Cohen sheathed his sword.

"Wouldn't have expected much to be living up here," he said, surveying the carnage.

"There's even less now," said Caleb.

The latest fight had been over in the twinkling of an eye and the cleaving of a backbone. Any . . . creatures that ambushed the Horde did so at the end of their lives.

"The raw magic here must be huge," said Boy Willie. "I suppose creatures like this get used to living off it. Sooner or later something will learn to live anywhere."

"It's certainly doing Mad Hamish good," said Cohen. "I'll swear he's not as deaf as he was."

"Whut?"

"I SAID YOU'RE NOT AS DEAF AS YOU WERE, HAMISH!"

"There's no need to shout, mon!"

"Can we cook 'em, do you think?" said Boy Willie.

"They'll probably taste a bit like chicken," said Caleb. "Everything does, if you're hungry enough."

"Leave it to me," said Mrs McGarry. "You get a fire going, and I'll make this taste more like chicken than . . . chicken."

Cohen wandered off to where the minstrel was sitting by himself, working on the remains of his lute. The lad had brightened up considerably as the climb progressed, Cohen thought. He had completely stopped whimpering.

Cohen sat down next to him.

"What're you doing, lad?" he said. "I see you found a skull."

"It's going to be the sound box," said the minstrel. He looked worried for a moment. "That is all right, isn't it?"

"Sure. Good fate for a hero, having his bones made into a harp or something. It should sing out wonderful."

"This will be a kind of lyre," said the minstrel. "It's going to be a bit primitive, I'm afraid."

"Even better. Good for the old songs," said Cohen.

"I have been thinking about the . . . the saga," the minstrel admitted.

"Good lad, good lad. Plenty of spakes?"

"Um, yes. But I thought I'd start off with the legend of how Mazda stole fire for mankind in the first place."

"Nice," said Cohen,

"And then a few verses about what the gods did to him," the minstrel went on, tightening a string.

"Did to him? Did to him?" said Cohen. "They made him immortal!"

"Er . . . yes. In a way, I suppose."

"What do you mean, 'in a way'?"

"It's classical mythology, Cohen," said the minstrel. "I thought everyone knew. He was chained to a rock for eternity and every day an eagle comes and pecks out his liver."

"Is that true?"

"It's mentioned in many of the classic texts."

"I'm not much of a reader," said Cohen. "Chained to a rock? For a first offence? He's still there?"

"Eternity isn't finished yet, Cohen."

"He must've had a big liver!"

"It grows again every night, according to the legend," said the minstrel.

"I wish my kidneys did," said Cohen. He stared at the distant clouds that hid the snowy top of the mountain. "He brought fire to everyone, and the gods did that to him, eh? Well . . . we'll have to see about that."