By the time he was thirty-five Parax's fame had spread to the lands of the Perdii, whose king, Alea, recruited him to the royal household. Even then he did not allow undue pride to colour his personality. At fifty, in the service of Connavar the King, he allowed himself what he considered to be a quiet satisfaction in his achievements. Though his eyes were marginally less keen, his reading of trails still seemed almost magical to those who watched him. Even at sixty he could still follow a trail as well as any man, for by then he had a lifetime of acquired skills to give him an edge over younger men. Or so he believed, and in that belief vanity like a hidden weed grew unnoticed in his heart. Now past seventy, he had known for some years he was no longer pre-eminent. No longer even competent. The knowledge hurt the old man. But not as badly as the conceit which made him deny its truth to the man he loved most – the king.

Parax had served Connavar for almost twenty years – from the day the young warrior had rescued him from the slave lines of Stone, and brought him back to the towering mountains of Druagh. He had ridden beside him when the youngster became Laird, and then War Chief, and finally the first High King in hundreds of years. He had been beside him on that bloody day at Cogden Field, when the invincible army of Stone had been crushed by the might of Connavar's Iron Wolves. He shivered again. Connavar the King had trusted Parax – and now age and increasing infirmity had made the old man betray that trust.

'Find the boy Bane,' the king had said, 'before the hunters kill him – or he kills them.'

Parax had looked into the king's odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold, and he had longed to admit the truth, to say simply, 'My skills are gone, my friend. I cannot help you.'

But he could not. The words clung within his throat, on talons of false pride. He was one of the king's trusted advisers. He was Parax – the greatest hunter in the known world, a living legend. The moment he voiced the truth he would become merely a useless old man, to be discarded and forgotten. Instead he had bowed awkwardly and ridden from Old Oaks, his mind in torment, panic lying heavily upon him. His fading eyes could no longer read the trails and he had been forced to follow the hunting pack for days, hoping they would lead him to the young outlaw.

Then had come the final ignominy. He had lost the hunting pack. Twenty riders!