was paralyzed for a moment with the shock and the enormity of what I had done.  Finally I crept cautiously to the edge and looked over.  Many hundred feet below, he lay motionless, sprawled at the bottom of a long slope of scree flaked off the cliff.

He was dead, I thought.  He must be dead; nothing living could survive such a fall!  So I was free.  I had slain my enemy; his magic could not find me now; I had weapons and horses, all I needed to do was to find a way down that would not take me back into the valley, and I could ride withersoever I pleased.

I got to my feet and cried my triumph to the skies.  But still my heart was empty – as it is to this day.  I thought perhaps what I needed was to see the broken body of my foe, to spit in his face. I hobbled the horses and began scouting for a break in the cliffs.

Before long I happened on a crack running far back into the mountain, which looked as if I might even lead the animals down it.  And so I did, though it took me the rest of the day to reach the bottom and pick my way back to the slope where his body lay. And when I got there I almost died of fright – for he had moved! Not far, to be sure – but I was certain he had lain on his face, and now he was on his back, with his limbs no longer flung wildly about.  He was not dead!  And that meant I must kill him.  If I didn’t, he would recover, and find me, and ... my heart shook to imagine what he would do to me when he found me!

So I steeled myself and went over to where he lay.  His eyes opened as I came, and looked into mine; cold fury blazed forth from them, striking like twin lances into mine.  Almost I cried out, but I bit my lip and looked down instead at his right leg, which lay twisted at an odd angle.  I nudged it ungently with my toe and heard him suck a hissing breath.

"Well, my lord," I mocked him in an almost steady voice.  "It seems you are in an evil plight.  How does it feel to be helpless, and in pain, wanting nothing but surcease and freedom?"

He said nothing, and at last I dared to meet his eyes again.  The rage was gone.  They were now thoughtful, measuring me as they had when I asked for weapons training.  "What wouldst thou?" he whispered harshly.

"I would have thee dead!"  I snapped back, glaring furiously into that steady, probing gaze.  "Dead as thou shouldst be already!  If it is thy gods who have preserved thy life against all odds, they have done thee no favor!"

His lips pulled taut.  "Wilt thou die to see me dead?  My servants will find thee ...."

"Who will know?  It was an accident; you fell ... and died.  I could haul thy broken body back to Ta’arim and mourn with the best of them.  Or if I just left it here, who would ever find it?"  I laughed almost hysterically.  This was what I had really wanted – not just his death, but his degradation.  "But come – beg me for thy life and perhaps I will let thee keep it after all.  Offer me a bargain! What price for thy life, my lord?"

His eyes closed, and then opened again, staring into mine with all the proud defiance of a wounded eagle.  He knew that I would kill him, that no amount of pleading would stay me.  And so he said nothing.

But although I put on such a stout face, I was trembling inside.  I had to kill him, and yet I could not – not with his eyes open, looking unafraid into mine.  I stared at him for a long moment before an idea came to me.  My people have a practice we call the Death of Stones.  A convicted felon is taken outside the camp and each adult in the tribe throws a stone at him.  His friends might try to hit him in the head, so that he dies quickly, but usually he is still alive at the end.  Then the stones are piled upon his body and he is left to die.

This death I could give my enemy, making him suffer more and longer, and not have to look him in the face as I killed him.  "Have you perchance heard of anrikar, my lord?"  I asked.  His face twitched; I knew he had.  I waited, thinking gleefully that now he would plead, if only for the stroke of mercy.  But he only licked his lips and looked away.

"No?" I taunted, pretending to misinterpret his silence.  "And here I thought you knew everything!  Well, in recompense for the many things you have taught me, I can at least teach you this one."  Then my conscience struck back at me with my own words.  Was it thus I would repay the many hours he had devoted to teaching me?  But it was too late now; the words had been spoken and I must carry out my threat.

I turned away and hurriedly began to bring stones from the slope to pack next to him and finally pile over him.  I chose three large ones, as heavy as I could lift, to set upon his chest and belly.  His face twisted once more as I dropped the last one upon him.  I could well imagine that most of his ribs must be broken; now every breath would be like the stroke of a lash.

I bowed lavishly as I left him in the growing darkness.  "A good night, and pleasant dreams, my lord," I mocked.  "I regret that I cannot share your bed this evening."

He made no sound but that of his breathing, hoarse and labored. I went far enough away that I could not hear it, before I made my own bed.

Even so, I could not sleep.  For hours I twisted this way and that, torn between triumph and remorse.  Then I heard a rock strike upon another.  I sat up, seized by a sudden terror that he was escaping his prison, that he would creep upon me in the darkness and slay me.  I cursed myself for a fool, telling myself angrily that it was naught but one of the horses stumbling in the rocks.  I was about to lie down again when the sound came another time.  I sprang up, yanked on my boots, and groped my way back to where he lay.

He was still there; he had not escaped – but he was well on the way to doing so!  Somehow he had managed to dislodge nearly half the rocks!  His body heaved and twisted, his breath whistling between teeth gritted in unimaginable effort.  I picked up a big stone and dashed forward with every intention of bashing his head in.

