Gretch held a small, red enamel pendant against his forehead. He was alone in a sea of moonlit grass.

"Why have you not returned?" Liege Marext's voice demanded. Thanks to the enchantment on the pendant Gretch could hear his voice clearly. But it was not without pain - it never was. When nature is broken there is always a cost.

"My Liege, the thief has been more elusive than we imagined," Gretch stated.

"Does that mean you have lost the box?" Liege Marext growled.

"No. It is within reach."

"When will you have it?"

"Soon. It is close, but I have to be careful. It is now surrounded by thousands of horse barbarians."

"Do I need to explain the consequences should you fail?" Liege Marext threatened.

"I never fail," Gretch asserted.

"If you are entering the barbarian peoples, know that you are not my only tool among them."

"You sent others? Do you doubt my ability?" asked Gretch.

"A wise player puts more than one piece on the board, knowing that everyone fails."

"Everyone but me."

***

Nurlan entered Kirill's tent and bowed. "You wished to see me, Lord?"

"Yes. Come close so we are not overheard. Tell me what you learned about the box from the Empa warrior."

The tent was empty apart from Kirill and his wife. As Nurlan stepped forward his thoughts turned to the sword on his hip. It would be so simple. A quick swing of the blade and everything would change.

"I was easily able to persuade him to trust me, but it was a waste of time," Nurlan replied. "I am convinced he is telling the truth when he says he does not know how to open it, or what is inside. He shared nothing of value."

"Are you sure you took this task seriously? Did you exert every effort to get the information?

"Yes. He knows nothing."

Kirill scowled.

A rapping sounded from the small doorway. One of the guards stepped in.

"King Kirill, Chief Urlock of Empa clan, his wife Pim, and daughter Shaleh, are here to see you."

"Ask them to wait a moment," Kirill instructed.

The guard bowed and left.

Nurlan bowed to leave as well. "You have guests. I will leave you to them."

"No. Stay. They are here to see you."

Nurlan was taken aback. Distrust reared itself within him. "Really? Why?"

"I have found you a wife." Kirill smiled a vicious smile of victory. Nurlan stiffened. Bristling with anger.

"I don't want a wife."

"Every man needs a wife."

"I don't want a wife!"

"You will have a wife anyway." His lips were still smiling but his eyes were cold as a serpent's.

Nurlan was seething. "I had a wife. I don't want another. I will not marry some ugly daughter of an honourless clan!"

"We will not argue. You will take this girl, as ordered by your chief, or your father will die the traitor's death he deserves. And while we are executing traitors we will look into your other relatives to make sure they do not support your traitorous thoughts."

Nurlan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Why are you even entertaining this idea, Lord? Empa clan is poor, they can't possibly have offered you a dowry big enough to tempt you. The only other option is that you are punishing me for some reason."

"They have offered a princess's dowry," Kirill smiled coldly.

"You can not be serious."

"Her father assures me that she is special," shrugged Kirill.

"Every father thinks his brat is special," spat Nurlan.

"Tell them to enter!" shouted Kirill with a genuine smile of delight on his lips.

Behind him the guard opened the tent flap to admit Urlock and Pim. Nurlan did not turn to look at them. He kept his back to the door and tried to recover himself so they could not see his anger.

It is not their fault. For their sakes it better not be their fault...

"Good evening, King Kirill," Urlock said as he and Pim entered.

"Welcome Urlock and Pim of Empa Clan!" With effort Kirill heaved himself out of his chair and approached them with outstretched arms. "Good news! I have found the perfect husband for your daughter!" He indicated to Nurlan. "He is one of our most respected warriors with a long heritage. We are related by blood."

"That is very good news!" replied Urlock.

Nurlan quietly took a deep breath.

Empa Clan... First the two spies, as Kirill calls them, and now the chief. Me marrying their daughter will not be good for them, or me. They must be poor indeed if they can't offer a real dowry. Well, I have nothing to give to a woman anyway, so maybe we're equally poor.

He put a tight smile on his face that he hoped looked sincere. He turned around to face the strangers. "Good evening, my name is Nurlan." He noticed that beneath Chief Urlock and Pim's polite smiles he was being scrutinised. There was a tension under their politeness.

Fair enough, I would do the same if the roles were swapped.

Once the formal introductions were finished Kirill spoke. "Where is the girl? You said you would bring her with you."

"She is here." Urlock and Pim moved to the side of the tent and faced the door. It was a simple action that drew all the other eyes to the door as well. Pim whistled a snatch of melody that sounded exactly like a lark's call. A few long seconds of silence later the door flap slowly swung open. Shaleh entered. A princess. An angel. She was stunningly wrapped in shimmering yellow from neck to ankle. Her shining black hair was tied up, showing off a graceful neckline. Her eyes were downcast, as was tradition, but were perfectly painted to draw attention to them. She held her hands in front of herself calmly. There was no trace of nervousness.

