“Are you going to preach to me as well?”, Muttu sneered as he was about to depart. His caravan of human prizes, claimed at the games, had already set off with his fellow Southern Pralannian riders. The Nyhkwin and the Pallish riders had made tracks to the north and south with their own acquisitions. Who knew how far “Alderon” had progressed and whether he was returning to the far west from which he professed to come? Only Thorawn remained at the still smoking site of Ironhope’s end. Muttu was impatient to leave and he had grown tired of the company of the enigmatic Conclave representative. A sharp look quelled him. “Return to your people”, Thorawn said contemptuously. “But be ready if I ever need to summon you and your riders. There is something disturbing about the boy who bested you in battle. That I will grant you. You can be sure the Conclave will be watching him. If the Vow of Earth is threatened we shall not hesitate to act as we acted against Kalonia. You understand me?” Muttu understood. He had taken part in that burning - a burning that was on an altogether different scale to the tiny affair at Ironhope. He shivered, sensing colder air and a hint of strange conflicts to come. Then he turned his horse’s head away from the dead stones and galloped into the growing gloom.