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face that would scare children, and cause polite people to look away and the less polite to stare. He was crippled too, Tor assumed, from the twisted appearance of one leg. Adding to the poor wretch’s woes, his dealers in punishment had nailed his right ear to a post and his hands and feet were tightly bound. Tor could see that the angry red welts around his wrists were bleeding in places.
    The jeering mob was taking delight in pelting him with rotten fruit and one canny vendor had even taken to selling fish heads for a drack apiece. Men, presumably his captors, kicked him. The victim could do nothing to help himself yet he made no sound. Wittingly or unwittingly, the cripple gave his audience no satisfaction and this infuriated his torturers.
    Tor wondered what crime this man could possiblybe accountable for. He finally found his voice and asked the shopkeeper.
    ‘Caught peeping in the ladies’ bath-house.’
    ‘That’s all?’ Tor’s exclamation caused the man to step back.
    ‘We don’t like his sort around here. Scares the little ones and the fine ladies. Just his appearance at the market yesterday saw business take a turn for the worse. I tell you, it’s unsettling for folk. He’s no good to anyone and should have been done away with at the hour of his birth.’
    Tor snarled at the smug shopkeeper. His lighthearted mood of just moments ago had evaporated. The roasted meat juices which lingered in his mouth now tasted acidic. He tossed the second untouched skewer at the shop front where it was fought over by several very lean dogs.
    Suddenly the noise of the jeering, the smell of the people gathered and the memory of the humbled, deformed cripple overwhelmed him. Tor was tired too. He needed that bath, some ale and a place to rest and forget what he had witnessed. He strode away with purpose, pushing past yet more people streaming into the square to get a look at the prisoner. As he shouldered his way past a buxom woman, her flesh all but wobbling in anticipation of the ghoulish entertainment, he heard the gentle voice in his head. Help me…please , it said.
    Tor whipped around. ‘Who said that?’
    A couple looked at him as though he was hearing voices, which he found grimly amusing.
    The voice spoke again in its deep yet gentle pitch. I am innocent of the charge. Won’t you help me, please, Torkyn Gynt?
    He ran back towards the shop front and returned to his ledge, ignoring the protestations from the keeper. Once again the scene of humiliation assaulted him. He wanted the man to look at him; wanted proof that it was the prisoner speaking to him and not his imagination.
    He cast across the link. Who is this?
    Cloot. I am the prisoner. I am wrongly charged and seek your help Torkyn Gy—. The man’s voice broke as a nasty blow from one of the guards smashed into his nose.
    Tor could see more blood, this time spilling from the man’s face. He felt incensed. This persecution was a pursuit of entertainment rather than justice; he was sure of it.
    Cloot…the link is open, draw on my strength if you can.
    He pushed strongly through the crowd this time, with no idea why he had suggested the prisoner should attempt to use him as support. He had never tried such a thing, did not know whether it could be done. It was simply all he could think of, and as for reassuring the poor wretch that he was coming…it was ridiculous. What was he supposed to do and why was he doing it?
    Still, Tor neither excused himself nor wavered in his direction as he pushed through the gawking, jeering audience. Finally his height allowed him tokeep Cloot in his sights. He was astonished by a new sensation: the cripple had turned the link into a physical connection, skimming off Tor’s reserves of energy to hang onto consciousness.
    Now he was at the front of the crowd and several disgruntled people wondered at the youth’s arrogance in pushing past. He noted the same brute of a guard aiming another kick. He had to stop it. With no time