"That Which Survives"

Story by Sylvia Volk. © 1998

Imagine the usual disclaimers. I merely jest, poison in jest; no offence i' the world.

Warning: subtext and violence, plus depictions of the habits of the Four Horsemen . . . which must surely have been stomach-turning. All credit for beta-reading and rewriting goes to Lisa Chilton and her amazing dog Burton-on-Trent.

That Which Survives

Part One

"When I was young, I walked alone; soon I lost my way.

I thought myself wealthy, when I found another:

Man is man's delight."

The winter would come soon, and hard.

Silas had spent the summer raiding north of the Eneti, separated from his brother horsemen: Kronos, Kolschei, Caspian. He liked to do this from time to time, because it meant that when he ran across another immortal, he didn't have to share with his brothers. They all did it, drifting away only to return in their own time - all of them, except Kronos of course - and as for Kronos, he tolerated it. Kronos knew that they would always come back.

This year, because an instinct for weather warned him of the winter ahead, Silas made sure to return to the valley with provisions. Using the promise of plentiful gold and young slave women, he had recruited mortal brigands and brought them home: over twenty big meaty men, as rough and wild as wolves and bears. Silas had bought a dozen women, to keep the men content, and several of the bandits were accompanied by women of their own. He had told them where they were going to winter, far from towns or roads. They came with horses, sheep and oak-wheeled wagons, and even a brat child or two.

It was well. Kronos would be pleased.

The valley, which had belonged to Kronos for longer than Silas had lived, was deserted when Silas got there. Nevertheless the old stone fort was in good shape, and the houses against the walls needed only a little work to be made liveable. Silas let his men scatter, unloading the wagons and picking out houses for their families. He lent a hand with the labor of clearing out the well, of chinking the houses until they were winter-tight, and of cutting hay for the animals. The fort needed a little repair, and the defenses at the pass - it was the valley's only entrance - required work. When the houses were snug and the women content, Silas gathered his band of men and bullied them into labor on the fortifications at the pass. Those who defied him, he laid out with a blow or two and then put back to work, with no hard feelings. Only one man tried it twice. Silas had fancied his woman (she had hair golden as ripe grain) so killing him and taking her to bed was a pleasant chore. He even allowed the other men to bury their friend (and a horse with him) and raise a barrow of turfs over the grave.

Perhaps five days later, his brothers arrived. They came in the late evening, and alone: three immortals on horseback riding quietly along the rude mountain track. Silas had forced the men to stand sentry in turns every night, but when a runner came with word of strangers sighted, he had no doubt who was coming. Who else knew where Kronos made his lair, his secret place with its concealed refuge of holy ground? No one else. And if any stray immortal stumbled across this place, they would die in the hour that Silas found them. That much was sure.

Silas walked up from his house, before whose door his new woman tended the hearth - her eye blacked and one of her teeth knocked out. One had to teach women their place. In the light of the full moon, autumn-orange, Silas climbed into the pass and stood with the sentry, watching the horsemen approach. The view from here was good, straight down the mountainside and across the adjacent valley; there was a scree slope up which the track climbed, switching back and forth against the steep gradient. At the top, a fold in the mountain wall provided a natural gate of solid granite. From it, a handful of men could hold off an army.

Three horses plodding along, three riders weary on their backs, black under the light of the moon. Three immortals. Silas craned, seeing that one of the horses was on a leading rein. No mortal men or women accompanied the horsemen, though in the spring Kronos had commanded a respectable force of mercenaries. Over summer, he had meant to loot the amber routes. And it was never his habit to settle for the winter without bringing along mortals and supplies. What had happened?

Never mind. Silas stood beaming, arms akimbo; backlit by the starry sky, he made a fearsome ogre figure in the dusk. He began to wave long before the horsemen were in earshot. But he stopped smiling when he got a look at the rider on the last horse.

Kronos, Caspian, Kolschoi . . . there was Caspian, there was Kronos. Where was Kolschoi?

Silas, scowling, peered at Kolschoi's favorite bay gelding, and the stranger who rode it. An immortal, he could feel it from here. An old one, certainly, and powerful . . . no one Silas had ever seen before. The strange immortal's hands were bound behind him, his feet were roped under the horse's belly, his head hung low and his shoulders slumped; long hair, pale with the dust of the road, hid his face. Perhaps Kronos, in a fit of generosity, was bringing Silas a gift?

It was good, since Silas had a gift for Kronos too.

The riders reined in at the top of the slope; two of them slid down from their horses. "Brothers!" Silas flung his arms round Kronos, laughing so that the mountain rang with echoes. "I have missed you, brother!"

Caspian, grinning a little, edged around and shoved Silas in the back. Kronos took Silas by the shoulders and shook him, and then slapped him in the belly. "Ho, Silas! Still hard as rock, eh? How is the riding?"

"It went well, it went well. All is made ready, brother."

"Good!" Kronos laughed sideways, so that the rakish scar across his eye twisted slightly and lent his expression a jester's jeer. And then a flash of bitterness went over his face. "You're looking for Kolschoi."

"The dog's dead," muttered Caspian into Silas' ear, and Silas' mouth fell open.

"Kolschoi is dead?"

Kronos only shrugged. He pulled the bridle over his horse's head, and started away with a yank that savaged the poor beast's mouth. Automatically, Silas reached out and took the reins from him, and stood turning the leather over and over in his fingers, gaping. He had known Kolschoi for seven generations of mortal man. Kolschoi the deathless, they had called him. How could Kolschoi be dead?

Caspian pushed at the captive on the horse, rocking him sideways. The other immortal made no sound, but sat slumped in the saddle. Kronos had already gone. Cursing, Caspian drew his knife and slashed through the prisoner's ankle-rope, dragging as he did at the man's long hair. Without a word, the immortal came off the horse and to one knee in the dirt; and Caspian shoved him over, and kicked him too. There was a halter round the stranger's neck, Silas saw; there was a rope attached to it, like the leash of a hound. "It's because of him that Kolschoi's dead!" Caspian hissed, and went after Kronos, dragging the prisoner along in his wake. And still never a murmur of protest.

Kolschoi, dead?

Silas sighed. Kolschoi's mount huffed, lipping affectionately at his hair, and he leaned forward and breathed into the horse's nose; all three horses crowded close, pushing in for attention. He had a few dates in his pockets, for just such a moment. With horses, you knew where you were. He gathered their reins, and plodded off after his brothers.

Kronos was crazy.

Silas walked the horses cool, rubbed them down and tethered them where they could graze, sluicing a few buckets of water across the grass to quench their thirst; it was an old horseman's trick. Let a hot horse drink its fill, and it would die of it. Then he went up to the fort to fetch his gift. When he got back to the little village, he found that Caspian had picked out a house he fancied and taken it for his own, and found a woman he liked and taken her too. The best of the houses was the one Silas lived in, and so of course Kronos had gone there. It was a good house, roomier than the rest: the wooden posts untouched by rot, the walls solidly built of mud and wattle. There were two khans fashioned in the eastern style, box-beds beneath which one could bank coals for warmth. The hearth stood just a step beyond the door. No one cooked indoors in the north - the mountain winters being what they were. Who wanted a house full of smoke? Inside, Silas found his blonde woman heating a copper of water on the brazier, and Kronos washing his prisoner, clothes and all.

The woman was weeping as she worked, fresh bruises on her face. Silas took her by the shoulder and pushed her out the door, giving her the buckets and yoke; she could fetch more water from the well. He brought his gift forward where Kronos could see her well, but was ignored. Finally he said, "Brother! Look."

Kronos turned his head, slowly. He dipped a bowl of water from the copper and dumped it over the bedraggled man on all fours in the rushes. Then he took the stranger's long hair in both fists and wrung it out. "I see you've got one and I've got one," he remarked. "What's yours, then?"

"This is for you." Silas shoved the girl forward, to stand in the lamplight. "Walk a few steps, now. Back and forth, so. Good girl. No, lift your chin, girl! Look him in the face." The girl tossed back her hair and for just a heartbeat her gaze flashed to Kronos' face, and her eyes lit with defiance. Then she stood looking at nobody. "She's yours, brother. My gift to you."

"She's a young one." Kronos sat back on his heels, resting a hand on the other immortal's back. The stranger crouched, wet as a fish, and his hair was like glossy brown stones in a stream, his skin white like a boy's. Silas' woman, coming in with her buckets of water, looked sidelong at him as she crossed to the brazier, and kept staring. Kronos said, "How long has she been immortal?"

"I gave her the first death as soon as we got here . . . She's for you. I've kept the men off her, put her in the fort until you came. I bought her from a Sacaean slaver, cost me half the summer's profit."

"Ah. She's a virgin?" Kronos tilted his head. "Tell me your name, girl."

Again her eyes flashed. Then she spoke strongly, determinedly. "I am Miriam."

"She's for you," Silas repeated. "And this old one, is he for me? Been too long since I had a good quickening."

"This is Methos . . . You're not to touch him, Silas, do you hear?" Kronos went back for water, poured it over his own head. It splattered on the floor, and he dipped up more and crossed back to his prisoner. "Have your woman find some good clothes to fit him, throw away these rags. They're not fit even for a slave. He's our new brother."

Silas gaped.

Kronos ignored him. The immortal girl stood forgotten between them. Finally Silas managed to say, "I thought he killed Kolschoi."

"I killed Kolschoi."

"I thought you brought him here to-- You did?"

"He disobeyed me." It was a growl. "Raised his hand against Methos. You're not going to do that, Silas, are you?"

Silas only shook his head. He came close and squinted at the stranger. His new brother. What was that name? "Methos." And his new brother stirred, lifting a weary face to his - the face of an elder immortal, forceful and serene and just a little otherworldly. The halter was still around his neck, his hands were tied behind his back; nevertheless, he carried himself like a king. The quickening he radiated sang through Silas' heart and bones, deafening: a chorus of yipping voices . . . and this too was the mark of the old. He also looked as if he had starved to death on the road.

Kronos elbowed Silas aside and grasped the old one by the nape of the neck, crouching next to him, balancing a bowl on his knees. He scooped a handful of meat and gravy out of the bowl and shoved it into the stranger's mouth. "It's good lamb, very tender. Eat, brother. You're home now." To Silas he said, "We made a mistake. Shouldn't have let Caspian butcher his woman." Another handful.

"He'll choke if you stuff it down his throat like that." Silas pushed in, clucking. This, he knew - just as he knew that Kronos always killed horses with neglect. As Caspian just always killed horses. Kronos backed away slightly, frowning, and Silas took his place and fed his new brother the lamb stew, bit by bit. And still not a word out of the old one. Was he simple-minded? "Is he addled?"

"I might talk more," said the old one indistinctly, "if my mouth wasn't crammed full."

"Huh! My woman cooks well. Had enough? Woman! Bring water."