Then his eyes caught mine once more, and my bones turned to water.  I could not, simply could not .... Whether it was magic that protected him or only my own weakness, I could not kill him. Instead I threw the rock down on his belly and got the poor satisfaction of wringing an anguished gasp from those proud, thin lips.  The rock rolled off; I picked it up and replaced it, and all the others as well, slamming them spitefully into place.  After the first few, he fainted and lay as limp as poor Cham had done.  I knelt down to feel for a pulse, hoping desperately that he was as dead as Cham had been.  But he wasn’t.

So I finished re-piling the stones, and added a few more for good measure, covering everything except his head.  Then I went back to my camp and built up my fire and brewed some tea and waited for dawn.  Perhaps, I thought, in that darkest hour when the Masked One rides abroad to claim souls, he would take that of my enemy, and then I would be truly free at last.

When the sun rose, I still dallied, fixing breakfast and eating it, turning out all the packs and rearranging them with the prospect of a long journey.  I was not familiar with the country, but I knew there were towns on that side of the Avur, and a road leading to Valask and from there eastward to the Plains.  Surely ... surely this morning he would be dead.  I would pile more stones about his head, so that animals could not defile his bones.  That much I owed him – that much and so much more!  I blushed to recall Cham’s bawling, contrasting it with my lord’s silent endurance.

At last I had no more excuses for delaying.  I dragged my reluctant feet back to the place of torment.  My eyes fled the sight of his arrogant face, now scraped and bruised, his tongue protruding from swollen and cracked lips.  Yet he still lived!  As I stopped beside the pile of rocks, his eyes opened.  Just for one moment I met that gaze, filled with unbearable agony and yet without hint of pleading or surrender.  Then I turned and ran, sobbing, half blinded with tears of rage and humiliation.  He was helpless, dying, totally at my mercy; how often had I dreamed of such a sweet revenge!  And now that it was in my grasp, he had turned it to ashes by refusing to be defeated!

Oh, well may you shake your heads in reproach!  I had a dagger, certainly, and both the skill and the guts to use it.  More than once you’ve seen me cut a man’s throat just out of common decency.  So why couldn’t I do the same for him?  Well, do any of you know what happens to one who sheds blood of the Dragon? Aye!  Death, swift and certain!  And he is of that lineage, the blood of Ard’dr.  A lie, you say, to protect himself?  Perhaps.  But he did not – does not – deal in lies.  I believed him, at any rate. And I was not willing to risk my life to find out!  So I would have had to smother him, or garotte him, and for that I had no stomach at all.

So I fled.  He could not escape this time.  If he were indeed immortal, as some would have it, or if his gods would not allow him to die, as he had told me, then he might live and suffer till the mountain fell down and buried him.  I could not remedy that.  I mounted up and headed east through the forest.

Soon I came upon a path running north and south.  I followed it south; within half a league I startled a rooting pig, which ran ahead of me to a clearing where stood a thatched stone cottage and half a dozen sheds.

I halted, with my heart pounding in panic.  I had had no notion that anyone lived this close to the scene of my vengeance. These people would be certain to find him eventually, and likely enough even before he died!  If that happened, I knew he would survive, and mend, and find me .... I simply had to go back and find a way to kill him, to protect my own life.

Quietly, without attracting any attention from the clearing, I got my little three-horse train turned around and hurried back to my camp site.  Even before I got there I heard the sounds of stones upon stones.  I was already too late; someone had found him and was even now setting him free.

I carried my sword bare in my hand.  The noise covered any sound of my approach.  I peered from behind a tree and saw rags and patches, topped with long grey locks – it was only an old peasant woman who labored at clearing away the stones.  I grimaced with disgust for my unneeded caution.  Still, she might have a grown son about somewhere, so I did not put up my blade.  I walked out to confront her.

When she looked up and saw me, she gave a shriek and collapsed into a quivering heap.

"Who are you?" I snarled.  "Where did you come from?"

"I be just the woodswife, please your ladyship," she squeaked.  "I live just over yonder, don’t do no harm to nobody.  Don’t hurt me, mistress, please!"

I waved my point at the nearly uncovered body.  "What do you think you’re doing here?" I demanded.

"Well, mistress, when you rode away I figured you was finished with him, so I just come up here to get the clothes and such."

She had seen me with him, knew it was I who did this to him!  So now I must kill her also, lest word get back to Ta’arim and his servants hunt me down as he had threatened!  I knew they would, for most of them loved him dearly.  Yet this poor old hag had done nothing to merit death; if I killed her it would be murder of an innocent ... how low must I sink to achieve my freedom?

In my silence, the woman got to her feet and began to sidle away.  I made a threatening move; she froze and bent almost double.  "Happen you’re not done, I’ll just get along now, out of your way," she babbled.  "Never meddle, that’s what I always say.  Leave folks alone an’ they’ll leave you alone.  So sorry ...."

Clearly she saw how things stood as well as I did.  I couldn’t let her go.  Yet I couldn’t strike her down in cold blood either.  Then suddenly I saw a possible way out. "Is he still alive?" I asked.

"Was when I came up.  Don’t know now.  Shape he’s in ...."

