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way.
    Imoshen faltered. Was the shedding of blood the only way to resolve ideological conflict? It seemed threat and might were the only things the Ghebites respected.
    ‘Crawen,’ Imoshen greeted them. ‘Jacolm, Harholfe. The General and I wish to stage a tourney.’ She caught Tulkhan’s eye as he joined her.
    He cloaked his surprise and, with a gleam of annoyed amusement, folded his arms and leant against the wall.
    She realised he had abandoned her to sink or swim. She plunged on. ‘When the Age of Tribulation ended, our people kept their martial skills alive with competition and display. I propose the stronghold guard stage a martial display of T’Enchu and T’En swordsmanship on the spring fairground east of town.’ Imoshen turned to Tulkhan. ‘Would your men like to stage a display of their own?’
    He straightened. ‘When?’
    Imoshen glanced from the belligerent Ghebites to her beleaguered guard. ‘Would this afternoon be too soon?’

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
     
    A S THE TWO columns of Ghebite horsemen circled the field, Imoshen marvelled at their precision, born of discipline and relentless training.
    Spellbound, the silent crowd watched the Ghebites’ horses pound over the ground, kicking clods of snow and dirt high in the air. Taking up position opposite the painted-hide target, the two columns paused, one to Imoshen’s right, the other to her left.
    On the far side of the field, parents hurriedly herded children to safety, and there was a moment of hushed expectation. Uttering the eerie Ghebite battle cry, the first archer urged his horse to a gallop, charging diagonally at the target.
    Before he had even let his arrow fly, the opposite rider surged forward. Standing in their stirrups, both archers approached the target. One mistake and the riders would collide, going down beneath sharp hooves.
    First one, then the other, let his arrows fly, alternating like a rug-maker’s threads, weaving a craft of whistling death. The bolts flew true, striking the centre of the target. No wonder the Ghebites had swept all opposition before them.
    Their display finished, the Ghebite cavalry made a triumphant circuit of the field. As the people of Fair Isle cheered their conquerors, Imoshen repressed a bitter smile. Even though she had been the one to suggest the tourney, the crowd’s response rankled.
    The mounted men wheeled and saluted the far side of the field as their general appeared on his black destrier. Imoshen caught her breath.
    Tulkhan wore no armour, nothing but boots and breeches. His long black hair hung free around his broad shoulders and he rode as one with his horse. To Imoshen he was the physical embodiment of his ancient Ghebite heritage, of those fiercely loyal tribesmen of the harsh plains who counted their wealth in horses.
    A buzz of speculation spread through the crowd. Tulkhan circled the field at full gallop, then stood in the stirrups. Without warning he leapt to the ground, running beside the flashing hooves of his horse, hands on the saddle pommel. The crowd gasped. Imoshen glanced to the cavalry, who watched their general proudly, and she understood he was repeating the deeds of his ancestors, men who rode bareback as boys, men who worshipped bravery and skill. With a leap, Tulkhan regained his seat, rising to stand on the horse’s back. Arms extended, knees flexed, he balanced above his galloping mount.
    When Tulkhan finally dropped into the saddle, Imoshen let out her breath. He pulled his mount short, walking it backwards. With a flourish he urged the horse to rear. It danced on its hind legs to everyone’s applause. Tulkhan’s teeth flashed white against his coppery skin, triggering a need deep inside her.
    Imoshen smiled. The General claimed to hate pomp and ceremony, but the barbarian in him clearly loved this kind of display.
    A servant ran onto the field to present Tulkhan with his round shield and sword. The cavalry had discarded their bows, taking up swords and