"And beer," added Kronos. He was scraping out the bowl of stew, sucking his fingers. "Damn, that's good. I need more." He drank the beer that Silas' woman brought, and accepted the stew she hurried to serve him. "More for Methos too, fool. And fetch a bowl for Silas." While all this time the girl Miriam had stood unmoving, silent as a ghost. Finally Kronos eyed her. He wiped a hand across his mouth, rose and went to her, staring; he lifted her chin, took her by the shoulder and turned her this way and that. He stroked her hair, fingering it. Her face was pale with indignation and fright. Silas beamed at them both.

"Expensive," said Kronos. "Silas? That's the most he's said since we got him. And this is a gift fit for a god. I thank you." He turned and smiled straight at Silas, looking him in the eye. "I'm giving her to Methos."

He was crazy.

Later, Silas' woman kicked apart the wood-fire in the outdoor hearth, banked the charcoal in the brazier. She pinched out the lamps, and came to crawl in with Silas on the wider of the warm khan-beds, pressing close for comfort; it was bitterly cold. Freezing rain drummed on the housetop, wind howled against the door. And Kronos tied his new brother hand and foot, settling him in the second khan with the immortal girl to warm him. As for himself, he took a fur and a woolen cloak, and rolled up on the wet carpet beneath the brazier.

Come midnight, the rain turned to snow. Silas made this an excuse to go outside and tend the horses. More sensible than he, they had crowded together for shelter, and only greeted him with a sleepy whicker or two. He walked the length of the silent camp several times, muttering to himself. After some time he stumped back into the house, finding Kronos now on the khan with the blonde woman, sleeping while she sobbed. The order restored to his world, Silas bedded down against the brazier's legs, and slept.

Days passed, swiftly as the white snow geese, the swans and storks whistling overhead - streaming south on the wings of the coming winter.

After perhaps a week, Caspian's new woman threw herself off the mountain. She died of it, and Caspian dragged her body back to his house, vanishing within; there was no burial for her, any more than there had been for the man from whom Caspian had claimed the house. The other men muttered, but Kronos had a word with Caspian about it, which at least stopped Caspian from going after another woman. Frighten the mortals enough, and there'd be trouble.

Caspian sulked.

Kronos took his fellow horsemen up to the fort, and they spent a day climbing over the walls, making a tally of work to be done. Here, where the valley narrowed to a crooked ravine, Kronos had built a hollow double wall of native stone, twelve feet thick and filled in with granite scree and rubbish; many mortals over many years had died in the labor. This wall was twice the height of a tall man, with split timbers laid along the top to form a walkway. Those had mostly rotted and the infill had settled. The gate needed to be completely replaced, the forge cleaned and righted, the path up to the hot springs cleared - all without mortal help, because Kronos wanted no mortals beyond the wall. This meant long hard work worthy of mine slaves, to get it all done before the deep snows arrived. At least the butcher's house and the winter storehouses were in good repair. Beyond all these, beyond the hot springs and the bath-house built under the eaves of the mountainside, lay the reason for the fort's site: the ancient holy ground.

The hot springs stank mightily and sometimes welled with oil and black bitumen. They were unfit for drinking, though the horsemen had diverted the best of them to the bath-house, to fill the caldarium. As he did every time they came home to the valley, Silas had walked over the entire area behind the fort wall searching for new water-sources. As always, he had found nothing. A few rills coursed down the mountainside, but these froze once winter set in. The nearest well was in the village. They'd had to melt snow again.

All day long, Kronos dragged his captive after him, keeping the old immortal's hands bound. A wise man refrained from trusting the old ones, for they were dangerous whether armed or bare-handed. Caspian spat on the ground when his new brother came near. His new brother said little. Silas eyed them all and wondered.

The girl Miriam, his gift for Kronos, was one thing - too young to be of interest to her elders. Methos was another. Looking at him, one didn't covet his body; the real temptation was to take his head. Well, it was true that - washed clean, and in daylight - he was young-looking enough to excite a man's lust. He was woefully thin, but still Silas could picture him in a market in Sumer, his front teeth knocked out to make him more suited for love.

But the immortal who played with an older immortal that way was crazy.

It was a mystery. Kronos, pettish as a child, pushed at his prisoner's shoulder and demanded now, "Tell me what you think!" Silas went a little closer to them, interested.

Methos looked sideways at Kronos, shrugged. "Where are the byres? You haven't enough feed for the whole winter."

"A good question. We won't put the sheep in byre, we'll slaughter them and salt the meat for storage. Most of the horses too. The mountain meadows have enough grazing to keep a few beasts till spring."

A jerk of the head. "And what's up there?"

"You'll see later. Does the girl please you?"

"She's pretty enough. Is she a common woman, like Phrygia?"

Kronos stared blankly. "Who?"

"Your woman and Silas'. The golden-haired one who cooks your food," said Methos, dryly.

"Oh, that one. No. The immortal girl is yours, brother. My gift to you. I don't go back on my gifts."

"What do you want from me?"

Kronos drew close, touched his arm. "You're my brother. I want to be good to you. I want you to be pleased, and trust me. Do that, and you won't be sorry . . . You'll see."

Methos crouched down, moving easily despite his bound hands; he peered at something on the ground, pushed it with the toe of his boot. "This place is all but paved with bones," he remarked. "How long have you been here? How many immortal skulls have you collected?"

"I don't want your head! . . . But I can give you many heads, many quickenings. If we work together, we four can stand against any other immortal." Kronos smiled. "It's good."

"The nature of immortals is solitary. We were not made to live together."

"No, but we must learn from the mortals around us. Once we outnumbered them, didn't we? We were strong then, and they were weak; my teachers have told me the tales. Now they are many and immortals are few - we fight one another, and they have put the swords into our hands. It was the mortals who first forged swords, isn't that true?"

"Who knows? We killed one another in the time before the swords too. We had to work harder at it, but we fought off holy ground then too, breaking the ancient laws that forbade such things. We all knew about taking heads, though we didn't speak openly of it. A stone hatchet can sever a neck with a single stroke."

"But it's easier now. And we die younger, isn't that true? You're very old, aren't you? - I've never met anyone who seemed as old as you. I've lived four hundred and three years, and I'm older than most. How old are you?"

"I don't remember," said the stranger, and Silas blinked.

Kronos went close to him. "We all remember. No one is that old!"

"Nevertheless," said Methos, with some force, "I don't remember."

"It's a lie! Why?"

Methos shook his head. The two of them were looking into each other's eyes, forgetful of their audience. "My youth seems like a dream to me . . . I have forgotten. Disregard these fanciful tales of better times. We were not made to live in peace."

"Brothers may do so," said Kronos, softly.

"I'm not your brother. There are for us no mothers, fathers, brothers: only the Game, and the Gathering."

"Teachers and students do."

"I'm not your teacher!"

Kronos' grin widened. "Maybe I meant it the other way around."

Silas liked plump women. He sat now on a stone in the sun, whittling a whistle, and watched the camp girls gossip at the well. Two of them at a time worked the big sweep, hauling on the ropes to bring up water for the coping pool. Once the shallow pool was filled, they knelt around it, washing clothes and chattering. They wore the wool jerkins and thigh-length cord skirts of the north, all of them bare-legged despite the cold, and they were rosy-cheeked and sassy. A delicious sight. Even their runny-nosed brats were fat.

Unlike the immortal girl, the southern girl in her girdled gown, even now hauling her own basket of washing up from the house. Skinny as a willow withe, that girl - but her white skin, her glossy hair was beautiful. As she drew close, the other women fell silent. They rose with one accord, and one kicked away the stone that plugged the pool; the water ran swiftly away, over the immortal girl's feet as she came to the well. The mortal women drew aside. They were like a flock of black geese with one white goose in their midst. Some shouldered their own baskets and started away toward the houses, while the remainder stood rudely staring and the immortal girl struggled to work the sweep one-handed. She splashed some water into the pool, and knelt to do her washing. The first thing she dragged out of the basket was the grey felt blanket from her bed.

It was marked with an oval bloodstain. She drenched it in the cold water, and began to scrub.

One of the women threw a stone at her. "Witch!"

The immortal girl was up in a whirl of wet cloth, and into the cluster of women. She had her tormenter face down in the coping pool, dunking her in and out, when the other women separated them and dragged her back. Silas began to laugh. The southern girl shrieked abuse and the northern girls yelled back. Just like a gaggle of geese. Children ran screaming away from the fight, and women came running out to see. Presently Miriam stormed away, leaving her basket overturned in the mud below the pool. She kicked the ripped skirts of her only dress aside with every step. Methos was sitting next to Silas, watching. He rose and went silently after her, hampered only a little by the cord binding his wrists and the hobble between his feet.

They had gotten out of sight, in the direction of the pass, before Silas heaved a sigh and laid aside his whistle. They wouldn't get far, not on foot and without a knife; still, Kronos had told him to keep an eye on Methos. He drew his axe and followed. In a moment a hollow ringing began in his ears, and he quickened his step, hearing voices. There they were! Not far at all--

He saw them. The girl came flying, running like an Amazon between the houses. Methos backed after her, moving almost as swiftly despite the hobble and his backwards gait. Behind him came another immortal, mounted, walking his horse unhurriedly in pursuit. There was a naked sword in the stranger's hand.

Silas lifted the axe off his shoulder, speeding his steps a little. The new immortal was a big man, bearded and shaggy, dressed in leather leggings and a long woolen coat. And his mount was a stallion, which meant in Silas' reckoning that he was from foreign parts; the northern custom was to geld one's riding horses. This stranger saw Silas and peered at him, reining the horse in for just a moment, and then he lifted his sword and sketched a salute of welcome. "Challenge has been made, friend. You can't interfere!"

And here came Kronos and Caspian from the fort, at a hard run; they must have warned the mortals off, for none of the other men were with them. This gave the interloper pause for thought. Silas closed in on him from behind now, cutting off his retreat, and meanwhile Caspian and Kronos veered left and right, separating like wolves that circle in to take their prey. Caspian was already laughing.

"Perhaps we have a misunderstanding here," the stranger said grudgingly. "I mean, such matters are best settled in the old way. You must have holy ground nearby? Let us go there and finish this."

"Let's take him now," said Caspian. "Kronos? It's my turn."

"Yes, it is." Kronos spoke quietly. "But we do nothing yet, unless he tries to make a run for it. Let Methos finish his fight."

"What if the bastard takes Methos--"

"Wait, Caspian."

Methos was still backing away, crouched over, his bound wrists presented before him. His steps were so precisely matched to the length of the hobble that it seemed he was not hobbled at all. Incredibly, he seemed to be smiling. The horseman leaned sideways and slashed at him, and Methos twisted his body and took the cut along the length of his left forearm, springing two-footed and tumbling like an acrobat; Silas heard the horseman swear in chagrin. Now the leather cord lashed around Methos' wrists was severed . . . and blood slicked his left arm.

The horseman lifted the reins, turning his mount's head. The horse pranced, arched its neck, and sprang straight for Methos; certainly it had been trained for war, to attack with teeth and hooves. A fine horse. Whatever the outcome, Silas suddenly yearned to own the horse. It ran in a thundering charge upon Methos, snorting, with short choppy strides. A length from him, its hindquarters bunched and it leaped like a tiger.

