unfortunate omen for a seafaring village. And you saw no one?’

'After the storm, we searched, of course. But the waves had been such that they must have dashed any survivors to pulp.’

'I am sure you did all that you could.’ He turned away and met Djemuta.

'Shall I order the men to question the villagers, or shall we move on while the weather holds, sire?’ asked the latter.

'Ask the people about the boat,’ was the soft reply. ‘But instruct the men to be discreet. There is a truth here I must uncover. But softly. These people are like stone.’

Djemuta whirled away, speaking to each of the Deliverers in turn.

'There are places in Omara,’ the leader told Gronen almost affably, ‘where gods are worshipped and where men seek unnatural powers. I have known evil practices to flourish, but it is the sworn duty of the Deliverers to seek them out and to put an end to them. False gods and power are not to be tolerated. They create unrest, strife, war. Here in your lands you find it hard to believe such things exist. I have seen them, old man. Seen them and fought them. I use only the strength of my purpose and the will of my Deliverers.’

'Why are you here?’

“We have to search, to guard against such things. I don't expect to find evil in these mountains. Men must be too busy getting on with their lives, which are hard enough hereabouts from what I have witnessed. No matter. We will shortly leave you in peace.’ He moved away, about to dismiss the old man. He paused. ‘I should say that if we are needed, word will always reach us.’

Gronen yet did not trust him, or his cause, but said no more. The village had agreed on its course; Korbillian would not be betrayed.

Brannog hauled in his net for the third time that morning. It bulged with life and his hold was already well stocked with fish. If the other boats had trawled as well as he had, they would easily survive this winter after all. It was enough to raise his spirits. At a time of omens, perhaps this meant that all was better than it had seemed. He had wanted a good life for Sisipher—perhaps she would discover a way to fulfillment on Korbillian's quest. He made himself think so, just as he made himself believe that the fish were indeed a gift from the man of power. If he could control the sea as he had, surely he would be able to protect the girl in his charge.

As Brannog prepared to return to Sundhaven, shortly after midday, with more fish than he had netted in the previous month, he reached over the side of his craft with a curved gaff to drag aboard a struggling fish that had been hooked by one of his lines. He swung the wriggling monster aboard by its gills, then deftly loosed the gaff, turned it and used the back to beat the life from the fish with one hard but merciful blow. He held up the weapon. Blood ran from the point, down the steel, and for a cold moment Brannog saw again the grim spectre of Sisipher's vision, the hooded figure with the hand of steel. His eyes went to the horizon, beyond which lay Sundhaven. He made all haste now to return, and soon found himself in the company of other craft from the village. The fishing, it seemed, had been good for all of them, and Brannog used the knowledge to bludgeon back the dark thoughts provoked by the blood.

Two hours later the fleet sailed into Sundhaven harbour and it looked as though most of the village stood upon the jetty. There was cheering, but not the excitement of better days. Brannog assumed they were afraid that the catch had been a poor one again. Hengrom and others stood in the prows of their vessels and called out loudly that there were fish a-plenty. Yet even this did not seem to raise the spirits of the villagers appreciably. The shadow over them remained. It darkened Brannog's mood. Where was Gronen? He was not to be seen, yet was usually the first to catch a mooring rope, for all his years. As Brannog climbed the jetty steps, his fears were confirmed. Some tragedy had come to pass.

'Gronen is dying,’ the women told him and at once he ran to the old man's home. Gronen's family was arranged around his bed. He had no sons, but the youth, Borgir, his nephew, was there, and must have been even more quickly away from his boat than Brannog. They made way for Brannog as the old man stretched out an arm to him, anxious to speak to him. Brannog knelt beside him and took his hand. Gronen had aged noticeably since the events of the night.

'Have they told you?’ the elder wheezed.

'Only that you are ill. Is it bad?’

'I will not see the next dawn,’ said Gronen. ‘Would that I had not seen today's!’

'We have had a magnificent harvest,’ Brannog encouraged him, but he knew that the elder spoke the truth. He was close to death already.

'They came,’ coughed Gronen, ignoring the good news. ‘I did not trust them.’

