BAR

Prologue

It wasn't until Nyla suddenly sank to her thighs in thick, glutinous mud that she began to think she might yet live to see another sunrise.

It was called Bar's game. Bar was the most powerful and most feared individual in the tract of wilderness known simply as The Empty Lands. Woe betide anyone who angered Bar; or dared to argue with him; or even crossed his path when he was feeling irritable or bored. There was no law but Bar's law. There was no justice at all.

Nyla never knew what she'd done to displease Bar. He never explained himself, and it didn't matter anyway. She was going to have to play the game. Rumour had it that one player had managed to survive. Nyla had no illusions about becoming the second.

She was taken to a certain hill at daybreak, where Bar gave the speech he'd given to many victims before her.

"Behold my land; my domain. Over this land I will hunt you; I and my friends here." Two huge, slavering hounds strained at the leashes he held in his massive fist. "It is now dawn. You may start to run as soon as you wish. I shall remain here until noon, and then begin the pursuit. You may run; you may hide; you may even try to fight back, using this," he handed her a dagger, "though I do not recommend it. There is only one rule: if you still live two sunsets from now then you have won your freedom, and your life."

Nyla ran. She ran as fast as she could for as long as she could. She ran until her lungs were burning and she was bathed in sweat. When she could run no more she collapsed panting on the ground. She looked up at the sun; still a couple of hours until noon. She couldn't keep running for two days; so what was she to do?

Think, she told herself, that's what. She was young, she was nimble; but she couldn't out-run hounds. She was armed; but she couldn't fight Bar. She could hide – but her scent would give her away. As well as being ferocious, Bar's hounds were reputed to be infallible trackers; able to follow the spoor of their prey over any sort of terrain.

Except water. Wait – hadn't she heard that somewhere? That if you crossed a stream the hounds would lose the scent. She'd no idea if it was really true, but it seemed her best hope. Unfortunately, there was no water to be seen. Bar's domain was arid and brown, and there'd been no rain for weeks. Perhaps she should give up now.

No. She'd use the knife on herself if need be (one of the more gruesome things whispered about Bar's game was that the hounds ate the losers alive), but she'd keep trying until the end. There was a gnarled tree close by. It looked dead, but it was climbable. She scrambled up into its branches and scanned the country in all directions. Not a drop of water to be seen anywhere. However…over to the east the vegetation seemed greener than elsewhere. Greenness meant moisture. It was a long way off; but she still had nearly two days.

She jumped down from the ground and started to walk. She didn't run; she couldn't run forever. Especially not since Bar hadn't seen fit to give her any food or water. She had to conserve her energy. Nevertheless, she walked briskly.

After a few miles she looked up at the sun again. Noon, near enough; the pursuit had begun. She walked on, trying not to think about the beasts snuffling at her trail. All afternoon she walked, without hearing the slightest sound of pursuit. That didn't surprise her entirely – another rumour was that Bar never caught anyone on the first day. It spoiled the fun. Instead, he usually let his victims keep running until as close as possible to the end of the second day – to let them build up a measure of hope before snuffing it out.

It grew dark. She wanted to keep walking all night, but knew that she didn't have the strength. She had to sleep - had to take the risk. She had the feeling that Bar was watching her every move, every gesture, every facial expression. Nevertheless, she crawled into a thicket and threw herself down on the ground. As she did so she found that, by some miracle, there was a puddle of water by her head. She buried her face in it, drinking like an animal. It was stagnant and tasted foul; but she still lapped up every drop she could, even trying to suck the moisture out of a mouthful of mud. Then, exhausted, she slept.

She awoke suddenly, with a feeling of panic. It was still dark, though a pinkish tinge coloured one horizon. Sunrise. The sun rose in the east, and that was the way she needed to go. She got to her feet and started walking.

Her pace was much slower than it had been the previous day. Her stamina was almost done; it was only her determination that kept her moving. It was that or oblivion. The green was nearer now. Nearer but not yet near enough. She walked on. Noon came and went. Then she heard a sound that turned her blood to ice.

It was the baying of a hound. Distant, but portentous. She looked at the sun. Six, maybe seven hours to go. Too long. Would she ever see it rise again?

She pressed on. There was no doubt that there was more moisture in the ground here. The trees were taller, the bushes more verdant; but there was still no sign of a river or a stream. Not even a puddle.

She veered to her left; partly because it seemed to her that this course would take her more directly away from the Bar's pursuit, partly because the ground sloped gently downhill in that direction, and offered easier going. She walked – or staggered – on for another hour or so; and then another. Then she heard the hounds again. Closer this time; much closer.

She thought of climbing a tree. Dogs couldn't climb – but Bar could, and she couldn't fight him in the branches any more than she could on the ground. She pressed on, willing herself to ignore the pain in her feet. Another hour; another. It was true – Bar was toying with her. All he had to do was to let his beasts off their leash and the game would be over in a trice. But no – he'd wait until the last moment. She prayed he'd wait too long. Where was the sun? Low in the western sky, but not low enough.