Methos dropped, throwing himself down and forward. The horse pounced after him. Its head and its raking forelegs struck the ground, and the horseman was thrown forward upon its neck. He lost his reins, he clutched its mane, and his sword-arm dropped. Methos appeared upon the far side of the horse, avoiding its flailing hooves. He took the other immortal's arm in both hands, and pulled it violently down. The crack of snapping bone at the elbow sounded clearly. Catching the bronze sword as it fell, Methos flung himself away and rolled full-length, moving with his entire body. The hobble between his feet was severed, the loose ends flying; when had he done that? The horse, neighing, went after him.

Such a horse. Such a rider. Its tail flirted high, its fiery eye rolled; parading roosters and griffins, bright copper, flashed on the cheek-pieces of its bridle. He clung to his mount like a hero, never so much as a glimpse of space between his seat and the embroidered saddle-cushions. His legs were wrapped around its barrel, his feet gripped the felt of the sweat-cloth. He appeared to be dazed with pain, and no wonder; with every stride the horse made, with every leap, with every swerve and jink, his disjointed elbow was jolted. And meanwhile the horse chased Methos. Silas called after them: "Brother, brother! Don't kill the stallion!"

Caspian was swearing. "Forget the horse! Silas, you're moonstruck!"

"Hush," said Kronos. "He's good, isn't he?"

He was. Silas watched his new brother, diverted from the horse. Methos moved like a dancer. He was surely playing now, his arm already healed, and he feinted around that snorting black fury of a horse - that magnificent horse - lightly as a girl evading a lover in jest. But if he dallied too long, the horseman would also heal.

Ah. There. Just for an instant, Silas caught a glance from Methos: a glimpse of eyes lit with fun, a face transformed by interest and joy. His brother had heard his plea. Methos crouched and leaped, tackling his opponent and taking him clean off the horse's back, both of them twisting as they fell to the ground. The sword flashed. The horse cantered away, riderless. Perhaps ten lengths away, it slowed to a walk, dropped its head, lipped the grass. The stranger lay flat with arms outflung, and Methos wrenched the sword from the other immortal's chest. Then he swung about on one heel, sword in hand, and headed for the horse at a run.

He was on the horse. Caspian was yelling. The horse snorted and bucked as Methos shortened the reins, and then it was turning, perfectly collected - what a horse it was! - and man and horse were one being, moving with one mind. The black horse's hooves danced, its clipped mane flounced. Methos raised the sword, as if in salute.

"Silas, Caspian." Kronos spoke quietly, out of the side of his mouth. "Who's on sentry duty today?"

"I'll find out," Silas promised.

"Good. Later. Right now, do nothing. Nothing, unless Methos tries to run. If he does, stop him without hurting him . . . If you hurt him, Caspian, you're dead meat. Got that?"

"I just want the head," muttered Caspian.

"Shut up." Kronos dropped his sword. He began to walk slowly forward. "Methos."

The horse fretted momentarily, as if the hand on its reins had clenched. Then it arched its neck proudly, stood collected and alert. "I can kill you," said Methos, his voice serene.

"But you won't."

"You can't keep me here."

"No." Kronos was now within reach of the horse's reins . . . and Methos' sword. He spread his hands, stood smiling and looking up. Silas edged closer. "It was a fine fight, Methos. Magnificent."

"But you'll still give Caspian the quickening."

"That's right. We have to share if we're to live together. You and I had the last quickening, so now it's Caspian's turn. You'll see in time that it's the best way."

Methos' eyes were enormous.

"You could have escaped anytime, if you wanted to," Kronos said, his voice full of praise. "What did you use to cut the hobble, a sharpened bone? When did you find that, that I didn't see you?"

A pause. Then Methos smiled, just a little, and lifted the hand that held the reins. There was a scrap of milky stone folded between his fingers. It was a flint blade, barely the length of his thumb.

"Come, ancient one."

He shook his head slightly. His gaze flicked right, left: to Caspian, to Silas. The intruder, the defeated immortal, was stirring now and Caspian had begun to walk toward him. Silas laid his axe down on the grass and went to take the black horse's reins gently in his big hands. A shiver went through Methos. Then he laid one hand on Kronos' sleeve, swung his leg over the horse's back and slid to the ground.

His mouth twitched. "It's still my horse, remember, Silas," he said.

"How are you at knucklebones?" asked Silas, and Methos grinned a little. So Silas reached out and rubbed a hand over his hair, shaking his head roughly to and fro. "Well fought, brother! You gave that whoreson a surprise."

"Let's get something to drink," Kronos said. They had to find and kill the fool sentry who let a stranger into the valley, but it would wait. The immortal girl was watching from the well, wide-eyed. "Ho, woman! Bring beer, and hurry!"

"A hero's horse."

Silas rubbed down the dead stranger's riding-horse, admiring its every point. It was perfect from head to hooves: a veteran stud of about ten years in age, its mane trimmed and its tail docked and plaited . . . deep in the chest, short in the back, powerfully legged, proud of profile and without visible flaw. Largely and impressively made where it counted most toward siring strong, swift colts. He considered its color unusual, but no drawback. A grey horse was unlucky, and white stockings or splotches betokened weak hooves, likely to split upon the road; but this stallion had no white hairs anywhere to be found. "A fine horse, a brave horse. Fit for a king."

"Fit for a god," said Kronos, smiling at Methos.

"Maybe we should give it the poleaxe and bury it with its rider then," Caspian said with sarcasm. "What will the next world be to him, without his riding-horse?"

"He had no honor," said Silas defensively. "Challenging an unarmed foe."

"Honor is in survival, not in how you fight." Methos crouched a few steps off, drawing on the ground with a stick. He was writing. Silas had seen him do it before, as if to set some thought in order. But when Kronos looked toward him, he scuffed a foot across the letters and moved away.

"What are you writing? I'll get you parchment and ink and a brush. There must be someone here who has such things. I'll find them for you."

"La la la," Caspian muttered. "Silas, you'd rather sleep with a horse than a woman."

"Ah, but it must be a fine horse, a good horse." Silas rubbed the black stallion's shoulder, watching for signs of the beast's thoughts in the toss of its head, the flick of its ears. When he asked for the hoof, it lifted its foot willingly. "Freshly trimmed. Well-cared for. Brother, if you ever want to give me a gift, let it be a horse like this."

"I thought we were going to play for it?"

"Hah." Silas put a hand behind his back. Methos did the same. "One, two, three . . . Go!" They pulled their hands out at the same instant. Silas held up a fist; Methos cut the air with his flattened hand.

"Stone."

"Water. Water swallows stone."

"May you be cursed to drown in lake Apsu. Two out of three?"

"One, two, three - go!"

"Fire!" said Silas.

"Stone. Stone smothers fire. Sorry, Silas."

"Brother, you're too lucky. Miriam! My mouth is dry. More beer!"

They drank to Methos' luck. "Such luck," Methos murmured; Kronos held the cup to his mouth, made him drink. "Be glad, brother," Kronos said. "If you have been poor in the past, put those times behind you. Riding with us, you will have the best horses and heads, the finest sword, more women than you can ever bed. What more does any man want?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"For centuries I've heard your name, Methos. You're a legend among us. I need a man with me who can plan a raid as well as swing a sword - a fighter who can think. The instant I set eyes on you, I knew you were the one I wanted."

"Why?"

"For friendship. The only cure for loneliness is friendship."

"Friendship," said Methos.

"And brotherhood. What is there in time or eternity, except this? Love of women is nothing, nothing - what are women, after all? Women are nothing, Methos. The woman who says she loves you tonight, I can take into my bed and have her crawling at my feet tomorrow. All women are the same in the dark, but a man's brothers are his shield."

Methos looked pointedly at Caspian's leering face as Miriam poured him beer. "Until brothers fall to fighting, over a woman or a head. You haven't answered my question."

"We share everything. Only your brothers will stand by you forever, Methos. Until the end of time."

"You're strong enough to stand alone, Kronos. As am I. What if I don't want to share?"

Kronos showed his teeth. "Why, then we must match fists. Should we do it to see if you stay? Here: one, two, three--"

"Water," said Methos slowly.

"Fire. Fire eats water, brother. See, you must stay." Kronos looked away; just for an instant, his face was a wasteland of loneliness. "Bare is back without brother," he whispered.

Days passed, and the nights grew colder: swirling snowstorms blew across the mountains, and now they were beyond the season of travel. Until spring came, they would stay where they were. The mortals were nervous, disliking the company they found themselves in. Their women shunned the immortal girl and golden-haired Phrygia. But there was much work to do, and more to think about than pampering the mortals. Besides, it was too late. Fret though they would, they couldn't escape now.

Kronos and Methos worked together, reroofing one of the old stone beehive houses within the fort walls - primitive, cramped houses, centuries older than those of the village without. They diverted a hot spring, cutting it a new channel which led into the house itself, across the dirt floor; then they laid a floor over it from broad flagstones. It was Methos' idea, meant to heat the house in the wintertime. They chinked the walls, built a new door, and hung it on bronze pegs. Silas had his mortals in the forest, cutting wood and burning charcoal. Meanwhile Caspian readied the butcher's house and honed his cleavers at the forge. All of them, mortals and immortals, worked together for several days - slaughtering sheep and horses, pickling most of the meat in brine and salting the remainder. For this task, the mother mountain's gift to them was rock salt, a treasure rich as the mines of the Alps; plentiful as that of Gerrha, whose inhabitants built their houses of salt. It made Kronos' valley wealthy. And soon enough there came a morning when the air bit like cold water in the throat, and all the little rills down the mountain froze solid.

Hauling wood left Silas covered with sweat, lichen and twigs. Done for the day, he turned his mortals loose to go to their women, and himself walked up to the bathhouse beyond the fort walls. Phrygia and Methos' woman were already there. They had the fire built, and stones heating. Steam rose in little ghostly frills from the hot pool. And the women scurried to pour dippers of water across the hot stones, to fetch Silas his jug of beer. They were getting well-trained, though Phrygia still wept too much. Couldn't women ever keep from whining? Silas snatched at Miriam's skirts as she sidled by, and roared with laughter when she slapped his hand away.

The door slammed back on a whirl of cold. Kronos and Methos stamped through, shaking the melting snow off their shoulders and long hair. Methos was untied; Kronos had stopped tying him up, though he wasn't letting him carry a sword yet. The two of them went everywhere together. Now they shrugged out of their clothes, shivering a little until the steam heated them. Methos rubbed at his arms, head down, for he felt the cold badly; he complained of it often. Kronos pushed him toward the fire, slapped him on the shoulder. "Women! Bring something for a man to eat."

The women ran to obey, to bring more beer, to serve flatbread and venison.

"Eat, brother," Kronos ordered Methos; he shoved food into Methos' hands, stood over him until he ate. "Don't waste good meat. Gods, you're finicky as a child." Himself, he ripped into the meat with his teeth, licking grease off his fingers and swilling each bite down with a lusty swig of beer; Kronos had a great appetite in all matters. In contrast, Methos ate sparingly and with apparent reluctance. He was still too thin, Silas thought - the muscles there to be counted, no meat at all on his bones. But give them until the end of the winter, and they'd have him fattened up.