Nurlan, Kirill and his wife were speechless. None of them had expected such a sight. Someone made pretty with paint and a simple woolen dress perhaps, but not an angel in silk, like a queen from the East.

She approached them demurely, with downcast eyes - as her mother had instructed - even though it went against all her instincts. She humbly bowed herself before Kirill and his wife.

"Good evening, Lord and Lady of Khashbal."

"Good evening to you too! Please, what is your name?" asked Kirill.

"Shaleh, Lord."

"Shaleh, we would like to introduce you to Nurlan. He is one of Khashbal's most able and respected warriors."

She turned towards Nurlan with her head still bowed and her eyes on the ground.

"It is an honour to meet you, Nurlan." Only then, as she said his name, did she raise her eyes. But even then she kept her head bowed so that she looked up through her lashes to him. Her mother had been very specific about this. They had practiced it repeatedly until she got it just right.

"The first time he sees your eyes," she had said, "I want you to look a little vulnerable. I want him to feel the urge to protect you. It is ancient magic of the heart."

"But I don't need protecting," Shaleh had argued.

"He doesn't need to know that," her mother had winked at her.

Shaleh held Nurlan's gaze as he bowed. "The honour is mine," he replied.

Holding the gaze had also been specified. "The longer you can hold the gaze, without frightening him, the stronger the magic," her mother had said.

In the span of a few seconds Nurlan had gone from fury at Kirill, to his heart pounding, and his mind alight with curiosity, as he stared into Shaleh's dark eyes.

Kirill picked up a small gong and struck it. Instantly four more chairs were brought in. A long, low table was set down, and steaming dishes of food were placed upon it.

"Let's have some food," he said. "There is much for us to discuss."

***

Gretch the Hunter waited. He knew they would come, and they had. He had rejected the first scouting party and lay hidden in the long grass. They passed without marking him. Four opponents was too risky. He might be injured. The second party was better - just two of them - and the sun was setting. Much better. He would need to be quick and clean. He needed their clothes.

The sound of their horses' hooves became louder. But they were too far away. He would have to draw them in. He risked a quick glance up. They would still be two hundred paces away when they passed. It would have to be the bow.

He raised himself to one knee and planted five arrows into the ground. He fitted a sixth to the string. He knew he had been spotted even before looking up. The rhythm of the hooves had stopped and then burst into galloping. The riders were bent over their horses' necks. Smaller targets. At least they were trained. There was no honour in defeating children.

One hundred fifty paces.

He exhaled. At the moment of perfect stillness he let it fly. No time to watch its flight. The second arrow was fitted and released. The first arrow struck the top of the rider's shoulder, jerking him back. Gretch changed target.

One hundred paces.

He released a third arrow. Gretch did not watch his second arrow strike the wounded man in the abdomen. He fitted his fourth arrow as an arrow from his opponent whistled overhead. His third arrow struck the horse in the chest. He took an extra second to be sure of the shot before releasing the arrow.

Fifty paces.

He dropped his bow and picked up his sword as the fourth arrow hit its mark - the horse's neck. The scout tumbled with his horse before he could shot his second arrow. Gretch ran to him. But there was no need. He was dead beneath the squealing horse. It was the work of a moment to end the horse's pain. He crouched low and ran to where the other scout lay panting in the grass. The two shafts were deep in his shoulder and gut. He held a sword weakly in his hand. They both knew it was useless - except for honour. The scout grunted as he raised himself to one knee. Gretch showed him respect by waiting. The scout pushed himself to his feet and extended his blade in his left hand. Gretch could tell it was his off hand. The scout was in his prime: younger than Gretch, but old enough to have children. No matter. He had made orphans before. He would make them again. A hunter does not pity its prey.

"Tell me how the camp is defended," he ordered.

The man replied by stumbling forward and swinging his sword clumsily. Gretch easily blocked it. Faster than a serpent Gretch stepped behind him. With a quick kick behind the knee the scout was back on the ground.

"Tell me how the camp is defended," he repeated.

The scout flicking his sword around. It was a weak blow and missed. Gretch knocked the sword down and stood on his wrist.

"Tell me how the camp is defended."

In the end he talked. It took more arrow twisting than Gretch had expected, but he learned what he needed to know before ending his life.

Between the bodies of the two scouts he found enough clothes to make himself almost look like a clansman. It would be enough to get in, but he would have to work at night. His face would not fool people, even if his clothes did.

Gretch wiped the final drops of blood off his hands and face. He then slumped to make himself look shorter and headed towards the tents of the horse barbarians.

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-Y. V. Qualls