'Who came?’

The elder found it hard to speak, so one of his daughters described the Deliverers to Brannog. Brannog gasped: the description fitted perfectly the figure that Sisipher had conjured from the night. He hardly heard the girl speaking about the questions the villagers had been asked.

'We were true to our word,’ said Gronen. ‘We told them nothing of the man Korbillian and his companion, but they found his broken ship. Still we said nothing, and would have cheated them of the truth.’

'And yet?’

Gronen winced as pain shot through his chest. ‘Eorna.’

'What of her?’

'She told them.’

Brannog's fingers gripped the old man hard before he saw the pain and withdrew them. ‘What did she tell them?’

'Of Korbillian, and of his journey up into the mountains. And of your daughter.’

'Why were these creatures seeking Korbillian?’

'Because of power. They search for believers in power and gods. They call them transgressors. They deliver them from the error of their beliefs, so they say!’

'Where is Eorna?’ Brannog snarled at the family, but no one would answer. The eyes of the women were cast down, yet they knew.

'They repaid her for giving them the truth,’ murmured Gronen. ‘Their leader, Wargallow, spoke to us as if we were children. “You have done wrong in hiding the truth from me,” he told us. “Yet it was fear of this evil man Korbillian that moved you, so I am merciful. Know this: he is already dead and given back to the earth. And all who travel with him.” He said that, Brannog, “And all who travel with him."’

'When did they leave?’

'Some hours gone. After they had dealt with Eorna.’

Brannog's face clouded. Why had she betrayed them? Surely—not because he had spurned her? For that she had broken the vow of the village, compromised so many lives? ‘What did they do to her?’

'Do not trouble yourself, father,’ insisted the oldest of Gronen's daughters, Ursa. She drew Brannog away and to the door. ‘It was horrible. Wargallow told us that blood is the earth's. He spoke of Omara as if she were a person, a mother who had given birth to all life. Eorna, he said, was tainted. We all were, because we had not set upon and killed Korbillian for his wickedness. Therefore we must be cleansed. They took Eorna to a place away from the village. We did not see. Afterwards, each of the Deliverers came back. They—” Ursa faltered, her hand going to her mouth.

Brannog hugged her gently, as her father would have. ‘In your own time. But I must know. The men must be told.’

Ursa nodded. ‘They came back. Brannog—they do not have hands.’

He closed his eyes. ‘I understand. It was the steel?’

She looked only momentarily surprised. Tears welled in her eyes as though she still could not believe the things that had happened. ‘Steel, yes. Like claws. Each one returned, his claw slick with blood, and they wiped them clean before us.’

'So they killed her.’

'They said they had given her to the earth, to atone for our sins. After they had gone, we found the burial place. Gronen ordered no one to touch it. Eorna was not to be taken to the sea. She had betrayed us. Oh, Brannog, what must we do?’

'Eorna is not to be moved. Her grave will be a reminder to Sundhaven that there are enemies abroad. Is the place marked?’

'No, but it can be found.’

'We will erect a cairn.’

Gronen died within the hour, and no one pretended that it was his age that had killed him. He was taken to sea as the Sundhaven dead traditionally were. Afterwards Brannog supervised the building of the promised cairn. He stood to one side when it was done, shaken by differing emotions. Sisipher would be in real danger now. Eorna was dead. He had never loved her, but she should not be dead.

'Who speaks for Eorna?’ came a voice. Brannog jerked up to see a plump woman standing beside the grave. It was Eorna's only relative, her slovenly sister, Anar. ‘Well?’ Behind her stood her husband, a weak and cowardly man, for whom the village had little respect.

'You must speak for her now,’ said Brannog.

'Oh? Must I? Was I her keeper? Did my husband feed her and provide her with work in return for a roof? Did he warm her bed?’

Brannog flinched, but other villagers murmured their disapproval. Anar was out of order. Overwrought, perhaps, for though she had never been close to Eorna, the death had shaken her.

'Were you not her man?’ Anar challenged. ‘Will you let her lie there without seeking out her killers?’