They ate. They talked, laughed, took turns with the wooden strigil to scrape the dirt and oil from each other's backs. The women, their hair hanging draggled with sweat, served them in silence. Afterward, Silas pulled Phrygia across his lap and fed her bits of broken bread, stuffing them one by one into her mouth. She endured it with a pinched face, but squirmed away at the first opportunity. Silas nudged Kronos with an elbow, nodded toward the immortal girl curled up half-dreaming at Methos' feet. She had stripped to her short inner skirt, one of her arms was thrown across his knee, and her sleek skin glowed wetly. "The women love our new brother."

"He has a knack for that . . . All the old ones do." Kronos laughed. "Experience."

"Caspian hates him. There's trouble ahead there, Kronos. There's no love lost between those two - how will you get Methos to obey Caspian's orders, when we're out in the world again?"

"I think that, too, will be the other way around," said Kronos. He spoke softly, as did Silas. "We may be here some time, Silas. I might want to keep the four of us safe here, close to our holy ground and away from the world, until we have Methos settled in. Away from distractions. Maybe for ten or fifteen years."

"Is he worth so much trouble?"

"You've seen him fight."

Silas cleared his throat. "Well, yes. He could take any two of us, maybe. But not all three. So he's not to be just a replacement for Kolschoi. He's to take Caspian's place."

"In time, yes. Once he decides to stay."

"I thought he had. He could have escaped on that horse--?"

"No. He knew we'd hunt him down, he was only submitting. We forced him."

"Hah. If he wants to go, he'll go. Even take his woman along - if he wanted to. Maybe they'd die crossing the mountains, but they're immortal--"

"Submission isn't good enough." Kronos fisted his hand, gestured. "He has to want to stay. Otherwise I will never be able to trust him . . . I've been looking for something like him for a long time, Silas. A right arm for me - Caspian is too independent."

"You think this old one won't be?"

"The older ones are different from us. You've never had much contact with them, have you? As the centuries pass, they change: passions run deeper, friendships more powerful, the emotions much stronger once they're roused. Mysterious causes sway them. Once you win the loyalty of one like that, it lasts forever. That's what I'm gambling on, Silas."

"Shouldn't let him have that woman, then," Silas pointed out. "Not an immortal woman. Shouldn't let her near him. Why not just enjoy her, and then take the head?"

"Oh, well . . . when you want to lure the stallion into your noose, what do you do?" Kronos grinned and bit into a strip of venison. "Stake out a filly." Grease ran down his chin. He wiped it away, sucked the back of his hand. "Silas? Caspian says the first hard freeze will come tonight."

"It's time?"

"Time for our fun, yes. Once the sun sets, we start." It was almost sunset by then. "Do them all."

"The women too?"

"Well - you and Caspian can pick one each. Not the blonde, though. She's boring. She goes." Kronos gnawed along the bone he held, cracked it and sucked out the marrow. Finished, he dropped it and grabbed for Phrygia as she passed. He dragged her close and wiped his wet fingers clean in her hair. Then he cut her jerkin open along her spine, and when she screamed and tried to jerk away, he cracked her head against the stone floor.

Miriam shrieked. Methos was on his feet, with her pushed behind him; both of them were as wide-eyed as children wakened by the nightmare. Meanwhile Kronos had hauled Phrygia to the hot pool, and roping her feet together with a sinew cord, tossed the line across the beam overhead and hoisted the mortal woman, suspending her above the drainage channel. Silas had stepped watchfully closer to Methos, his axe in his hand. With his wide-bladed bronze knife, Kronos made several practiced cuts - like a hunter, dressing out a slaughtered doe.

He came sauntering back, sucking his fingers. "She can bleed here," he said. "Silas, I told Caspian to start at the pass and drive the mortals higher into the valley, onto our knives. Go get to work. Methos?"

They had shifted backwards, the two of them: the woman in silent stark terror clinging to Methos, and the old one shivering slightly, but not in surprise. "You're going to kill them all," said Methos. "Aren't you?"

"They're only mortals," said Kronos. "Methos? Be calm. I swear you're in no danger - nor your woman. But I'm going to leave you tied overnight, because Silas and I need to go help Caspian."

"Don't do this. I--" Methos had lowered his head. He drew in a deep breath; his upper lip drew back, muscles clenching beside his nose and along his jaw; his whole face flattened, lengthening into a tiger's snarl. With an obvious effort, he spoke. "Kronos, this is wrong. If I am indeed your brother, then I ask of you: don't do this. Please."

"No," said Kronos, and Methos sprang at him.

Silas stepped swiftly around, and buried the blade of his axe in Methos' brain.

There was a thud as the girl dropped, fainting. Kronos wrenched the axe free, eased Methos' corpse to the floor. He turned the dead man over with the toe of one boot, squatted and poked at the back of his head. "Here, take this. Good work, Silas - he won't wake for at least a day." He sighed. "I wish he wasn't so stubborn. But see if he doesn't say thank you, when he eats meat this winter."

Part Two

What is Woman that you should forsake her

And the hearth-fire, and the home-acre

To go with the old grey Widow-Maker?

Days passed, and the sleet drove without mercy, whipped by evil winds from snow to rain to snow again. Ice glazed every twig and needle, icicles covered every tree, rime froze in Silas' red beard. The winds never ceased. They wailed all night like hunting banshees, like gorgons sweeping hungrily from the moon. While Kronos and Silas and Caspian worked day and night to store their winter meat.

Knowing that they might need all the fuel they had before spring came again, they smoked very little of this bounty. Instead they crushed rock salt, filling the salting barrels with butchered mortals, two mortals to a barrel: covering the raw meat completely with salt, so that no two pieces touched, and topping each barrel with more salt. These barrels they left then for five days, and then emptied salt and all, refilling them so that the meat on the bottom ended up on top. Again they left these to steep for seven days longer. Then, taking the sides of meat out, they wiped them clean and hung them for five days. Whatever they could not salt was left outside to freeze solid in the mouth of Old Winter.

It was furious work, hungry work. Laboring in the cold, a man could eat the weight of a small child in meat every day. They kept the fort unheated, lest the meat rot before the salt could dry it. The women tended a soup-pot which was never emptied, never let go cold; they ran with hunched shoulders, hauling wood to stoke the outdoor hearth; they raced to dip bowls of thick scalding-hot soup for the men; they crept, dull-faced with horror, to glean the scraps from Caspian's butchery and feed the pot with every stray tidbit. Nothing could be wasted.

Silas swung a hammer half the day at a time, pounding rock salt into submission; he spent the remainder of his waking hours hauling wood, burning charcoal, distilling black naphtha - the crude oil that welled up from the mountain - to make white naphtha, which was lamp oil. Meanwhile Caspian worked in the butcher's house, and drove the women with curses and blows to glean after him. Kronos did the salting, and afterward wiped the sides of meat well, rubbed them with olive oil and vinegar, and hung them on the meat racks. Once this was done, neither worms nor moths would touch them. Methos worked beside him, more gaunt each day. Kronos forced him to work, and force-fed him too. And bound him again.

This time, Kronos had tied them together wrist to wrist. An arm's length of slack separated them, no more. He had used a leather rope lashed on wet, which drying drew so tight that it cut into their flesh and could not be unknotted.

They worked like slaves, ate like starving men, fell dreamless into sleep long after the dusk of each shortening autumn day. Caspian finished his butcher's work, Silas finished with the wood and salt; both of them joined with Methos and Kronos to complete the last of the salting. One of the mortal women went mad and refused to work, and they salted her, too. She had been Caspian's choice. Caspian glowered, and talked back to Kronos; Kronos gave Caspian the blunt side of his fist, knocked him bloody and made him eat every word, and then took Silas' woman and gave her to Caspian. That was fair enough, Silas thought. He couldn't stand the way Caspian behaved when he didn't have a woman.

Before the salting was done, the snow in the valley lay waist-deep. Against the lee side of the fort wall, it had drifted head-high. Then, like a reward from the gods, the weather turned pleasant; the skies turned a kindly eye on the four immortals. They spent a day doing a little extra chinking on the house, work so light by comparison that it was like play. Afterward, Kronos (with Methos, of course) took Silas and Caspian slogging through the fresh snowdrifts, down to the new-emptied village beyond the fort walls. They made the women come to fetch and carry; with the men breaking trail and the two women behind carrying cressets of fire on poles, it took perhaps half a morning to cross the short distance, no longer than four bowshots all told. But it was a change of work, welcome as a celebration. Personally, Silas wanted to see how the horses were faring.

The horses were nearby - grazing in the steppe meadows beneath the mountain eaves, where through the winter the blowing wind would strip the deep grass bare of snow. Canny beasts that they were, they came crowding round Silas, lipping at his fingers for treats; only the stallion belonging to Methos hung back. Silas fed them the sugary dates they loved, and roped a pair to lead back to the houses. The stallion snorted a warning from a safe distance, already claiming the herd for his own - geldings though they were, with never a mare among them. Though Silas spoke to him, he was too wild to approach. Such a horse could crunch a man's skull with a bite; such a horse, well mastered, could carry a warrior triumphantly through pitched battle.

That was surely what Kronos wanted from Methos. Silas remembered one such, a gelding trained like this stallion for war. He had bought it cheap, for though it had been a thing of beauty with a gait light as falling snow, it had savaged any man who approached it. After watching it kill two other riders, Silas had let it have a try at him; only, when he came into the pasture, he had a fresh-roasted haunch of pork hidden behind his back. The warhorse had snaked its head around to sink its teeth in, and he had jammed the scalding-hot meat down its throat.

The shock had left it tame as a lamb the rest of its life, with him and with him alone. No other man had ever ridden it. He still remembered it with love, though it had been dead for a hundred years. Silas thought of Kronos, patiently dealing with his own wild stallion. Presently the old one would try to bite, and Kronos would have something hot to jam down his throat.

By the time he got back to the village, half the afternoon was gone. Along the way, he cut four straight saplings and lopped the branches to make poles; they could rig a pair of sledges, and have the horses haul their baggage home. Silas tethered the horses to the door-post, and ducked into the little house, shrugging off his furs. The women had lit braziers, and it was warm. They were busy stripping the house of its stores and furnishings, while the men wandered around, not doing much but getting in their way. And Methos trailed after Kronos like a beaten hound, dull-eyed and gaunt. He still threw up most of what Kronos forced down his throat, Silas knew. But in time, he would know his master.

Kronos had just opened a pot, saying, "What's this?" The immortal girl snatched it away from him. "That's red Pontus honey! It's to put on your face. It was Phrygia's."

"Well, now it's yours, woman." He grinned at her. "I like a woman who breathes smoke. Such have fire in their bellies as well, and in their throats. You're not scared of me at all, are you?"

She pursed her lips. "My mother always said no woman of strength should ever fear a man's hand."

"And no woman of beauty should go in fear of men who want her. But she wasn't your real mother, was she?"

