commander. I wish I had.'
'He knows that now.'
Asayaga looked back to the open span. 'Once the second log is across we move the children and women, then the men. We should be across within the hour.' His face an impenetrable mask, he looked at Dennis.
'Asayaga, we still must settle what is between us, but I am truly sorry for Osami. He was a brave lad. I think Richard must be greeting him now in Lims-Kragma's Halls.'
'Remember, Hartraft, we go to different places when we die. I don't think your gods let Tsurani into their Hall of Judgment.'
'Still, I think Richard would want to greet him,' Dennis said. He hesitated, his voice dropping. 'And Jurgen would be there, too.'
Asayaga sighed, finally nodding his thanks.
'Dennis!'
He looked up and was stunned to see Gregory approaching, cradling his right hand, a bloody bandage wrapped around it. He felt a momentary panic. So damn close and now the damned moredhel were closing in.
He looked past Gregory. Tsurani and Kingdom soldiers were circling in behind the Natalese scout, but where was Tinuva? But even before Gregory spoke to tell him what had happened he knew what the eledhel was doing: he was sacrificing himself in order to buy them time.
As he heard Gregory's words a terrible rage began to build in him. So much of his anger had been shifting over the last month. For so long it had been aimed at the Tsurani, at those who had murdered his family, at the war, and in the end at Corwin. But now at last he understood and it was as if a curtain that had covered his soul across the years had been torn away.
He could see the same fire in Asayaga as well, for the elf had been the one who had always walked between the two sides, respected by all, trusted by all.
He saw Roxanne and Alyssa standing at the edge of the circle and the fire was in their eyes as well, for the one that Tinuva now faced had destroyed their home, and murdered their father as well.
He caught Roxanne's eye. She studied his face and something in her eyes told him she knew what he must do. A mixture of fear, regret, and faint hope played across her face in seconds, then she returned to her implacable expression.
'Figure out a way to get the children and women across,' he said to her. Without waiting for a response he looked over at Asayaga. 'Are you with me?' he asked.
'For what?'
'We go back and fight. I'm finished with running.'
A curtain of snow drifted down from an overhanging branch. It seemed to hover before him, each flake clearly defined in his mind, each one alive for an eternity, flowing with the gentle wind, cloaking him, touching his brow, cooling the fever of his rage.
Tinuva slipped away from the tree, moving low, almost one with the snow on the ground. He rolled in behind a fallen log that rose like a white hump-backed beast from the forest floor. Bracing himself, he grabbed hold of the arrow sticking out of his thigh and snapped the end off, chanting inwardly to block the pain. He knew he should push it through but there was no time and doing so might sever an artery. Time enough later. He dared a glance up over the side of the log, ducked, rolled, then came back up, bow drawn, arrow winging on its way. The distant shadow moved and collapsed and for a second he felt a disquieting thrill; and then there came a laugh.
'Well sent, brother, well sent.'
Tinuva reached around to his quiver, drew another arrow, started up, then rolled backwards and dodged off in the other direction, racing through a thicket of saplings. He caught a glimpse of others standing silent, arms folded, watching intently, backing away at his approach. There were faces there that he recognized – for how could he not recognize cousins, comrades of hunts from long ago, those with whom he had once laughed, and whom he had once fought alongside, slaying their enemies together?
A few even nodded gravely, for even though he was apostate and an abomination, they remembered hunting and going to war with Morvai.
He turned away from the outer edge of the circle, an instinct telling him to suddenly drop, an arrow singing past his ear, kicking up a plume of snow as it struck the ground by his side.
Sitting up, he drew, aimed, shot again and Bovai dodged back behind an ancient pine, the bolt tearing off a spray of bark.
Tinuva was back up and running, but the pain was registering, each step a flood of agony that would have caused a human to fall, screaming, but he pressed on. He spared a quick glance to the southeast. Though the storm continued, still he could sense the face of the sun beyond the clouds, far above the white mantle, hovering in a fierce blue sky. It had risen to mid-zenith; the duel had consumed hours. He could hear angry mutterings from beyond the next hill, the impatient cries of goblins, the hoarse voices of men in protest, but all the moredhels' attention was focused on this duel, a duel which Tinuva knew they would see as a hunt that would be spoken of into eternity, the hunt of brother against brother. Each knew the tricks of the other, the subtle movements, the way of thinking, the scent of the other on the wind, the feel of one's gaze upon the other even with the back turned.
He knew Bovai was breaking to the right, racing to cut across in front, rather than following the trail of blood dripping into the snow.
He dodged behind a tree, a perfect position with a fallen log leaning against it, forming a small tunnel underneath. Crouching down, he drew and waited. Then he saw him.
He felt the brush of the fletching against his check and sighted down the shaft. The clouds parted for a second sending a gauzy shimmer of light racing across the clearing, highlighting Bovai, telling him as well that time was passing slowly, and that far away men were still labouring to escape.
Bovai slowed, as if his own inner voice was shouting a warning.
He looked straight at Tinuva, eyes widening. Tinuva shifted ever so slightly and then released the arrow.
The bolt sang through the woods, spinning between trees and branches, and tore across Bovai's side, scraping his ribs. Bovai staggered, falling backwards, rolling for cover. A growl rose up from those circling the two, for though not all could see, they could hear and knew the sounds, were able to identify who had shot and who had fallen.
'Tinuva.'
It was the inner voice, a whisper.
'Brother?'
'You had me, didn't you?'
'No brother, I shot to kill.'
'You lie. You had me. Why?'
'It is not yet time, brother.'
There was a moment of silence.
'I have her, you know, brother,' Bovai's voice whispered.
Tinuva lowered his head, body trembling. He knew this was a ploy to goad him into rage and error. After a moment, Tinuva whispered, knowing his thoughts would carry on the wind, 'You have never had her. She will always be mine.'
'Silence!' Bovai's angry reply, a scream of rage, was loud enough for all the onlookers to hear.
Tinuva stood up, shooting blindly at the source of the scream, and was greeted by a taunting laugh. 'Waste of a good bolt, brother.'
Tinuva reached back to his quiver and felt that there were only half a dozen arrows left, but he did not care. It would only take one more to kill Bovai, just one more.
'Come for me brother, out in the open, blade to blade.'
Bovai stood up. 'Look into my eyes brother, come closer, look into the eyes that look into hers every night.'
'Damn you,' Tinuva hissed.
'Yes brother, we are all damned are we not?'
'No.'
'You are. You abandoned your blood. That shame can be erased only in blood. Let me send you to the far shore,