Then at last she saw what she'd been looking for. A scant couple of miles ahead the trees seemed to form two parallel lines across her path. It had to be a river – it had to be. She forced her aching limbs onwards; but before she got there she heard the howls of pursuit twice more – the second time so close she almost despaired.

Then she found that what she'd been making for wasn't a river after all. It had been a river; now it was just a river bed – a few yards of glistening mud with a couple of rivulets of water trickling through it. She collapsed on the bank, and drew the dagger, staring it its blade. Wasn't it better this way? She held the point to her throat and gripped the handle firmly – but she couldn't do it. Deep within her a tiny flame of defiance still burned. Keep trying to the end, she told herself – the very end.

She got up and started to pick her way across the mud. It was sticky and slippery. Then suddenly it simply melted away beneath her and she sank above her knees. She felt a surge of panic – quicksand! She back-tracked furiously, fighting the grip of the mud. Mercifully, she'd not strayed too far from more solid ground, and she clawed at it desperately. She felt as though she was crawling over a deceitful layer that at any time could dissolve into liquid and swallow her into the depths, but it bore her weight; and inch by inch she pulled herself free of the mire. For a long while she lay like a dead thing. Tears of despair ran down her cheeks. She was trapped – there was death ahead as well as behind. She couldn't decide which was the more horrible.

Then a thought struck her. At its narrowest point, the river-bed was only a dozen or so yards across. On the opposite bank was a tree with a creeper dangling from one of its branches. If she could reach that creeper before she drowned, she'd be able to haul herself out of the mud. Moreover, she could then cut it with the dagger, so that Bar wouldn't able to follow her. And then she would be free!

It wasn't much of a chance, but it was better than nothing. She stepped out into the mire. It was like wading through molasses. Before she was half-way across, she was up to her hips and her progress became slower and slower. She struggled on, but the closer she got to the creeper the deeper she sank. Waist, stomach and chest all vanished into the ooze and still she hadn't made it. She stretched out an arm. Just three more inches; but her shoulders were now gone and she could move no more. She was doomed.

Then she remembered the dagger. Holding it by the blade, she tried to hook the guard round the creeper and pull it towards her. Three times she failed; but on the fourth attempt she succeeded and grasped hold of the creeper. Thank the Gods - now all she had to do was haul herself up to the branch.

That proved harder than she'd expected, for the grip of the mud was strong. Nevertheless she pulled herself up little by little, until she was free of the mud, and almost within touching distance of the branch.

"Greetings, Nyla."

She looked round. Bar was standing on the far bank, his hounds snarling at her. He was still on the other side of the river, though; and being bigger and heavier than her he'd surely not be able to cross safely. Nyla felt an exultant thrill. She'd made it! Then she saw that he was holding something.

It was a crossbow. Not a full-sized hunting one that could bring down a deer at a hundred paces, but a small, one-handed version that fired a bolt a mere eight inches long. Even that that was bad enough, though. Nyla resumed her frantic climb.

"I'm impressed, I must say," Bar said in a conversational tone. "I have hunted few as resourceful as you." Then he raised the crossbow and let fly.

The bolt struck Nyla's right forearm, embedding itself deeply. She hissed with pain, but it wasn't a fatal shot. She reached for the branch.

The second bolt pierced her right wrist and stayed there, shaft sticking out one side, bloody point the other. There was now no strength in her right arm. She willed her fingers to grip, but they would not do so. She tried to climb the creeper using her legs and her left arm only; but she could not. She span involuntarily around, to find herself staring directly at Bar. He was smiling at her as he slowly re-cocked his crossbow and inserted another bolt.

Nyla knew she was finished. "Make an end of it," she said. Bar's smile widened, and he glanced at the surface of the mud beneath her. With a spasm of horror, Nyla realised what he intended to do.

"No," she gasped, "not the quicksand. Kill me quickly – please!"

Bar raised the crossbow and held it for a long time. Nyla couldn't work out where he was aiming. She stayed as still as possible, waiting for the end.

Bar put the third bolt into Nyla's left arm, closely followed by the fourth. She tried desperately to hold on, but she couldn't, falling back into the mire with a shriek. She sank rapidly and was soon up to her neck. She couldn't grasp anything with her hands. She clamped the creeper under her armpit; sank her teeth into it – anything to stop herself from going under. She knew that her life was over, but she couldn't face the horror of slowly drowning in the cloying mud. She watched as Bar loaded a fifth bolt and aimed carefully. Nyla prayed he'd put it through her eye – about the only part of her still visible. She didn't flinch. She wondered what Gods she'd meet.

Then Bar looked up at the sky. "Sunset," he announced, lowering his crossbow. "You win. You're free to go." And with that he turned on his heel and walked away, taking his dogs with him.