Miriam tossed her head. "I was raised by rich merchants. The wife bought me as a babe, to raise me up a pure bride for her darling son, her only boy. She wanted to train me herself, to be meek and biddable, a good housewife, an obedient daughter. Small good she'd have had of me! I turned out her mirror-image instead, she told me once. When I was stolen and sold, secretly I rejoiced. And now I'll live forever, won't I?"

"Maybe."

She looked Kronos boldly in the eyes. "After you killed the others, I was in despair. I slashed my wrists, and watched them heal. Then I knew: you let me live because I am like you."

"I let you live because you're my brother's woman."

"But I am like you four. I'll be young forever."

"A magic woman." Kronos slid a finger into his mouth, bit it bloody and then let her watch the wound heal, slyly licking the blood away; she blushed to her chin. "Your maidenhead renewed with every use, your waist never thickened with childbearing, your beauty unfading: you are such a woman as kings dream of. Enjoy it, for you will never be a wife."

She had gone pale. "Am I barren?"

"Barren as a salted field, woman. Strive to learn the arts of love, because you'll have to work to earn your keep! What is more worthless than a woman who cannot bear?"

The other woman muttered at her feet. "She is a witch-whore."

Kronos said, "The immortal woman's lot is hard. No mortal man wants a barren wife."

"You'll always be a second woman," Caspian agreed, leering. "And when they see you do not age, the other women will stone you away from their villages. Like this one." He pushed his woman, shoving her reeling across the room. Then he grabbed Miriam's arm, hard enough to bruise. "They'll call you a witch, and drive you forth."

Fearless, she gazed at him eye to eye, until he snorted and let go. She said, "I'll kill them if they try!"

"Learn to fight." Kronos looked her up and down. "Or disguise yourself as a boy. But that body of yours will never pass in a man's clothes."

She looked back, smiling; then she whisked away, back to her task. She gathered up a rabbitskin blanket, a dropped spindle, a bodkin and bone hooks for leatherwork. Tiny alabaster pots of cosmetics, once Phrygia's most prized possessions. And there was a good generous bundle of larch-splinters painted with pitch, such as northern households used for candles. "My weapons are other than a man's . . . I will be such a woman as kings dream of!"

She was a fierce one, Silas had to give her that. He remembered that she hadn't hesitated to eat mortal flesh.

The light was almost gone outside; they'd sleep here overnight, trek back to the fort come morning. Already Silas' woman was unwrapping cold meat. And the girl found two or three lamps, pottery bowls shaped like seashells; she whisked round filling them with salt. Methos was speaking, his voice low with disuse. "More likely to be dead and eaten by spring, Miriam."

"My master speaks," she said lightly. She stood a wick in each lamp-bowl, poured in the oil until the salt was saturated. Then she lit the wicks with a coal held in copper tongs.

"Brother." Kronos gathered up the cord that bound Methos to him, and tugged on it. "Don't doubt our loyalty, brother. We're all of one kind, immortals alike. Didn't the mortals themselves worship you as a god, there in that benighted city where I found you? Mortals are our cattle. Mere man - his days are numbered; whatever he may do, he is but wind."

Methos quoted the Sumerian maxims back. "Let him be burdened with the god's toil, that the gods may freely breathe. But we are not gods, Kronos, you said so yourself. And if we are, does it let us act worse than jackals? It is not - Kronos, there's no ma'at in it."

"You let mortals call you a god," Kronos pointed out. He was reeling the cord round his wrist, shortening it until the two of them stood eye to eye - just as Caspian had stood with the girl. Kronos reached up and rested his hand across one-half of the old one's face. "Ma'at, the balance of divine justice? Only a myth. There is no good or evil, brother. There is only survival."

"Will you teach me in these matters?" Methos spoke mildly. "I've survived many times your lifetime. Good and evil do indeed exist - real as the Game itself. But evil immortals and good immortals are constantly at war. They kill each other with a passion. Good men will hunt you down, Kronos. It's safer to belong to neither side."

"I'm not evil. I merely do what I am forced to. Mortals are our enemies."

"They are not. They are merely young - like children compared to us, Kronos. And what father eats his children?"

"Time swallows them whole." Kronos bared his teeth, throttling the cord between his fists. "As centuries pass, we grow distant from them, they become ever younger - like crickets singing in the grain, doomed to die in a season. While we live on until the end of time. Answer me honestly, brother - what did you feel, trapped among them, in your city of mortal worshippers?"

Methos looked down. "I felt . . . indifference. Boredom. Loneliness. But I'm not your brother."

"Talk, talk, talk. I swear you only want the old one around so you can debate philosophy." Caspian swaggered across the room. "Give me some of that meat, Kronos, I'm cold with hunger. It's wasted on your pretty boy here - he can't keep anything but fruit down. Hey, Methos?"

Silas followed, helping himself to something to eat. "Woman! What do we have to drink here?"

"If you think we carried your beer down on our backs, you'll go thirsty tonight." Miriam was already pouring out tea brewed over the brazier. She had toasted flatbread and warmed the dried meat, serving the one wrapped round the other. The result was hot enough to burn fingers, heartening and savory. Silas bolted his first helping in about six bites, and then snatched Caspian's out of his hand and crammed it into his mouth. They pushed one another, roaring with laughter. Her face severe, the girl was fetching more bread and meat, more boiling-hot tea. And meanwhile Kronos had shoved Methos down on one of the khans, grasping him firmly by the nape of the neck. He ripped a morsel of meat from his share, biting it off with his teeth and spitting it into his free hand.

He forced it into Methos' mouth, held his jaw shut and rubbed his throat. "Swallow, brother. If you don't, I'll chew it for you too . . . Silas, give me a hand here? Yes, like that."

With Silas behind Methos, holding him with one arm wrapped round his chest and arms and the other hand grasping his jaw, Kronos fed him two meat-rolls bit by bit. Silas craned round to watch them, amused by the sight. He watched the old one, who submitted with his customary show of calm, his face as serene as always . . . save that at every bite, he shuddered and drew back against Silas' chest. His body told the tale that his eyes refused to tell. It seemed that he had given up hope of fighting, but still his heart resisted, stubborn as a child's.

A glutton for punishment, that was what he was. But Kronos fed him cheerfully, cracking a joke or two and once breaking off to slap his face lightly and knuckle the crown of his head. And Caspian came to crouch before them, hands on knees, and offer advice.

"You know what our brother needs?" he said. "To cheer him up. He needs a good wash and a hair-combing. Look, he's shaggy as a wolverine."

"You're one to talk," Silas said. "You reek of the slaughterhouse, brother."

"That's good honest work."

"Bah. Work is for women, not warriors." Silas reached out and smeared a greasy finger along Caspian's unshaven cheek, marking him with war-paint. "A day in the bath-house is what we all need. Eh, Caspian?"

Caspian batted his hand aside. "Get off me!"

"Will you two ever stop?" asked Kronos, entertained.

But Caspian was looking at Methos, his eyes narrowed. "We all stink." He fetched one of dead Phrygia's cosmetics, dabbled in it with two fingers. The little pot was full of madder: red chalk. "Hold him still, brother. He'll be prettier still with your war-paint on his face, Kronos." He crouched down again, and began to paint.

Methos jerked sharply at his touch, tossing back his hair. "Devils take you!" said Caspian, annoyed; he struck the old one, grabbed at his chin. Next moment Methos had his head down, the long brown hair sweeping across his face, and his teeth fixed in Caspian's hand; his impassive eyes glared through the mask of hair. Caspian roared with fury at the pain, and ripped his hand free. Blood flung in droplets, across Methos and Silas. Caspian raised his other fist, and Methos doubled over in Silas' hold, and rammed forward headfirst. He went to one knee on the floor, hitting no one; Silas was flung forward as if over the shoulders of a bucking horse, face-first into Caspian.

Silas heard Caspian's nose crunch and break. He himself stumbled, catching himself with one hand, and then he sat down hard on the floor. Kronos had yanked Methos back to him by the tether, giving him a good shake as he did. The women hovered at a safe distance, aghast. There knelt Caspian, clawing at his face. There seemed to be more blood there than Silas expected to find. Blood of two colors: bright streaming red, dull powdery red. The dull red was madder, and it was in Caspian's eyes, streaking his hair, even his teeth.

Silas grabbed him just as he lunged, restraining him with a bearhug. Kronos' gaze met Silas'. Both of them choked at the same moment. Then, with one accord, they began to laugh.

"Time for sleep. Come morning I want to go through the other houses and see if there's anything worth taking. Snuff out those lamps, woman - and Caspian? Stop cursing. You'll sprain your tongue." Kronos pressed Methos back to lie stretched along the khan-bed, brushing stray hair out of his face. "It's been a long day. Rest, brother."

Methos caught his arm. Silas was close enough to hear his voice: "What do you want from me?"

"By and by you'll understand." Kronos' face was inscrutable in the dim light.

"You can let me go. You don't have to keep me tied up like this. Where would I escape to? The mountain trails are closed, I can't get away."

"No. As long as you're bound, your mind has an excuse for doing what your soul desires. Staying here. One of us. I will not let you free until you understand this. In time, you will serve me of your own free will."

"As your slave?"

"As my brother. You will be my right hand, Methos. My good sword and my shield, my dearest friend and brother."

Caspian was also listening. Silas glanced across at him, seeing murder written upon his face.

". . . in the north-east," said Kronos, "we lived openly among mortals. Every tribe had an immortal guardian, a war-leader invincible in battle. We were their gods! They competed to please us, brought us young immortals to teach. Immortal women traveled among them, working as sacred healers. Mortal women begged to be our wives."

Methos agreed, "In the north-west, mortals died by the dozens, raising the stone dances where immortals met to fight upon holy ground. In every forest, on every shore, the circles of standing stones assured us of safety. Every immortal must find and defend his holy ground. Only upon holy ground can we challenge one another without fear of dying."

The immortal girl murmured, "But why must you fight?"

"Our instincts are ancient - like the echoes of half-remembered songs. We have always fought one another."

"The quickening," Kronos said. "Better than strong wine, sweeter than lovemaking. No one who has tasted it can resist."

"We yearn after holy ground," said Methos, tranquil and slightly remote - as if he was dreaming of the past.

Steam wreathed the bath-house. Miriam poured dippers of water on the red-hot stones; her skin shone scarlet with heat. Sweat ran across her cheeks and her round determined chin. She had cut a bundle of thin whippy twigs, and now she flicked it languidly over each of her wet shoulders in turn. When she poured more water on the stones, the mounting steam made the air blur - as if her eyes had overflowed with tears. She drew in a deep breath, shuddering with heat. And from behind her came the sound of the men shifting, and Caspian's bellowing voice. "Stupid woman! This food is cold!"

They had made groats, a kind of porridge of coarsely crushed wild grains. Now the other woman, the mortal woman, hurried sniffling past the immortal girl. She held the rejected bowl stiffly; a day earlier, Caspian had beaten her, breaking several of the small bones in her hand. Most of the groats appeared now to be drying in a crust across her shoulder and hair. She made haste to serve a fresh bowl hot from the pot, and then slunk behind the water baskets to wash.