In Sundhaven, such a responsibility rested upon the shoulders of the next of kin, or in the case of lovers, on the one left. Brannog was faced with a choice. He could, truthfully, deny Anar's charge. If he did so, no one would doubt him and no one would require of him a reckoning of the Deliverers. There would be no one to raise a party to pursue them. If Brannog decided to pursue them in order to prevent them from harming Sisipher, none of the villagers would be duty-bound to go with him. None of them had sought to go with Korbillian. Sisipher had chosen to. Brannog considered his second choice. He could accept that he was Eorna's ‘man'. As her keeper he was not obliged to avenge her, but as her lover, he could demand support for a reckoning. Good men would follow him into the mountains without question.

He knew already that he would follow. Sisipher was in obvious danger. Since these Deliverers were sworn to root out power and destroy its sources, it followed that they would seek her death. Whatever Korbillian's strength, it may not prevail. And Sisipher had foreseen the coming of the Deliverers. Brannog was certain that she would meet them. He must be there. And Eorna? Should he let her lie unavenged? Perhaps if he had encouraged her, taken her to his bed, she would have said nothing to this Wargallow, and would be alive. He had never loved her. She had been nothing to him; he could not force himself to make her otherwise. Perhaps her betrayal of the village did merit a bed of earth. But the idea filled him with revulsion.

'Yes, I was her man,’ he heard himself say, and there was no one present who saw shame in it.

'You were silent about it,’ said Anar coldly.

'I had no reason to speak of Eorna to you.’ Brannog returned with equal coldness. ‘Since you absolved yourself of any real kinship to her years ago, what did it matter to you, Anar? How long will you mourn your neglected sister?’

'If the dead could hear,’ said one of the elders, ‘Eorna would be weeping.’

Brannog straightened. ‘You are right. It is a disgrace to argue before her grave. I must collect what I need. Where is Hengrom?’

'Here.’ Hengrom came forward, and in a moment walked with his friend back to his home.

'You wish me to go with you?’ he said. ‘I doubt if any of the men will refuse.’ No one would wish to leave Sundhaven, but this was an affair of honour.

Brannog shook his head, knowing already that Hengrom had no desire to leave his family. ‘I must go alone.’

Hengrom protested, but Brannog would have none of it. ‘I will not drag good men into this, Hengrom. Sundhaven must not suffer. And besides, I have reached a decision. I think I must have made it long ago, but have never had the courage to act upon it.’

'I don't understand.’

'I will leave Sundhaven, and I will not return. My home, my stores, my ship, I give to the village.’

'You are mad! What sort of talk is this from a man so loved and respected? You cannot be thinking of death—”

Brannog snorted. ‘We have lived with it at our shoulder throughout this winter. But no. I have no intention of dying.’

'Has the death of Eorna pained you so much?’

'No. I was never her man, but the village must not know that. You will say nothing.’

'Very well, but—”

'I am sure this man Wargallow will be dangerous, but alone, with surprise as my agent, I will deny him his goals.’

'Then why do you talk of not returning?’

'It is something I feel. I have no plans other than to avenge Eorna and stand by my daughter.’

'Her path lies with Korbillian, to pursue his strange destiny. You will go with them?’

'No, I will not tread another man's path. I must find my own.’

'This is wild talk, Brannog.’

'I left Sundhaven before, my friend. In Frostwalk I found love and a mystery. Korbillian has reopened the old wounds. My own daughter has filled me with premonition.’

'This is no more than your fear for her, surely.’

Brannog shook his head. ‘In Sundhaven I would be old within a year. There are no ghosts, Hengrom, yet the dead are not still, are they? They are here.’ He touched his head.

'You have not seen your future?’

'In a way. To remain in Sundhaven would make that clear. Each day would be mapped out. But beyond the snow, I see nothing.’

'Hah! There may be nothing for you. A grave of earth, like Eorna. Up there, you will not even hear the sea. At least she has that.’

Brannog looked out at the harbour. ‘There are things that one always hears.’ He was silent for a few distant moments. ‘Now, I will prepare. I leave at once.’