"What do you know of healcraft?"

"Some – more than a little."

"Enough to fix him up?"

"Fix ’im up?" she repeated incredulously.  "Now you want to fix ’im up?"

"Let’s say I do.  Can you manage it?"

"Why ... dunno.  More’n likely he’ll die anyway, spite of anything I could do."

"I want you to try," I told her.  "If he dies, well and good.  But it would be better for you if he doesn’t."

She stared at me with a foolish gape, something like the one you’re wearing right now!  Why should I now want to save his life, after agonizing over how to end it?  Just this: if I could keep him alive, then while he was still helpless I could perhaps wring an oath from him that would guarantee my safety.  He would not stoop to beg for his life, but if it were a simple trade, that life for my freedom, surely he would not refuse the bargain.

But would he keep an oath made under such vile duress?  Before he let me into the valley he made me swear an oath of fealty, which I had counted as mere words because I had no choice.  Was his honor brighter than mine?  I hoped so.

"I’ll need splints and bindings," the woodswife said at last.

"I’ll get them for you."  I put up my sword and got out my knife instead.  I cut branches and tore strips from one of the ground cloths, then carried them back.  The old woman had cleared away the rest of the stones, and she quickly set about binding each arm and leg, then tied his arms to his body and his legs together.  One of them was twisted, but she made no attempt to set it.  When I protested, she pointed out that it was too swollen to try to move into place just yet.

Finally I cut holes in two game bags and made a litter with them and two poles.  We rolled him onto it, and I lifted one end at a time while the woodswife tied them to the saddle skirts of my mare and the pack horse.  Then when we reached her hut, we had to repeat the process in reverse.  Mercifully, he was unconscious through most of it.

After we got him inside, I went to tend the horses, leaving the old woman with her patient.  I made a new camp at the edge of the clearing.  After a time she came out and I confronted her. "Is he still alive?"

"Aye, that he is, though ’tis a plain marvel to me."  She shook her head wonderingly.

"Is he conscious?"

"Some. He asked if you was still here."

I bit my lip. "What did you tell him?"

"Said I didn’t know, which was no more nor less’n the truth just then.  Now if you don’t mind, mistress, I’d be mortal grateful if you’d be so kind as to tell me what’s goin’ on between you two."

"Why don’t you ask him?" I suggested bitingly.

"No doubt I’ll do that, if’n he doesn’t tell me on his own.  But just now he’s not talking so very well.  Anyways, I don’t suppose he can tell me whether you really want him dead or alive."

"I can’t tell you that either, just now.  I only want him conscious, and rational, and able to speak.  Then I want to ask him a question, and if he will not give me an answer, I shall kill him."

Next morning as I was making tea for breakfast, she came out and approached me once more.  "He says he can talk to you now," she announced.

My bowels turned suddenly to water, but I jerked to my feet and strode into the hut without hesitation.  It was dark and smelly, and I was half blinded after the bright sunlight outside.  Then finally I saw him, lying on the floor on a pile of dry grass, covered to the chin with his own ripped and soiled cloak.

As my eyes met his, he whispered in Kantra, "Hast thou had enough of vengeance, Baheeda?"

I walked across the room and stood over him, hands on my hips. "Thy life is still in my hand," I hissed angrily, covering my own shakiness.

"Aye," he agreed tiredly, his eyes closing briefly.  Then they opened and he asked once more, "What wouldst thou?"

"A life for a life," I told him.  He misunderstood me.  "I did not kill him, Baheeda.  He died of fear."  It was the first time he had ever spoken to me about Cham’s death.  And he spoke the truth.  I had always known it, but would never admit it to myself.  I could not speak; after a moment he went on, "Had I known thou wouldst carry him so long and so faithfully in thy heart, I would have buried thee with him."

"But now it is I who holds the whip," I reminded him.

"Aye," he said again.  "So why didst thou not slay me there in the place of anrikar?"

"A life for a life," I repeated.  "Thine in exchange for mine.  I will not slay thee – on condition that thou swear to let me go hence in peace, without pursuit."

His eyes lighted then with the beginning of hope, even as his lips pulled taut.  "I would fain defy thee even now, my tormentor.  But I dare not.  So I will swear it."

"By thine honor and by the Dragon," I pressed him.

"I swear by my honor and by the Dragon, that I will not pursue thee nor send after thee."  He paused, and still holding my gaze he added, "But I warn thee, Baheeda – let me not see thy face again, for if I do, I swear I shall slay thee."  There was no anger in his voice, no bitterness, just a bald statement of fact that chilled me to the bone.

"No danger of that!" I spat.  Then I bowed once more in the Akhari fashion.  "Farewell, my sometime lord," I said ironically.  "I will trouble thee no further."

He did not reply; his eyes were closed once more.  But as I stepped through the doorway I thought I heard a faint whisper: "Fare well, little hellcat."  Perhaps it was only my imagination.

I packed up the horses and rode away, never looking back.  But my heart looks back, ever and always.  He walks in my dreams and haunts my nightmares, and I wake in the night aching for his touch, his voice.  I am Tarhees, free mercenary – but he is still my lord, and I his Kantra slave.