Silas lay in the hot pool, hairy arms crossed along the edge; a rainbow slick shimmered across the surface of the water. Miriam fetched him beer, the heavy jug cradled expertly on her hip as she bent to pour into his cup. Then she went back to ladling water. In the far corners of the bath-house, hoarfrost grew on the walls; here by the stones was the best place . . . for the woman's lot was not always sorrowful. Hers was the warm midst of the bed in winter - the seat closest to the fire, to the soup-pot, to the beer-jug. Home and hearth were hers, while men died in the forest and upon the field of war. She had all that was good in life . . . everything except honor.

Indeed, a bold and canny woman need never fear the hands of her man. Her foster mother, small as a peat hen in a moss nest, had ruled the roost over her big black-bearded brute of a husband. From her, she had learned every way in which a woman could command a man.

"What happened in the north?" she asked now.

Silas spat. "We lived openly among mortals, girl. In our folly and pride. Until we let them discover how we died."

"Within a year," said Kronos, "every immortal in the north was beheaded. They came for us in gangs, slaughtered us on holy ground. Mice swarming to pull down lions. And now - now the Scythians behead their foes on the battlefield; the Sarmatians will not let their young women marry without bringing a head for dowry; the Anatolians hang severed heads upon their city walls. Everywhere, the custom spreads. Behead the defeated. Behead captives. Behead criminals." He raised a fist, gesturing. "Do not count a downed foe dead . . . until you have taken his head."

"Woman - you, there! Bring me something to wash out the taste of this garbage!"

The mortal woman scurried past.

Miriam pushed her long hair off her face. Every curling lovelock dripped water. She sauntered across to Methos, knowing that the other men watched her every step. "A wise magi was our guest once. He taught that of all diamonds, of all gold, there was one true diamond which was the one true gold; merely the shavings of its chips gave the gift of immortality. He turned lead to gold in the fire for my master and mistress. Is that what you did to me?"

"The stone of immortality," Methos agreed. "It's a mortal legend, child. Nothing to do with us."

"How long may an immortal live?"

Her man sat cross-legged, proper as an Egyptian temple scribe: a board upon his knees, a kidskin unrolled upon the board, a horsehair brush in his hand. He wrote left-handed, for his right wrist was bound to Kronos' wrist. He said, "My first teacher was very old. He remembered when the isle of Albion was one with the mainland, and the river Thames was a tributary of the Danube. His teachers told him of hunting great elephants all covered with wool, such as live nowadays only underground." Methos stopped to grin. "Where mortals dared to hunt the elephant only in packs, brave immortals faced them alone, slaughtering them with axes. They drove them to the ends of the earth, and the elephants burrowed underground to survive, never to this day showing their snouts again. Only in the north, they dig their way to the surface to die. It's a true story; I've seen it."

"I've killed elephants one-handed," Caspian boasted. "With my sword. Woman! What addles you? This beer is too warm!"

"What are you writing?" she asked. "Can I learn?"

"Woman, get over here! Methos, don't you ever shut your woman up? Women are too stupid to learn anything."

Methos set his brush down, leaned forward and fixed Caspian with a glance. "Naturally you know how to read and write," he remarked.

Caspian bristled. "Of course I can write! Do I need to know how to read too?"

Kronos bent over, laughing deep in his throat till his voice broke and he pounded one fist against the floor. Caspian looked at him in bewilderment and dawning anger; then he dashed his beer to the floor, smashing the pottery cup, and went storming across the room. "Woman! Curse it, where is that woman?"

The mortal woman was cowering behind the water baskets. Caspian dragged her out, hit her a time or two, and threw her down across the smear of spilled beer. "Cold food and hot beer." He kicked her; she collapsed and lay weeping, her hair strewn wide. "Stupid bitch of a mortal. I'll teach you to tell warm from cold!" He yanked her up by one arm, bundled her to the door, and thrust her outside - wet, half-clad, and begging - into the winter wind.

Days passed.

When they pulled on their furs and tramped back to the round beehive house, they found the mortal woman there, shivering next to the brazier. And Caspian, growling, dragged her outside by the hair, and slammed the door on her.

Next morning, she was up in the bath-house again, but she ran away when Caspian and Silas approached. She was a hardy northern woman, but she could not go far: she had no snowshoes, no furs, nowhere to go. She went down to the storage house, gathering brush and deadwood along the way, and she must have kindled a fire indoors and then stolen some of the salted meat . . . for later they found the rooms full of smoke, and the remains of a rude meal. But by the time they went hunting for her there, she had already moved on.

The horsemen followed her trail beyond the fort wall, to the abandoned houses of the village; Caspian insisted on it. They flushed her out of the third house they visited, and almost caught her. Then they drove her, floundering in the snow, into the forest.

And days passed.

When he became bored, Caspian went after her again. He tracked her in the wood, and found the sorry hut she had fashioned from pine boughs. She had snared rabbits for food, and brewed pine-needle tea in a hollow stone. Caspian lay in wait patiently, and though she must have sensed he was there, her wits were dulled by cold and eventually she came within his reach.

This time (Caspian boasted afterward, back in their snug house) to teach her a lesson, he smashed up her hut and slapped her around a bit. He described in detail what else he did while he was there. He also gave her a good kick in the leg, to keep her in her place, he said.

He broke her ankle.

Three days went by, before he grew frustrated with looking at a girl he couldn't have, and went back to get his own woman.

She had died where he had left her, too starved and feeble to find shelter. What was left, Caspian remarked, was mere bones too scrawny even for soup. "But now the only woman we have left," he complained, pointing, "is that fishwife with her haughty look. Is this what I deserve?"

"Caspian, you deserve a sword through the throat," Silas rumbled. "What, did you think she would become one of us?"

"If she did," Kronos remarked, "you'd only take her head anyway. So why are you whining now?"

"Easy for you to say!" A mutter: "You've got what you want."

Kronos had been sitting on the straw bed-pallet, which he shared with Methos and also with Methos' woman. It was long after the end of the short winter day; the wind howled outside the windowless house; the lamplight danced on the walls. The beehive house was perhaps fifteen steps from side to side - warm and close, from the five of them pent up indoors. In this house, cheek to jowl, they would spend months together. Kronos had set one of the lamps at his knee, and was reading a roll of kidskin parchment, which he had taken away from Methos.

Now he said merely, "Yes. I do. Why don't you just shut up and live with what you have, Caspian?" He yawned, rubbed at his unshaven jaw. "Is that stew ready, woman? Curse it, I'm going to hate salt meat by the time spring comes. You'd better have something else to eat with it."

"I made flatbread."

"And boiled apples," said Silas, sniffing. "Is that mint tea?"

She served them, deftly avoiding Caspian's grab at her waist as she danced by. Kronos grinned across at her, and said something into Methos' ear. Then he gathered the tether tight, winding it round his arm, and closed his hand around the old one's wrist. "Time to eat, brother."

Methos spoke in a whisper. The immortal girl halted at the brazier and glanced over, caught by the unexpected tone of strain in her man's voice.

"What?" said Kronos. "Louder."

"I don't want to eat this," said Methos, not much louder. "Kronos, let me eat the bread instead."

"Brother, you'll eat what I give you. And like it."

"No." He drew back, turning his face away. "Please. No more."

Kronos stopped, as the girl had. He grasped Methos by the chin and looked intently into his face; Methos shut his eyes. "No, I don't think so," said Kronos. "Open your mouth. Now, Methos!"

"Oh, just give him the bread and be done with it." Caspian crowded close on the other side of Methos, pinning him from behind. "There there, that's better," he mocked. "Feed him now, Kronos. Feed your baby brother."

Methos jerked, almost breaking free. Silas started to laugh, for Caspian had just wrapped one arm around Methos' forehead and, bending, fastened his teeth in the other man's ear. "Hold still, brother," said Kronos. "He'll bite your ear off if you heave like that--"

"Damn!" said Caspian indistinctly. "It's like trying to hold onto a fish with your teeth." He made a fist and drove it into the side of Methos' belly.

"Don't do that again," Kronos warned. Nevertheless he took advantage of the moment to stuff an entire piece of meat into his prisoner's open mouth. "Stop fighting, Methos. Stop it. Stop."

"I think one more good punch and he'll throw it all up over you again, Kronos. I think he wants you to chew it for him. Think he likes the taste of a man's spit." Caspian reached around and rubbed Methos' stomach. "Want it rough, do you, old one?"

"Stop that." Kronos was really angry now. He shoved Caspian bodily away, getting between him and Methos when Caspian would have come circling back into reach. "Caspian. Go play with yourself, would you? You're not helping here."

"I was just joking."

"Shut up. Shush, Methos. It's all right now . . . think you can manage a few more bites? You know you have to eat. It's not fun, dying of starvation."

Caspian sneered.

But Methos pulled away from Kronos. He was really fighting now, his jaw clamped shut and his head tucked low, his face turned away in determination. It made Caspian laugh out loud. Kronos uttered a curse and tried to pin Methos against the pallet. "Damn you, I need three arms--"

"Too much for you, is he?" Caspian joined in again, grabbing at Methos' arms while Kronos wrestled his head around from behind. Methos said nothing. He merely wrenched his arms up and his body back. And Caspian went flying, to land on his back (his mouth open in disbelief) halfway across the small room.

He lay there, winded. The three-legged bronze brazier teetered above him, overbalanced, and fell. A rain of hot charcoal and boiling tea splattered him from head to foot.

The girl, standing over him, clapped both hands across her mouth. Silas fell back on his own pallet, and let out a roar of joy that pulled his belly muscles. Caspian roared too. He rolled over, shedding glowing coals, with his sleeve on fire; then he had pulled his knife, and lunged across at Methos.

They went head over heels, in a tumble of feet. Kronos was left sitting, gaping in disbelief at the cord round his wrist; this now hung limp, the end slashed through. There was smouldering charcoal everywhere and Miriam was running around, kicking bits of it off the furs heaped on the floor before the whole house was set afire; moreover, a jar of oil had smashed and soaked Kronos' pallet. If a spark touched it, the straw would kindle as if from levin-fire. Silas couldn't stop laughing. But the fight was over almost as suddenly as it had begun: with Caspian doubling over around the broad bronze knife buried in his stomach, and Methos scrambling to his feet. His hair was on fire.

He was wearing a long shirt woven from strips of the softest rabbit-pelt. Not only his hair, but the entire front of this was now burning. Methos turned and dragged the shirt over his head, and flung it down across the pallet. Then he jerked the knife out of Caspian's belly. As fire exploded from the oil-soaked straw, Methos bounded at Kronos, sinking the blade into Kronos' chest. He was out of the house-door before Silas was quite able to take it all in.

The door slammed shut. Silas took two steps and slammed it open again: wind and wet snow whirled into the little house. Flames raced across the thick rough bearskins that Miriam had tried to save, but the weather would help her douse them. A hard storm was setting in, from the looks of it.

