THE RAIN WAS cold. It ran in icy streams down his face, pasting long black hair to his scalp, and traced numbing courses down his neck and shoulders. It stroked his spine like the caress of death itself. Three days he had hidden out on the steppe, waiting out these miserable storms.

They had only grown harsher.

Ulrem wiped his hard gray eyes with an unfeeling hand. Only the ring on his right forefinger was warm to the touch. It never seemed to cool. He curled his other hand around it, coveting that spark of vitality, for aside from the rags on his back, he had nothing to protect him from the brutal elements; nothing to blunt the effects of days exposed to the cold and wet.

Lightning slashed through the low belly of the sky, and outraged thunder bellowed in reply.

He had forsaken hope of escape: the horse he had stolen was dead, and better off for it. The wretched animal would have been a hindrance out in the pitfaced scrublands. It had carried him far as it could with six arrows in its flank, and that was enough. Yet, in his desperate flight from the Kahler’s prowling sons, Ulrem had left behind his food and his supplies. He regretted that sorely now.

Should have stood and fought. The echoes, the damned echoes, had howled as he ran, demanding he stand his ground. Outnumbered ten to one, and by the best fighting men of the Proud Hawks clan to boot. What was he to do?

Unblooded boys flee before the foe! Ours is the wrath that moves mountains to quake! We do not break!

Ulrem gnashed his teeth against the rebuke and glared up at the horizon. Three winters he had borne these ghosts, and rare was the day they did not claw at him. Once, he had tried to starve them out, but that had only made everything worse. How could he find peace? Would he ever be free of them? Was he mad?

A ninetail of lightning raked the leaden sky again, and thunder shook the sodden earth below him. Rain-dimmed shades appeared on the rise he had scurried over only an hour ago.

Fools, to be out in a storm like this. But then, what was he?

Baying hounds came first, noses to the ground, barking, heedless of the storm. The Proud Hawks had brought their hounds as an insult, nothing less. His trail was obvious, even in the downpour. Twelve riders came forth with lances high, heavy cloaks wound about their shoulders.

They had finally run him down. Twelve of the Proud Hawk’s greatest fighters and riders, feet held out wide in their strange stirrups that fit only a single toe, led by a pack of half-feral horrors.

Stand! Show them the cost of the lion’s fury!

Ulrem stood, exhausted but obedient. Through the hissing of the rain, the riders began to point and shout. The dogs were unleashed and in no time had encircled him, shovel heads low and wicked fangs bared, while their masters galloped down the slope.

He unsheathed the sword belted to his back. He had traveled far from his homelands in the west, to this rugged and deadly place. He had seen tall cities and great harbors, and even glimpsed the troichish mountain gardens. For all the light of the tamed lands, there was little fire amongst civilized men. These Proud Hawks were no breed of civil, brittle men. They were as barbaric as Ulrem’s own clan, who were named wolves by lesser men.

Now the chase had ended, and blood would flow. That was the way of men who lived with their feet in the mud and swords in their fists.

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The riders trotted circles around their silent quarry, lances dipping insolently. They wore bronze helmets with slitted visors that covered their noses, leaving wet, mustached mouths and tattooed chins bared. Soaked crescent plumes flopped limply as they danced their mounts back and forth. The hound master called the pack to heel with a sharp whistle.

“You lead a good chase, cut-throat,” called the Kahler's eldest son. Krol, his name was, and he was the biggest bastard among them. The visor of his helm bore square filigree of hammered gold.

“I was beginning to wonder if you lot were afraid of the rain.”

The princeling raised his voice jovially, ignoring the barb. “Return my father's sword, Ulrem the Coward, and I shall give you a quick death.”

Ulrem snarled and tightened his grip on the sword. “The only thing you do quickly would embarrass even a whore, swine! This blade is mine by law and blood!”

Lightning flashed, and Ulrem saw anger boiling in Krol's eyes. He was not used to insult or denial. “Our law grants nothing to outlanders and thieves.”

“You men all heard the great Kahler accept my challenge,” Ulrem barked, casting his hard gaze at each of the horsemen. He found no friendly faces amongst them. “Have no honor amongst you? Were your fathers all liars and oathbreakers?”

Their horses whickered and shifted nervously. The men were silent as wraiths. So be it.

Frozen to the bone, and half-starved, Ulrem flourished the sword he had prised from the Kahler's dead fingers. His prize. Proof of his worth. He crouched, balancing himself on cat’s feet. Lean muscle stood out through his tattered clothes like hawsers, taught and ready for violence.

“Come and take it.”

Krol roared and spurred his horse, swinging his lance into position. Mud splashed as it shrieked and leaped forward, flashing teeth and white eyes.

Ulrem swept aside, keeping his head low, and in the same movement snatched at Krol’s lance. He used the animal's momentum to rip the brute from his saddle and into the pooling muck. There was a sickening wet crack and a shrill scream as Krol’s foot caught in the stirrup, and something broke. He was jerked away by his horse as it struggled to stay afoot.

Agony exploded in Ulrem's side. One of the horsemen had stabbed him in the back. He pivoted, ripping free of the lance and chopping at the wrist of the man who had wounded him. The dead hand flopped free into the mud, and all hell broke loose as the heavens ignited above them.

Krol was fighting to get to his knees, hauling at the sheathed sword at his hip, unable to get purchase through the slick mud on the hilt. His horse went down flailing, knocking another animal and rider to the ground. The others reared as lightning struck only paces outside the circle, throwing cursing men into the churn.

Deafening thunder broke overhead, and most of the hounds fled. The few lancers who had kept their saddle wheeled their mounts to get away, terrified by the keening of the curs vanishing into the rain.

Ulrem, bleeding and wild, laid about him with unmasked savagery at the men and beasts crowded around him. He howled like a wolf, surrendering himself, feeling his blood race with the danger, savoring the scent of hot blood and cold earth. He felled Krol with a chop to the neck and shoved the body aside.

Another lancer galloped at him, but missed his mark. Ulrem drove his sword up and into the man's armpit.

He shoved the dying rider aside and leaped up into his place. The sky erupted with wrath and light, and somewhere, a madman was laughing furiously as the Proud Hawks’ fighting spirit shattered, and they fled.

He would chase them down, one by one, becoming the hunter once again.

But before Ulrem could pursue his vengeance, he spied a cloaked figure coming over the ridge, riding a white horse. Riding hard. Shadows seemed to gather about the figure, concentrating into something tangible, threatening—

Someone stabbed Ulrem in the left leg, tearing his attention back to the battle.

One of the surviving Proud Hawks had chosen to press the attack, rather than escape. Bold, but foolish. Ulrem hacked at the lancer’s exposed neck below the rim of the helmet, and then ripped the shaft free of his leg. He circled his horse and made to launch the lance at the rider on the white horse.

A flash of incomprehensible brilliance struck Ulrem in the chest.

All the world, all the universe, was alive with pain. A thousand hornets stung and bit at every nerve beneath his flesh, pouring molten iron down his spine. Beyond it all, looming like a king, was a vast thing swathed in a cloak of stars. It had the head of a lion, held high with impossible nobility, but the shoulders of a man. Over the horizon it towered, and above the world it thrust a pale sword that stretched horizon to horizon. It turned its mind to him, and the last thing he glimpsed was those majestic, golden eyes weighing him, watching as he fell.

Ulrem hit the churned, bloody mud amongst the other corpses, and knew no more.