It had all been deliberate; Methos had started the fight, jerked his tether across the knife-blade's path, butted his head against Caspian's sleeve. Silas let the door stand open while he bundled up the furs, turning them over and slapping them down upon the burning bed. The girl helped him. By the time they had the fires out, they were both shivering with cold, and Caspian and Kronos was stirring.

But Methos wouldn't get far.

Silas, shutting the door, took consolation in that thought. He picked Kronos off the bare stones of the floor, and pointed wordlessly at the doorway. Kronos said through gritted teeth, "The storm will cover his tracks. We'll split up and search."

"He planned this," Caspian growled. "Silas, you and I are going to play kickball with his head, yes?"

"No, you won't!" Kronos turned and slammed his fist against the side of Caspian's skull, knocking him flat. "And if you do, brother, you'd better start running and don't stop, because I'll be coming after you. Nor will you lay a finger on the woman, if you get back home before us. Is that clear?"

Caspian picked himself up, avoiding Kronos' eye. He said nothing.

"Silas, what about you?"

"He's barefoot," Silas said.

"And half-naked. Yes." Kronos shrugged on his coat, and hefted his sword. "May be hard to find."

Silas looked glumly at the wreckage around him. "You'll have to kill him, if you can't tame him."

"You like him, don't you?"

"Yes," said Silas. "Take care, brother."

They parted beyond the door, going three different ways. As for Methos' girl, they left her to clean up the mess. Silas plodded stolidly through the whirling windy snow; you couldn't see your hand before your face. A fine white night it was. An empty stomach, a wet bed plastered with soot, a cold and half-ruined house. Which way would Methos run?

All this was planned, and yet his new brother was not desperate to leave; if he were, he'd have tried to run weeks ago. Actually Silas suspected that if Methos were to run, he'd take the girl with him. Methos liked the girl; Methos liked him, Silas; as likely as not, Methos could handle Caspian in his sleep. The clever old ones like Methos were prone to jump every which way for the daftest reasons. What had been his reason for this?

Silas knew he wasn't quick-witted, like Kronos or Methos, but he hadn't lived for centuries without learning the one lesson that always seemed to escape mortals: that the kiss of friendship won more wars than any sword ever had. It was a hard lonely world, for immortals even more than for mortals; especially for immortals, who lived in the bitter climate of the Game. Give someone love and loyalty long enough, and that love and loyalty would be returned. Silas knew this well, and Kronos did too. What else had bound Silas to Kronos, long ago in the beginning?

So what did Methos dislike?

Silas swerved and turned his face briefly upward into the storm, getting his bearings. Then he began to plough his way toward the storage house.

He knew he was close by it, when he smelt the stink of burning meat. Silas plunged out of the swirling snow into a brief moment of calm. Above him the fieldstone wall of the storehouse loomed. Its wooden roof, which Silas and Caspian had earlier repaired, was a ruin of fire. Light showed dancing in all the little chinks in the walls, where moss had been stuffed for insulation. But the door still held. Silas muffled his coat over his head, and kicked the door in.

The blast of flame half-blinded him.

He retreated, his beard smouldering. There had been three barrels of white naphtha in the storehouse. Two barrels of dates, one of dried apples, one of excellent dried southern beans. Olive oil and grain and spices. And of course, all the good meat they had worked to salt away had been there, safe and sound. All gone. Silas tilted his head, feeling a music now within his inner ear . . . like the song in a seashell, like a chorus of voices. He spoke loudly: "Brother? It's me."

Methos came shyly forward through the veils of snow. The burns on his face were healed now, naturally; still, his hair was half burned away. He had fresh abrasions on his hands, and a graze or two across his cheekbone, a bruise on his lower lip. He was wearing Caspian's coat, and Caspian's good fur boots.

Silas looked at him in alarm, and then relaxed: he could now feel a third presence. "You didn't take his head?"

Even as he watched, the slight marks were fading. Methos said, "I only taught him that I am a man."

"Huh. Doubt the lesson will sink in for long. Caspian's always had a hard skull." Silas silently passed over the other coat and boots he had brought along. Methos pulled the coat around him, over top of Caspian's. As for Caspian's boots, he pitched them into the burning storehouse. He looked around at Silas afterward and grinned, and Silas found himself grinning back. Then they sat together on a boulder, and watched the fire.

"Why'd you do that? Kronos will be furious."

"It had to be done," said Methos.

"You're not going to try to run now."

"Nowhere to go. And . . . he'd hunt me, wouldn't he?"

"We all would. Kronos doesn't let go of what he's got." Silas stole a curious look at the other immortal. "You don't like him?"

"I . . . He's not my brother!"

"You won't fight him, though."

But Methos only shivered.

They both felt it at the same moment. Evidently Kronos had followed the same line of thought as Caspian had, and Silas himself. He would certainly be angry. Perhaps very angry. As if by instinct, Silas and Methos drew closer. Soon enough, a shape appeared looming out of the white wall of snow: wild hair whipping in the wind, a bearskin over his shoulders. Kronos halted, head tilting.

He sensed the presence of Caspian, saw the coat Methos still wore, and his lip quirked for an instant in humor and pride. He glanced at the burning storehouse, unsurprised.

Lastly he gazed at Methos and Silas. Methos half-rose to back away, nervous, and Silas put one hand lightly on his arm, holding him in place. Kronos took all this in.

Slowly, his face changed.

Part Three

" Bare is back without brother."

While the storm raged, Miriam picked up and cleaned. She aired out the little house until her teeth chattered; as the door stood open, she pitched the burnt straw outside, and ploughed through the snowdrifts to cut juniper boughs with her little sickle knife. These she heaped into a new bed, and made it up with the felt blankets and the soft beaver pelts. Then she shut the door and huddled by the brazier until the house warmed up. She made fresh tea, and boiled some meat for the men, who would certainly be hungry when they came in. She drank a cup of tea. She drank another cup.

She sat, now, fussing with her woman's weapons. These were the cosmetics which had been dead Phrygia's, and which now were hers. The merchants who had raised her had been wealthy, yet she had never had such cosmetics - such expensive and lavish weapons. There was lomenum and halyconea, and krino-lily unguent, and unguenta exotica, scented of roses, so sweet that when she opened the tiny alabaster pot the whole house was perfumed. Such fragrances were as precious as frankincense. And there was minium and galena, stibnite and good date-kernel soot. Iris-perfume and sweet-flag perfume and quince-perfume. A copper box drifted full of parapasta, dusting-powders aglitter with a sparkle of real gold. A bag of the barbarous wood-paste with which northern women plastered their bodies, imparting upon removal a sweet odor and a glossy skin. And of course the Pontus honey, famous for improving the complexion. Evidently Phrygia had prized her smooth red cheeks.

These treasures scattered around her, she sat day-dreaming. She schemed up ways to escape the horsemen, imagined rescues and daring plans. All her life she had lived among ordinary things . . . and now she was dead. Dead and reborn. Surrounded by legends, imprisoned by supernatural creatures. These immortal men, young-faced yet older than the oldest grandfather, who spoke of magic as if it was beer and bread. They were the monsters from fireside stories, like mythic demons more than men: the ogre, the ghoul, the berserker! (And Methos . . .) Such a story begged for a happy ending, with the gods pleased, lovers united, and the impious punished.

The wicked immortals had enchanted her too. She was a magic woman now. What would her own story be?

Her head nodded drowsily. Then the door crashed open.

Kronos shoved Methos reeling over the threshold, stormed in after him - wide as the door, wild as a savage beast. His black bearskin streamed from his shoulders, his dark hair was shaggy and snow-filled as a bear's. He was shouting. Miriam shot up from the pallet and fled his path, and he pounced, hauling her back by the hair; she screamed and tears started to her eyes. Kronos shoved her at Methos. "Look at this fine woman! Look at this woman I gave you! Wasn't she enough? What hasn't she got, that you weren't satisfied!"

She crouched on the floor, weeping with pain and fear. Caspian and Silas were slinking in through the doorway, and Kronos shouted at them too. "Shut that door, fools! Do you want the house frozen as well as foodless? Get in here and shut the door. You too, Silas. I'm not finished with you!"

Silas was stammering protests, apologies, incoherent fragments of excuses. There was fresh blood all over his face. Caspian was yelling at the top of his lungs. Miriam found herself shrieking, "There's meat boiled for you! There's tea and hot meat!" Only Methos was silent. He stood staring at Kronos, and on his normally tranquil face were stark emotions: disdain and distaste and disgust.

Kronos saw this, and his own face became storm-black. He drew in breath and shouted, "All of you shut up!"

They shut up.

He fisted one hand in Methos' bedraggled hair, dragged the other immortal nearer. "Time to settle this. You're coming with me, dear brother." A look sideways, calculating: at Caspian, at the girl, back to Caspian and finally at Silas; Silas mumbled something, seemed to shrink away. "The woman comes along. I don't trust you with her, Caspian. As for you . . . as for you, Silas . . ."

Silas looked elsewhere.

"Kill the horses," Kronos ordered. "All the horses. We need the meat. Every last one, brother. And don't you let Caspian do it for you, either. Do it yourself. Got that?"

Silas whispered, "Yes, brother."

"Caspian, make sure he does it. Woman, we're going. Gather our things."

She ran to obey.

Kronos dragged the two of them out of the door. Miriam's last sight was of Silas' downcast face, Caspian's furious scowl. Then she was fighting her way through the blizzard, stumbling to keep up with the men; she didn't like to think of what would become of her, if she lost sight of the men. Once she did lag behind, slowed down by the heavy bag she carried, and panicked when she found herself alone in a world of blowing snow. Then her ears rang and Kronos appeared out of the white wall of the storm. She exclaimed in relief, at which he cursed and struck her full in the face; while she was still wavering dizzily at the blow, he took her arm and began to tow her along.

Methos was walking ahead of them, barely visible save as a bowed head, a slump-shouldered back. The prints of his boots filled in almost as fast as he made them. They were going up-valley. Into that part of Kronos' valley where she had been forbidden to go.

A thrill ran through the nerves. A song sang in her mind. A shiver went over her skin. She hurried forward and hissed at Methos. "What is this place!"

"This is holy ground."

Snowy hummocks rose on either side of them, amidst stark boulders incised with deep spiral markings. The snow here was deep, and the wind had packed it like sand; in the snowshoes they had tied on before they left the house, they walked upon it as if upon a road. As they went further, the storm died around them. The air calmed and vast starry skies opened overhead. And there was a moon, gleaming white as death. The full moon had come again.

She saw the two men halt and look up with one accord, sharing some thought. But they said nothing. Kronos swerved and headed for one hummock, far to their right, in whose shattered side could be seen a black crevice. Methos followed. They vanished inside, and she hurried to follow.

She walked into a tomb.

It was a barrow-mound. Once a chieftain had been buried here, his household goods around him, and the mound walled with logs had been built to shelter them and then heaped over with earth, deep as a grave. Similar barrows around the main tomb would house the dead man's riding-horses, slaughtered and buried with their saddles and finery - for the northern horsemen did not travel afoot, even into the country of the dead. Now, though, the interior of the barrow was deep with ice. A floor of crystalline ice had formed across it, slanting upward toward the far wall, and the artefacts frozen within this were clearly visible. A series of secondary ice layers, dirty yellow, had formed across part of this - obviously stemming from the broken hole through which they had gained entrance. In the center of the burial chamber, slightly raised by ice heave, was a coffin hewn from a single tree-trunk. Its lid had been knocked askew, and black shadows peered out of the crack.

Kronos had just struck a light. Grinning, he lifted a pine splinter from the tumble of burial goods, lit it and held it high. "A pretty house, mm, girl?" He kicked the coffin, jarring the lid further off. "Take a good look. This is the true home of all mortal men, their journey's end and their resting place. These kurgans. These graves."

"You desecrated it," said Methos.

"And a fine profit of gold I got for my labors! Well worth the digging. The best sword I ever had, I found in here. A good joke too, that we immortals should sit comfortable in a tomb." He turned slowly, letting the torchlight finger over every corner and crevice of the barrow. "Light a fire, girl. Heap together whatever will burn, and make tea. I'm cold clear through." He hunted through the rubbish scattered across the ice while she did this. When the fire was well kindled, he hauled across a tripod and cauldron, and began to break ice up and drop it into the cauldron to melt. Methos helped him, his face without expression. Miriam, not daring to comment, tended the fire and watched out of the corner of her eye; both of them seemed sure of what they were about. At Kronos' command, she heated stones in the fire and began dropping them into the cauldron, which was by now half-full of water.

The burial chamber filled with steam and smoke. Kronos pulled a leather pouch out of his furs, and tossed it to her. "Sprinkle these over the stones."

There were hemp seeds in the pouch. She strewed them; the fumes of the drug mounted high, reeking. Her eyes watered, her nose stung, her head swam. So she did what she thought best, and served the men tea with honey.

They drank, sitting cross-legged, facing one another. They stared into each other's eyes. Neither man spoke.

Kronos had brought a bundle, strapping it across his back. Now he unbound it, rolling out the wrapped hides bound with cords; within were two naked swords. He laid his blade across his knees, and Methos leant forward and took the other.

As if in a dream, Kronos imagined that they spoke . . . heart to heart, unable to utter a lie.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you for my brother," Kronos demanded. "You're one of us, Methos. I knew it was your destiny. From the first instant I saw you, we both knew it!"

But Methos was on his feet, the sword slashing down. "I am not your brother!"

Kronos sprang back. His sword swept up by instinct.

The blades met.

"What do you need from me?" Methos cried. "I'm not like you! I'm not one of you!"

"You're just the same as me!" Kronos taunted him. "If you were a good man, you'd have fought much harder. You would never have given in!"

"I never gave in! Never!"

They fought as if under water. Distantly, slowly, Kronos watched the swords swoop and veer; bell-stroke upon bell-stroke sounded where metal clashed with metal. It was as elegant as a dance with music. He beat Methos' blade down, putting his full weight into each blow, taking pleasure when the slighter man was forced back. He wanted to see Methos in pain, Methos in despair and fear; he wanted to feel weakness and weariness in his opponent's arm, transmitted through the crash of their swords. He wanted to see Methos give way, to see Methos humbled into submission.

"You belong with me. You belong with me." He was chanting the words now; he threw back his head and laughed, tasting victory. "You belong with me. Acknowledge it!"

"I am the water." The whisper of Methos' voice barely carried. "Who can hold the water in his grasp?"

(In the real world, they sat with dreaming faces in a tomb.)

In the vision they fought, and the sword shattered in Kronos' hold.

(And the immortal girl stooped and pried the blade out of his hand.)

He cried out with the surprise of defeat. His sword came apart in pieces, wavered like a mirage, was gone. Methos lunged, his blade slashing down.

It was a bronze sword. It was a flint knife tined onto a haft of bone. It was a shaft of lightning. And Kronos screamed as the edge sliced along his throat.

"You can't hold me!" The words were a shriek, like a storm at sea.

(He shuddered and fell forward, clutching at nothing.)

His own blade was broken. His blade was smoke. No. His sword was intact, iron hardened in charcoal. His sword was iron, iron. Kronos brought his sword up and around, parrying the blow at his throat. He called, "Your sword is water!"

"You can't keep me!"

"Your blows are water, Methos!"

"You can't have me!"

"Not unless you desire it." Kronos let his sword drop, stood defenseless with lifted chin. He whispered, "Reflect me like water."

Methos faltered. Then his face lengthened in a snarl of hate, and he made the beheading stroke.

(She had given them poisoned honey in their tea: the red Pontus honey, which drove men raving to their deaths. How else could she escape?)

From somewhere outside himself, Kronos imagined his own death. He looked down upon his body as it slumped to its knees, headless; it did not bleed; only the first lightnings of the quickening gouted from it, blazing across the interior of the tomb. The quickening laced through the air, dancing with the shadows. Simultaneously, every artefact in the barrow lit with foxfire. Fingers of lightning exploded into the fire, arced and played over Methos. Methos shouted, and the wild quickening leaped from his flesh into Kronos.

The headless body lay between them.

The quickening steadied, thickened, became a spiral of blue light along which random sparkles of electricity played. It poured like water from Methos into Kronos. As fire eats water, Kronos drank it in.

(And the immortal girl gripped the sword in both fists. Her arms trembling, her wrists twisting with the weight, she poised the blade for the downward stroke.)

In the vision, Kronos imagined that strength and knowledge poured into him through Methos' quickening. He devoured the older immortal's soul, until he saw Methos lurch down to his knees like a horse under the priest's poleaxe, tossing back his brown mane with a cry of anguish. And Kronos found this beautiful.

It seemed to last beyond the end of time.

Kronos bent over Methos, drinking in the last dying flickers of Methos' spirit. Then he spoke slowly, smiling. "But I want you to know that I am your brother. And if you love any woman over us, if you choose any friend before us, then Methos, they will die. As that woman died. Just as she died, remember that? Remember it always, Methos. Because I swear to you that I will kill them, whoever they are, and feed them raw to you, brother. Until the end of time."

Methos stared at him in glazed agony, speechless as a sacrificial animal. Kronos reached out without hurry and cupped his hand against the side of his brother's face, drawing his fingers along the strong curves and angles of cheekbone and jaw. "Forever, my brother." And Methos swallowed and bowed his head, shutting his eyes.

(The blade fell, as if of its own weight.)

Kronos opened his eyes upon the tomb.

Pain stabbed through his belly. He was on fire. She stood over him. The sword swung down.

Methos shouted. He lunged forward, knocking her arm aside.

Miriam stumbled back, the weapon jarred out of her numb hands. A mew of anguish rose in her throat. Kronos clutched at her, but slowly, slowly as if drunk or dazed; he growled with rage as she shied away, but he stumbled and fell to one knee, her dress shredding out of his hold. She darted out of his reach, fell over the grave-goods evading him. In an instant she was out of the barrow, vanished into the clear calm night.

He collapsed to the ice, retching. "Bitch! What did she do to us!"

Methos helped him up, turning to look out the broken wall of the tomb. Without thinking, he stood close to Kronos, a hand under Kronos' elbow until the younger immortal had somewhat recovered. "The honey in the tea," he whispered. "Mortals die of it."

"I'll peel her skin off and make soup out of her brain before I take the head--"

"No, don't."

Kronos blinked. He looked Methos in the eye, slowly moving closer; and Methos looked down, his shoulders hunching. So he touched Methos, and watched Methos flinch. "Brother. You saved my life."

"We're on holy ground," Methos said, hushed and hesitant.

"That wasn't the reason. Was it?"

"Kronos, let her go. If you owe me a life, let hers be the one."

"You love her?"

"No!"

"Are you asking me for her life?" Now, finally, Kronos began to smile. "Then tell me that she means nothing, Methos."

"She means nothing. Less than nothing."

"Yes. She was worthless trash. Only your brothers deserve your loyalty. Say it!"

"Only my brothers. Yes, Kronos. But let her escape!"

"Yes," said Kronos, purring; he stroked Methos' hair, and Methos submitted. "And you may fall in love with women, brother. Women like her, from time to time. But you will remember, old one: in the long run, women mean nothing. I'll remind you of it, if need be. For only your brothers are with you forever."

"Yes, brother," said Methos, his eyes lowered.

Some women are strong honey, and some merely poison.

She escaped across the wilderness, and she must have died a dozen times - from cold and from exhaustion - before she found a village that would take her in. But she survived, and she lived long and grew wise in strange ways; she took heads and taught students, and in time she, too, became a legend . . . for such is the fate of all old immortals. She knew many magicks. She lived with grace, and finally died for love.

Men called her Miriam the Jewess, the mother of alchemy.

Later, her students knew her as Rebecca.

As for the Four Horsemen, they rode north into the steppes of Russia. That was on or about the year 1800 BCE. Barely a generation later, the great wave of Indo-European migrations began to stream into Europe.

Note: Miriam the Jewess, the apocryphal sister of Moses, is among those credited with the origins of alchemy; the item of lab equipment still known as the bain-marie was named after her. The philosopher's stone, which alchemists sought, not only transformed base metals into gold but conferred eternal youth and health upon its possessor. The parallels between Miriam and the philosopher's stone and Rebecca and the Methuselah Stone are too blatant to ignore.

Trivia You Never Thought Of: once or twice a century, frozen mammoth carcases heave out of the Siberian permafrost. Their meat is edible and their ivory intact, apparently. The Chinese name for them is fyn shu or "self-concealing mouse" and the phenomenon gave rise to local legends that the interior of the earth was inhabited by gigantic animals - dark brown and emitting a great stench - which moved about with ease underground, but died the instant they saw the light of day.

Honey from the Black Sea area is historically famous for its ability to lay men flat, retching and heaving. Xenophon mentioned it, as did Pliny and Strabo - these gentlemen being early scholars of natural history. Three maniples of Xenophon's army were laid low by their indulgence in the local honey, and some died of it. Its qualities may be linked to the local rhododendron species, whose flowers contain a poison called andromedotoxin; Pliny however attributes the problem to a plant called aegolethron or goat-destroyer - and if not that, then oleander blossoms were his favorite suspect. He did write that nothing was better for improving the skins of women than this red Pontus honey. Yes, I am a nonfiction junkie. I just like to read, that's all.

The Indo-Europeans were a culture of mounted nomads originating in the steppes of Russia. During the pre-Classical period they invaded and conquered Europe and India, fathering the Indo-European language family which is now almost their only surviving relict. They invaded in successive waves, the greatest of which occurred on or about 1750-1550 and the second greatest around 1500-900 BCE, and featured the ancestors of the Hittites, the Greeks, the Romans, the Celts, the Persians, the Scythians, the Germans and, well, just about the whole western world excepting the Semitic peoples. Little is known about their parent culture (the proto-Indo-Europeans, a terminally clumsy term if ever I met one) - not even its identity. Nothing at all is known of the reason they fled their homeland. But all true Highlander fans will believe that they were trying to get away from the Four Horsemen.

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